Triumph of the Darksword Read online

  It was only after watching Radisovik for several moments—moments that seemed to Garald to be increments of time that he could literally see and touch as they slipped by him—that the Prince realized the Cardinal was not searching for the living. He was granting the final rites to the dead.

  The dead. Garald gazed out over the sunlit meadow that stretched before him. Once smooth and well-kept, the green grass had been torn and uprooted by some powerful force, blackened and burned as though the sun itself had dipped down and licked it. The dead lay all over the field, their bodies in various poses and attitudes according to the manner of their dying. On each face, however, there was the same frozen expression: fear, horror, terror.

  Suddenly Garald cried out in anger. Stumbling across the grass, he slipped and fell in a pool of blood. Instantly the Duuk-tsarith were at his side, helping him stand, warning him to be careful, that the danger might still be present. Thrusting aside their hands, heedless of their words, Garald ran to Radisovik, who was murmuring a prayer over the body of a young woman in black robes. Grabbing the Cardinal by the arm, Garald jerked him to a standing position.

  “Look!” the Prince cried hoarsely, pointing. “Look!”

  “I know, milord,” Radisovik answered softly, his face so altered and aged by anguish and grief that Garald almost didn’t recognize the man. “I know,” the Cardinal repeated.

  One of the fancy carriages that belonged to the wealthy of Merilon had crashed to the ground, its charred, smoldering ruins scattered over a wide area. The team of magical swallows that had once pulled it lay dead nearby, the birds still tied together by strands of gold, the smell of burnt feathers tinging the air.

  A glimpse of blue fluttering silk caught Garald’s eye. Ignoring Radisovik’s remonstrances, he hurried over to the carriage. Grasping a piece of smoking wood that may have once been a door, he hurled it aside. Buried beneath it was a young woman, her burned and broken arms wrapped around a child as though she had tried, in her last moments, to shield the baby from death with her own fragile body. The pitiful attempt had not worked. The baby lay limp and lifeless in his mother’s grasp.

  Near the woman was the body of a man, lying facedown amid the wreckage. From the manner of his dress and the elegance of his clothes, Garald judged him to be the owner of the carriage, a noble of Merilon. Hoping bleakly to find some spark of life, Garald turned the man over.

  “My god!” The Prince recoiled in horror.

  The grinning mouth and eyeless sockets of a charred skeleton stared up at the Prince. Clothes, skin, flesh, muscle—the entire front part of the man’s body—had all been burned away.

  The world turned upside down. The sun fell from the sky, the earth slid out from beneath Garald’s feet. Strong hands gripped him, holding onto him tightly. He felt himself lowered to the ground and heard Radisovik’s voice coming from wherever it was the winds came from, somewhere far distant ….

  “Theldara, fetch one quickly.”

  “No?” Garald managed to croak. His throat felt swollen, talking was painful. “No I am all right. It was that poor man! What kind of fiend could possibly—”

  Creatures of iron.

  “I’m … all right?” Thrusting away the hands of his minister, Garald forced himself to a sitting position. Lowering his head between his knees, he drew in deep breaths of the chill air. Sternly he reprimanded himself, using the pain of his own stinging criticism to obliterate the horrors he had witnessed. What kind of ruler was he? When his people needed him most desperately, he had given way to weakness. This middle-aged man—a catalyst—had more strength than he—a Prince of the realm.

  Garald shook his head, attempting to bring order to his chaotic thoughts. He had to decide what to do. My god! Was there anything he could do? His unwilling gaze was drawn back by a horrid fascination to the body of the nobleman. Shuddering, he hastily averted his face. Then he stopped and, gritting his teeth, made himself stare fixedly at the gruesome sight. As he hoped, it kindled anger within him and he used the anger to warm his fear-chilled blood.

  “Garald,” said Radisovik, kneeling at his side, “Emperor Xavier is not among the dead, nor are any of his War Masters. I believe your original intent was to seek him out. Do you still want to do so?”

