Doom of the Darksword Page 13

  “Water,” the Prince muttered, glancing about. A waterskin lay near their shirts — far across the clearing. With a weary gesture, Garald motioned for the waterskin to come to them. It obeyed, but the Prince was so tired that he had little energy to expend in magic. Consequently, the waterskin dragged itself across the ground, rather than flying swiftly through the air.

  “It looks like I feel!” Garald said, panting.

  Catching hold of the skin as it came near, he lifted it and drank a few sips, then passed it to Joram. “Not much,” he cautioned. “Cramps the belly.”

  Joram drank and passed it back. Garald poured some in his hand and splashed it on his face and chest, his skin shivering in the biting air.

  “You’re doing … well, young man …” Garald said, drawing deep breaths. “Very … well. If … we’re not both dead … at the end of the week … you should be … ready….”

  “Week? … Ready?” Joram saw the trees blur before his eyes. Talking coherently at the moment lay beyond his capacity. “I … leave … Merilon….”

  “Not for a week.” Garald shook his head, and took another pull at the waterskin. “Don’t forget …” he said with a grin, resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head down to breathe more easily, “you are my prisoner. Or do you think … you could fight me … and the Duuk-tsarith?”

  Joram closed his eyes. His throat ached, his lungs burned, his muscles twitched, his cuts stung. He hurt all over. “I couldn’t … fight … the catalyst … right now….” he admitted with almost a smile.

  The two sat upon the boulder, resting. Neither spoke, neither felt the need for speech. As he grew more rested, Joram relaxed, a warm and pleasant feeling of peace stole over him. He took note of the surroundings — a small clearing in the center of the forest, a clearing that might have been formed magically, it was so perfect. In fact, Joram realized, it probably had been carved from the woods by magic — the Prince’s magic.

  Joram and the Prince were alone, something else Joram wondered about. They had been making noise enough for a regiment, and the young man expected at any moment to see the snooping catalyst come to find out what was going on, or at least Mosiah and the ever-curious Simkin. But Garald had spoken to the Duuk-tsarith before they left, and Joram assumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away.

  “I don’t mind,” Joram decided. He liked it here — peaceful, quiet, the sun warm upon the rock where he was sitting. He couldn’t remember, in fact, ever having felt this content. His restless mind slowed its frenetic pace and glided easily among the treetops, listening to the steady breathing of his companion, the pumping of his own heart.

  “Joram,” said Garald, “what do you plan to do when you get to Merilon?”

  Joram shrugged, wishing the man had not spoken, willing him to be quiet and not break the spell.

  “No, we need to discuss this,” Garald said, seeing the expressive face grow shadowed. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I have the feeling ‘going to Merilon’ is like some child’s tale with you. Once you get there, you expect your life to be ‘all better’ just because you stand in the shadows of its floating platforms. Believe me, Joram” — the Prince shook his head — “it won’t happen. I’ve been to Merilon. Not recently, of course.” He smiled sardonically. “But in the days when we were at peace. And I can tell you that — right now — you won’t get within sight of the city gates. You are a savage from the Outland. The Duuk-tsarith will have you” — he snapped his fingers — “like that!”

  The sun disappeared, shrouded by clouds. A wind came up, whistling mournfully among the trees. Shivering, Joram stood up and started to walk across the clearing to where his shirt lay on the grass.

  “No, stay. I’ll get it,” Garald said, putting a restraining hand on Joram’s arm. With a gesture, he caused both shirts to take wing, flitting through the air toward them like fabric birds. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you are Dead. We have so few Dead in Sharakan, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  Joram scowled, feeling the swift, sharp pain he always experienced whenever reminded of the difference between himself and everyone else in this world. He glared at the Prince angrily, certain the man was mocking him. But Garald wasn’t watching, he had his head in his shirt. “I have always envied Simkin his ability to change his clothes at a whim. Not to mention,” the Prince grunted, pulling the fine cambric shirt down over his shoulders, “changing himself at a whim. Bucket!”

  His head emerging from the collar, Garald smoothed his hair, grinning over the remembrance. Then, growing more serious, he continued on his original topic of thought. “There are many Dead born in Merilon, or so we’ve heard,” he said, his casual acceptance of the fact slowly smothering Joram’s fiery anger. “Particularly among the nobility. But they try to get rid of them, putting the babies to death or smuggling them into the Outland. They are rotting inside” — his clear eyes grew shadowed, darkening with his own anger — “and they would spread their disease to the entire world if they had their way. Well” — he drew a deep breath, shaking it off — “they won’t have it.”

  “We were talking about Merilon,” Joram said harshly. Sitting back down, he grabbed a handful of gravel from the ground, and began tossing rocks at a distant tree trunk.

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” Garald said. “Now, as to getting inside the city —”

  “Look,” Joram interrupted impatiently, “don’t worry about it! We’ll have fancy clothes, if that’s all it takes. The castoffs from Simkin’s wardrobe alone could last us for years….”

  “Then what?”

  “Then — then….” Joram shrugged impatiently. “What does it matter to you anyway … Your Grace?” he said, his lip curling in contempt. Glancing around, he saw Garald regarding him with a calm and serious expression, the clear eyes delving deep into dark, murky parts of Joram’s soul that Joram himself had never dared explore. Instantly the young man reinforced the stone wall around himself.

  “Why are you doing this?” he demanded angrily, gesturing at the Darksword that lay on the ground near him. “What do you care whether I live or die? What’s in it for you?”

