Doom of the Darksword Page 12

  Garald stared at the catalyst incredulously.

  “Yes. Joram never speaks of it, but the village catalyst told me. It was he who opened the Corridors to her. What happened there, we can only guess, but the catalyst said that when the boy returned, he was white as a corpse; his eyes were the eyes of one who has looked into the mist of Beyond and seen the realm of death. From that day when he saw the stone statue of his father, Joram became as stone himself. Cold, aloof, unfeeling. Few have seen him smile. No one has ever seen him cry.”

  The Prince’s eyes went to the young man, lying beside the fire. Even in slumber, the stern face did not relax, the brows remained drawn over it in a brooding, heavy line.

  “Continue,” the Prince said quietly.

  “Joram was good at illusion and he was able to conceal the fact that he was Dead for many years. I know, for he has told me, that he kept hoping the magic would come to him. He believed Anja when she said he was late in developing, as were many of the Albanara. He believed because he wanted to believe, of course. Just as he still believes all her stories about the beautiful city of Merilon. He worked in the fields with the others and no one questioned him. It was easy to fool the Field Magi,” the catalyst said. “Boys his age are not given Life, for obvious reasons.”

  “Thus the overseer maintains control over them,” the Prince said grimly.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Saryon said, flushing slightly. “The young men do mostly hard physical labor, such as clearing the land. This type of labor does not require the use of magic. Joram was lucky for a while. When he was growing up, the village had a good overseer. He tolerated Joram’s sullen ways and black humors. He understood. After all, he’d seen how the boy was raised. Anja’s madness was, by this time, obvious to everyone — even Joram, I am certain. But he had shut himself away from the others. Except Mosiah, that is.”

  “Ah, I wondered about that,” the Prince remarked, his gaze going to the other young man, who lay sleeping near Joram.

  “An odd friendship, milord. It was certainly never encouraged by Joram, from what I’ve heard. But he has grown close to Mosiah, as you can see by the fact that he was willing to fight you to protect his friend. And Mosiah is close to him, though I am sure he often wonders why he bothers. But, to go on …” Saryon rubbed his eyes. “The day came — as it must have sooner or later — when Joram found out he was Dead. The old overseer had died. The new one, who took his place, took personal offense at Joram’s sullen withdrawal. He saw it as rebellion and he was determined to break the boy’s spirit.

  “One morning, the overseer ordered the catalyst to give Joram Life so that he could fly over the fields and aid in the planting like the other Field Magi. The catalyst gave the boy Life, but he might as well have given it to a rock. Joram could no more fly than a corpse can breathe. The catalyst — not a very bright member of our Order, I am afraid,” Saryon added, shaking his head, “cried out that the young man was Dead. The overseer was well-pleased, no doubt, and began talking of sending for the Duuk-tsarith.

  “At this point, Anja completely lost whatever tenuous hold she had on sanity. Changing her form into that of a were-tiger, she leaped for the throat of the overseer. He reacted instinctively, shielding himself with his magic. The shield was too powerful. Fiery bolts of energy struck Anja, and she fell dead at his feet. Her son watched, helpless.”

  “Name of the Almin,” whispered the Prince reverently.

  “Joram picked up a heavy stone,” Saryon continued, speaking steadily, “and threw it at the overseer. The man never saw it coming. It smashed his skull. So now Joram was twice damned — first he was one of the walking Dead, now he had committed murder.

  “He fled into the Outlands. There he was attacked and left for dead by centaurs. Blachloch’s men, who were always on the watch for those who enter the Outlands, and particularly for one they knew might be persuaded to join their foul cause, discovered the young man and brought him back to the village. The Sorcerers nursed him back to health and set him to work in the forge. He did not join Blachloch, however. I don’t know why, except that he resents any figure of authority, as you have seen.”

  “The forge … Was that where he learned the secret of the darkstone?”

  “No, Your Grace.” Saryon swallowed again. “That is a secret not even the Sorcerers themselves know. It has been lost to them through the centuries —”

  “So we had been led to believe.”