  “Yes,” said Garald, grateful to the catalyst for seeing his weakness and tactfully guiding him. Hearing his voice crack, he swallowed in an attempt to moisten his aching throat. “Yes,” he repeated more firmly. Putting his hand to his brow, he called up an image of his own Gameboard in his mind. Once again, he could see that small pocket of resistance. “Their location … is more to the east.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Radisovik. “To the east.”

  The Cardinal’s tight, constrained manner of speaking caused Garald to glance up at him quickly. The Cardinal’s eyes were on the eastern horizon, where a column of smoke was just beginning to rise above the trees.

  “Should we take the Corridor, milord!” Cardinal Radisovik asked, once more offering guidance without seeming to. “It could be dangerous….”

  “Undoubtedly,” Garald answered, thinking swiftly, anger and the need for action lending him strength. Refusing assistance, he stood up and began to walk with firm, assured tread back to the broken Gameboard. “We were foolish to have used the Corridor the first time. We could have emerged right into the middle of … of this”—he faltered and grit his teeth—“unprepared, defenseless. But we have no other means—” He paused, forcing himself to consider the matter coldly and logically.

  “I believe we should—” Garald began, but one of the Duuk-tsarith interrupted him, silencing him with a swift movement of the hand. His companion spoke one word and in an instant a magical shield surrounded the Prince and Cardinal; the black-robed warlocks rose immediately into the air, one guarding the front, one guarding behind.

  Surrounded by the magical force, Garald strained to hear what had attracted the attention of his sharp-eared warlocks. Eventually he felt it more than heard it—a shivering of the ground as though a large, heavy object was moving nearby.

  Creatures of iron.

  Like most mortals, Garald had thought about dying. He had discussed death philosophically, speculating about the afterlife with his tutors and the Cardinal. When he heard of Joram’s death, Garald had wondered deep within himself if he possessed the courage needed to walk into those shifting mists. But, never, until now, had death been close to him. Never had it appeared to him in such a hideous, horrifying aspect.

  He saw the terror on the faces of the corpses, he saw the pain that not even the peace of dying could erase from their features. Fear welled up from deep within him, cramping his stomach, weakening his legs.

  Hearing the Cardinal whispering a prayer, Garald envied the man his faith. The Prince had supposed himself to be devout in his beliefs, but he realized now it had been lip service. Where was the Almin? Garald didn’t know, but he certainly doubted He was here.

  The movement of the ground became more pronounced, and Garald could hear a thudding sound. His stomach wrenched, he thought he might be sick from fear. The vision came clearly to his mind—the Prince of Sharakan vomiting on the Field of Glory.

  Garald could hear it passed down in legend and song and he laughed suddenly, shrill laughter that drew a look of concern from the Cardinal.

  He thinks I’m hysterical, Garald realized, and drew a shuddering breath. His sickness eased, the fear subsided, no longer threatening to master him. So this is courage, he said to himself with grim amusement. Thinking to the end how we will look in the eyes of others.

  The thudding grew louder and more pronounced. Movement drew Garald’s attention. He grasped Radisovik’s arm, pointing, releasing his breath in a heartfelt sigh of relief.

  The top of a huge head appeared over the rim of a hill. The head was followed by massive shoulders; a vast expanse of body draped with animal skins came into view, propelled forward by two thick legs.

  “A giant?” murmured Radisovik, giving
thanks to the Almin.

  His thanks may have been premature. Although this was not the monster they had feared, the Duuk-tsarith maintained the magical shield in place around their Prince, since giants—though normally gentle—were unpredictable in their behavior. This particular giant appeared hurt and befuddled and, as he drew nearer, Garald saw that he had been injured.

  The giant nursed his left arm and there were streaks of tears down his filthy face.

  A wounded giant was even more dangerous, and one of the Duuk-tsarith moved to stand directly between the giant and the Prince. The other bodyguard, after an exchange of a few brief words with his companion, turned to talk to the Prince.

  “My lord,” said the Duuk-tsarith, “this could be an ideal means of transportation to reach Emperor Xavier.”

  Startled by the suggestion and suffering a reaction to his fear, Garald at first stared blankly at the black-robed warlock, unable to think coherently enough to make a decision. The man was looking at him expectantly, however, and Garald prodded his numb mind to working.