  “But Joram found books — ancient texts — that the Sorcerers had brought with them when they fled into exile. They have lost the ability to read over the years. Poor people. Theirs is a daily struggle just to survive. But Joram could read the books, of course, and it was in one that he discovered the formula for extracting the metal from the darkstone ore. With this knowledge, he forged the sword.”

  The catalyst fell silent. He was aware of Garald’s intense gaze turned now upon him and, his head bowed, Saryon nervously smoothed the folds of his shabby robe.

  “You are leaving something unsaid, Father,” the Prince remarked coolly.

  “I am leaving a great deal unsaid, Your Grace,” said the catalyst simply, lifting his head and looking directly at the Prince. “I am a poor liar, I know. Yet the secret I carry in my heart is not my own and would prove dangerous knowledge to those involved. Better that I bear it alone.”

  There was a quiet dignity about the middle-aged man, dressed in the humble, worn robes of his calling, that impressed Garald. There was a sorrow about him, too, as if this burden was almost too heavy to bear, yet bear it he would until he dropped. The man has lost his faith, the Cardinal had said. This secret is all he has ….

  That, and his pity and love for Joram.

  “Tell me about darkstone,” said the Prince, letting the catalyst know that he would not press him further. Saryon smiled in gentle thanks, relieved.

  “I know very little, Your Grace,” he answered. “Just what I was able to read in the texts, which were very incomplete. The writers assumed that rudimentary knowledge of the ore was well-known, and so they spoke only of advanced techniques for forging it and so forth. Its existence is based on a physical law in nature that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Thus, in a world that exudes magic, there must also be a force that absorbs magic.”

  “Darkstone.”

  “Yes, milord. It is an ore, similar in appearance and properties to iron, and is ideal for use as a weapon. The sword, in particular, was the favored weapon of the ancient Sorcerers. The wielder uses the sword to protect himself against any magical spells cast upon him. He then uses it to penetrate the magical defenses of his enemy, and finally has the weapon itself to end his enemy’s life.”

  “So, knowing this, Joram forged the Darksword,”

  “Yes, Your Grace. He forged it … with my help. A catalyst must be present, to give the ore Life.”

  Garald’s eyes widened.

  “I, too, am damned, you see,” Saryon said quietly. “I have broken the holy laws of our Order and given Life to … a … thing of darkness. Yet what could I do? Blachloch knew about the darkstone. He was planning to use it for his own terrible purposes. At least, that is what we believed. Too late I found out he was working for the Church….”

  “It would have made no difference,” Garald said. “I have no doubt that when he came to realize the darkstone’s power, he would have broken faith with the Church and used it himself.”

  “Undoubtedly you are right.” Saryon lowered his head. “Still, how can I forgive myself? Joram murdered him, you see. The warlock lay helpless at his feet. I had drained the Life from him, the Darksword had absorbed his magic. We … were going to turn the warlock over to … the Duuk-tsarith. Set him in the Corridor for them to find. There was a yell —”

  Saryon could not continue, his voice broke. Garald laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “When I looked around” — the catalyst spoke in a horror-filled whisper — “I saw Joram standing over the body, the D
arksword wet with blood. He thought I planned to betray him, to turn him over to the Duuk-tsarith as well. I told him I did not …” Saryon sighed. “But Joram trusts no one.

  “He hid the body, and that morning I was contacted by Bishop Vanya, who demanded I bring Joram and the Darksword to the Font.” Saryon raised his haunted eyes. “How can I, Your Grace?” he cried, wringing his hands. “How can I take him back to be sent … into Beyond! To hear that frightful yell and know that it is his! The last place he should go is to Merilon! Yet I cannot stop him! You can, Your Grace,” Saryon cried suddenly, feverishly. “Persuade him to come to Sharakan with you. He might listen …”

  “And what do I tell him?” Garald demanded. “Come to Sharakan and be nobody? When he can go to Merilon and discover his name, his title, his birthright? It is a risk any man would take, and rightly so. I will not dissuade him.”