  He had to admit, it seemed a good idea. The giant—with his great strength and ground-eating strides—could carry them to the location where Xavier was battling the unknown foe. Not only could the giant carry them there faster than they could fly, but they would be able to see, from their lofty perch atop the massive shoulders, what was transpiring a long time before they reached it. In addition, once under the control of the Duuk-tsarith, the giant would be a valuable ally in case of attack.

  “Excellent idea,” Garald said finally. “Do what you must.”

  But the Duuk-tsarith had already gone into action. Leaving his companion to guard their charges, the warlock—who was about one-tenth the giants size—lifted into the air and flew near the mutated human. The giant watched him warily, suspiciously, but did not appear openly hostile.

  “So it wasn’t a warlock who attacked it and injured it,” Garald reflected aloud. “If it had been, the giant would have lashed out instantly at the sight of the warlock or would have fled in terror.”

  “I believe you have guessed correctly, milord,” said Radisovik. “This giant was probably trained by warlocks for the battle and still trusts them. Some one else—or some thing—must have hurt it.”

  The warlock spoke soothing words to the giant, as a parent talks to an injured child, offering to heal the injured arm. Its tears flowing faster now that it was receiving attention, the giant approached the warlock readily, holding up its arm for inspection and blubbering incoherently. Seeing the fiery red burn that covered the massive arm, Garald again tried to imagine what force existed on this world that could have inflicted such damage.

  The same force that could break a massive stone in two halves, that could fell a carriage from the skies and burn the flesh from a man’s body …

  Creatures of iron.

  The Duuk-tsarith, with a wave of his hand, caused a salve to appear on the giant’s arm, spreading over it with soothing effect to judge by the smile on the tear-stained face. Conjuring up a roll of fabric, the warlock next hastily wrapped the giant’s arm in a bandage, more because these childlike beings were fond of such ornamentation than because the bandage would be particularly useful in healing the wound. This task completed, the warlock made a gesture in the air above the giant’s forehead, then flew back to report.

  “I have laid a geas on the giant,” said the Duuk-tsarith, as his companion removed the magical shield from around the Prince and the Cardinal. “I told the thing that it must hunt down whatever it was that hurt it. Since this geas goes along with the giants natural inclination, we should have no trouble with it.”

  “Excellent,” Garald replied. He glanced to the east, where the columns of smoke were growing larger, thicker, and more numerous. “We must hurry.”

  “Certainly, milord.” Speaking a series of words, the warlock used his magic to lift the Prince and Cardinal into the air and set them down gently upon the giant’s huge shoulders.

  Settling himself as best he could, Garald wrinkled his nose at the smell of the giant’s unwashed body dressed in animal hides. The giant was intensely curious about its riders, and there was several moments’ delay as it twisted its head this way and that in an effort to get a close look at them. Its breath was even more foul smelling than its skin. Garald gagged and Cardinal Radisovik covered his nose with the sleeve of his robes when the grinning, broken-toothed mouth turned in his direction.

  At last, however, the Duuk-tsarith, with a sharp command, was able to goad the giant into lumbering motion. Pointing toward the smoke to indicate the direction in which they wished to travel, the warlocks flew ahead of the giant, guiding its clumsy footsteps.

  Garald had been somewhat afraid that, despite the geas, the giant would refuse to go anywhere near smoke, considering the painful burn it had sustained. Perhaps, however, the giant did not connect smoke with fire, for it stomped forward without hesitation, gabbling away in its unintelligible language that sounded very much like the prattlings of a toddler in a state of wild excitement.

  Only half-listening to it, Garald realized suddenly that the giant was attempting to tell them what had happened. Repeatedly, it gestured to its hurt arm—once with such force that the Prince was nearly thrown off. Clinging precariously to his seat, both hands tangled in the giants matted, filthy hair, Garald regretted bitterly that no one had ever attempted to communicate with these oversized humans. Mutated for the purposes of war, they had been abandoned by their masters, left to roam the wilds until needed again. Locked in this huge head were the answers to Garald’s questions, for he had no doubt that the giant had been attacked by whatever it was that had massacred the people of Merilon.

  They covered the miles of territory between the broken Gameboard and the columns of smoke swiftly, the giant hurrying forward with such enthusiasm and excitement that the Duuk-tsarith were forced to order it sternly to slow down or risk losing its passengers.

  Inspecting the Field of Glory from his observation point, Garald saw more bodies, and his lips tightened grimly as his anger grew. He also saw additional indications of the foe—long snakelike tracks of churned-up earth that led overland, heading toward the east. The enemy stopped for nothing, apparently. Large trees had been uprooted and pushed aside, smaller ones snapped in two, vegetation plowed down or set afire. It was mainly on either side of these tracks that the bodies of his people could be seen.

  At one point, near what was left of a smoldering grove of trees, Garald caught sight of a bright flash—metal gleaming in the sun. He turned to examine it, risking a fall from his precarious perch on the shoulder of the giant. It appeared to be a body of a human and, if it had not seemed too fantastic, the Prince could have sworn that the body had skin of metal.

  Garald’s first thought was to stop and investigate, but he was forced to abandon this idea. The giant—under the influence of the geas and its own mounting excitement—would be difficult to bring to a halt and would probably charge off on its own if left by itself. By the time the Prince reached this decision, the giant had carried them far past the thing; Garald, looking back, couldn’t see any sign of the grove of trees, let alone a body lying beneath it.

  “I’ll probably find out what is going on soon enough,” he said to himself grimly, noting that they were drawing nearer the thickest columns of smoke. Suddenly Garald could hear—above the giant’s babblings—a low humming sound, combined with explosions like those created by Illusionists to startle children on holidays. Once again, he experienced the cramps in his stomach, the dryness of his throat, and the weakness in his knees. But this time his fear was laced by a strange excitement, a curiosity, a strong desire to know what lay ahead of them.

  At that moment, the Duuk-tsarith, flying in front of the giant, topped a steep hill. Suddenly, their forward motion slowed Garald, watching them closely, saw the hooded heads turn to look at each other. Though he could not catch a glimpse of the warlocks’ faces, he could sense a shared incredulity and aw
e, emotions foreign to this well-disciplined sect.

  Frantic to see what they saw, Garald half-rose to a crouching stance on the giants shoulder as it clamored up the hill. Staring ahead, Garald and the giant both saw the enemy at the same time. Bellowing in rage, the giant came to a sudden halt, and Garald lost his footing. Slipping, he fell backward off the shoulders. His magic was enough to sustain him, however. Using his Life force, he kept himself afloat in the air, hovering just above trees at the hill’s crest.

  Looking down, he saw the enemy.

  Creatures of iron.

  14

  Legions Of The Dead

  They crawled over the face of the earth, seemingly blind as moles, leaving death and desolation to mark their passing. They spared no living thing. Garald watched, stunned and aghast, as the heads of the creatures of iron swiveled this way and that, and wherever the heads looked, death followed, swifter than the blink of an eye.

  Their movements were coordinated, purposeful. Twenty or more of the monsters were converging, coming from various positions to the north. Once they met up, they traveled in a straight line, separated from each other by about a distance of thirty feet. Walking behind the creatures were humans, hundreds of them. At least Garald assumed they were human. They had legs and arms and heads, they walked upright. But their skin was metallic. He could see them gleam in the sun and he recalled the body he had seen among the trees.

  At least they can be killed, was his first thought. His second, and more terrifying, was that the enemy—the creatures and these strange humans—was heading in one direction—south. Tearing his gaze from them, Garald looked ahead, to the south. He could see the storm clouds of the Sif-Hanar that marked his lines. In his minds eye, he could see his War Masters, the warlocks and witches, standing unknowing, waiting for death to rumble over them. He remembered the carriage, now shattered on the ground, and he thought of the hundreds of spectators, with their wicker baskets of fruit and wine. Certainly the storm would have prompted some of them to leave, but they had probably just moved off to the borders of the Field of Glory, where it was dry. Some, perhaps, might even be traveling in this direction where they could undoubtedly see the sun shining….