  “His birthright …” Saryon repeated softly, in agony.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, milord.” The catalyst rubbed his eyes again. “I suppose you are right.”

  But Saryon appeared so upset and distraught that Garald added more kindly, “I tell you what, Father. I will do what I can to help the young man at least have a chance of succeeding in his goal. I will teach how to protect himself if he should get into trouble. That much, at least, I owe him. He saved us from Blachloch’s double-dealings, after all. We are in his debt.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Saryon seemed somewhat eased in his mind. “Now, if you will forgive me, milord, I believe that I can sleep now….”

  “Certainly, Father.” The Prince was on his feet, helping the catalyst to rise. “I apologize for having kept you up, but the subject is a fascinating one. To make amends, I have had a bed prepared. The finest silken sheets and blankets. But perhaps you would prefer a tent? I can conjure —”

  “No, a bed by the fire is fine. Much better than what I am accustomed to, in fact, Your Grace.” Saryon bowed wearily. “Besides, I am suddenly so tired that I will probably never know whether I am lying on swan’s down or pine needles.”

  “Very well, Father. I bid you good-night. And, Father” — Garald rested his hand on the older man’s arm — “erase your conscience of the guilt of Blachloch’s death. The man was evil. Had you allowed him to live, he would have killed Joram and taken the darkstone. It was by the Almin’s will that Joram acted, the Almin’s justice that Joram meted out.”

  “Perhaps.” Saryon smiled wanly. “To my mind, it was still murder. Killing has become easy for Joram — too easy. He sees it as his way to gain the power he lacks in magic. I bid you good-night, Your Grace.”

  “Good night, Father,” said Garald, considering his words thoughtfully, “May the Almin watch over you.”

  “May He indeed,” Saryon murmured, turning away.

  The Prince of Sharakan did not retire to his own tent until far into the starlit hours of early morning. Back and forth he walked over the grass in the cold night air, cloaked in furs that he caused to appear without thinking about it. His thoughts were occupied by the strange, dark tale of madness and murder, of Life and Death, of magic and its destroyer. At last, when he knew himself to be tired enough that he could banish the tale into the realm of sleep, he stood looking down at the slumbering group fate had cast into his path.

  Or was it fate?

  “This isn’t the way to Merilon,” he said to himself, the fact suddenly occurring to him. “Why are they traveling this route? There are others to the east far shorter and safer….

  “And who has been their guide? Let me guess. Three who have never traveled in the world. One who has been everywhere.” His eyes went to the figure in the white nightshirt. No babe in his mothers arms slumbered more sweetly than Simkin, though the tassel of the nightcap had fallen down over his mouth and there was every likelihood that he would inhale it and swallow it before the night was ended.

  “What game are you playing now, old friend?” muttered Garald. “Certainly not tarok. Of all the shadows I see falling across this young man, why is yours, somehow, the darkest?”

  Musing on this, the Prince retired to his tent, leaving the unmoving, watchful Duuk-tsarith to rule the night.

  But Garald’s sleep was not unbroken as he had hoped. More than once, he found himself waking with a start, thinking he heard the gleeful laughter of a bucket.

  12

  The Fencing Master

  “Get up!”

  The toe of a boot struck Joram in the ribs, not gently. Startled, half-asleep, his heart pounding, the young man sat up from his blankets and shoved the tangled black hair back from his eyes. “What —”.

  “I said, get up,” repeated a cool voice.

  Prince Garald stood above Joram, regarding him with a pleasant smile.

  Joram rubbed his eyes and glanced about. It was just before dawn, he supposed, although the only indication was a faint brightening of the sky above the treetops to the east. Otherwise, it was still dark. The fire had burned low; his companions lay asleep around it. Two silken tents, barely visible in the prelight, stood at the edge of the clearing, flags fluttering from their pointed tops. These had not been there the day before and were, presumably, where the Prince and Cardinal Radisovik spent the night.

  In the center of the clearing, near the dying fire, stood one of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith in what Joram could swear was the same position he had seen him standing in last night. The warlock’s hands were folded before him, his face lost in shadow. But the hooded head was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes.

  “What is it? What do you want?” Joram asked. His hand crept to the sword beneath his blanket.

  “‘What do you want, Your Grace,’” corrected the Prince with a grin. “That does stick in your craw, doesn’t it, young man. Yes, bring the weapon,” he added, though Joram had supposed he was making his move unobserved.

  Chagrined, Joram drew the Darksword from beneath the blanket, but he did not stand up.

  “I asked what you wanted … Your Grace,” he said coldly, his lip curling.

  “If you are going to use that weapon” — the Prince glanced at the sword in amused distaste — “then you had better learn how to use it properly. I could have skewered you like a chicken yesterday instead of merely disarming you. Whatever powers that sword possesses” — Garald regarded it more intently — “won’t do you much good if it is lying on the ground ten feet away from you. Come on. I know a place in the woods where we can practice without disturbing the others.”

  Joram hesitated, studying the Prince with his dark eyes, searching for the man’s motive behind this show of interest.

  Undoubtedly he wants to learn more about the sword, Joram thought. Perhaps even take if from me. What a charmer he is — almost as good as Simkin. I was duped by him last night. I won’t be today. I’ll go along with this, if I can truly learn something. If not, I’ll leave. And if he tries to take the sword, I’ll kill him.

  Anticipating the chili air, Joram reached for his cloak, but the Prince stepped on it with his foot. “No, no, my friend,” Garald said, “you’ll be warm enough soon. Very warm indeed.”

  An hour later, laying flat on his back on the frozen ground, the breath knocked from his body and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Joram thought no more of his cloak.

  The steel blade of the Prince’s sword slammed into the ground near him, so close that he flinched.

  “Right through the throat,” Garald remarked. “And you never saw it coming….”

  “It wasn’t a fair fight,” Joram muttered. Accepting the Prince’s hand, he heaved himself to his feet, swallowing a groan. “You tripped me!”

  “My dear young man,” said Garald impatiently, “when you draw that sword in earnest, it is — or should be — a matter of life and death. Your life and your opponent’s death. Honor is a very fine thing, but the dead have little use for it.”

  “A pretty speech, coming from you,” mumbled Joram, massaging his aching
jaw and spitting out blood.

  “I can afford honor,” Garald said with a shrug. “I am a skilled swordsman. I have trained in the art for years. You, on the other hand, cannot. There is no way, in the short time we have together, that I can teach you even a part of the intricate techniques of sword fighting. What I can teach you is how to survive against a skilled opponent long enough to permit you to call upon the sword’s … um … powers to defeat him.

  “Now” — more briskly — “you try it. Look, your attention was concentrated on the sword in my hands. Thus I was able to bring my foot around, catch you behind the heel, drag you off balance, and clout you in the face with the hilt like this —” Garald demonstrated, stopping just short of Joram’s bruised cheek. “Now you try it. Good! Good!” the Prince cried, tumbling down. “You’re quick and strong. Use that to your advantage.” He rose to his feet, taking no note of the mud on his fine clothes.

  Stepping into a fighting stance, he raised his sword and grinned at Joram.

  “Shall we have a go at it again?”

  Hours passed. The sun rose in the sky and, though the day was far from warm, both men soon stripped off their shirts. Their labored breathing misted the air about them; the ground soon looked as though a small army had fought over it. The forest rang with the sound of blade against blade. Finally, when both were so exhausted they could do nothing but lean upon their weapons and gasp for breath, the Prince called a halt.

  Sinking down on a boulder warmed by the sun, he motioned for Joram to sit beside him. The young man did so, panting and wiping his face. Blood seeped from numerous cuts and scratches on his arms and legs. His jaw was swollen and aching, several teeth had been knocked loose, and he was so tired that even breathing seemed an effort. But it was a good kind of tiredness. He’d held his own against the Prince in their last few passes and had, once, even knocked the sword from Garald’s hand.