  Garald regarded Joram silently, then he smiled slowly; a smile of sadness and regret. “That’s all there is for you, isn’t there, Joram?” he said. “‘What’s in it for me?’ It doesn’t matter to you that I’ve heard your story from the catalyst, that I pity you … Ah, yes, that makes you furious, but it’s true. I pity you … and I admire you.”

  Joram turned away from the Prince, turned away from the intense gaze of those clear, clear eyes, his own dark eyes staring into the tangled boughs of the bare, dead trees.

  “I admire you,” the Prince continued steadily, “I admire the intelligence and perseverance you showed in discovering what has been lost to the world for centuries. I know the courage it took to face Blachloch, and I admire you for standing up to him. If nothing else, I owe you something for saving us — if inadvertently — from the double-dealings of the warlock. But, I see that doesn’t satisfy you. You want my ‘ulterior motive.’”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t got one,” muttered Joram bitterly.

  “Very well, my friend, I’ll tell you ‘what’s in it for me.’ You take your sword, your Darksword as you call it, and you go to Merilon. And with it or without it” — Garald shrugged — “you win back your inheritance. You conceal the fact that you are Dead — as you are well capable of doing so long as you have the catalyst to cover for you. Never thought about that, did you? Good idea, consider it. Up until now, it hasn’t mattered whether or not you called upon a catalyst to give you Life. There weren’t any catalysts in the Sorcerers’ village to call. But it will be different in Merilon. You will be expected to use your catalyst, to have one with you. With Saryon at your side, you can keep up your pretense of having Life.

  “But now, where was I? Oh, yes. You find your mother’s people and you convince them that they should accept you into the bosom of their family. Who knows, they
may be grieving still over the misguided daughter who ran away before they could show her how much they cared and were willing to forgive. Or perhaps the family has died out, perhaps you can prove your claim and gain their lands and title.

  “No matter,” Garald continued archly. “Let us suppose that all this has a happy ending and you are a nobleman, Joram; a nobleman of Merilon, complete with title and land and wealth. What do I want from you, noble gentleman? Look at me, Joram.”

  The young man could not help but turn at the compelling sound of the voice. There was no lightness, no archness in it now. “I want you to come to Sharakan,” the Prince said. “I want you to bring your Darksword and to fight with us.”

  Joram stared at him incredulously. “What makes you think I’ll do that? Once I have gained my rightful holdings, I’ll do nothing but —”

  “— watch the world go by?” Garald smiled. “No, I don’t think you will, Joram. You couldn’t do that among the Sorcerers. Fear for yourself didn’t prompt you to fight the warlock. Oh, I don’t know the details, but — if that had been the case — you could have always fled on your own, leaving someone else to face him. No, you did it because there is something deep inside you that feels the need to protect and defend those weaker than yourself. That is your birthright; you were born Albanara. And because of that I believe you will see Merilon with eyes that are not blinded by the pretty clouds among which its people dwell.

  “You have been a Field Magus. By the Almin!” Garald continued more passionately as Joram, shaking his head, turned away again. “You have lived under the tyranny of Merilon, Joram! Its rigid traditions and beliefs caused your mother to be cast out, your father to be sentenced to living death! You will see a city of beauty, certainly, but it is beauty covering decay! It is even said that the Empress —” Garald stopped abruptly. “Never mind.” He spoke in a low voice, clasping his hands together. “I can’t believe that is true, not even of them.”

  The Prince paused, drawing a deep breath. “Don’t you see, Joram?” he continued more calmly. “You — a noble of Merilon — come to us, prepared to fight to restore your city’s ancient honor. My people would be impressed. And, most importantly, you would help influence the Sorcerers, whom you have lived among. We hope to ally with them, but I am certain they would follow my father’s guidance much more readily if he could point to you and say, ‘Look, here is one you know and trust, fighting on our side as well!’ The Sorcerers do know and like you, I suppose?” the Prince asked offhandedly.

  Had Joram been knowledgeable about such things as verbal parry and thrust, he would have recognized that the Prince was maneuvering him into position.

  “They know me, at least,” Joram said briefly, not giving the matter much thought. He was considering the Prince’s words. He could see himself riding into Sharakan, resplendent with the trappings of his rank, to be welcomed by the King and his son. That would be a fine thing. But going to war with them? Bah! What did he care….

  “Ah!” Garald said casually. “‘They know me, at least,’ you say. Which means, I suppose, that they know you but don’t particularly like you. And, of course, you don’t give a damn about that, do you?”

  Joram raised his dark eyes, on his guard at once. It was too late.

  “You will fail in Merilon, Joram. You will fail anywhere you go.”

  “And why is that … Your Grace?” Sneering, Joram never felt the point of the verbal blade pressed against his heart.

  “Because you want to be a noble, and perhaps by rights you are a noble. But unfortunately, Joram, there isn’t one ounce of nobility within you,” answered Garald coolly.

  The words struck home. Torn and bleeding inside, Joram made a clumsy attempt to return the blow. “Forgive me, Your Grace!” he whined in mockery. “I don’t have fine clothes, like you. I don’t bathe in rose petals, or perfume my hair! People don’t call me ‘milord’ and beg to kiss my ass! Not yet they don’t! But they will!” His voice shook in anger. He sprang to his feet, facing Garald, his fists clenched. “By the Almin, they will! And so will you, damn you!”

  Garald rose to face the enraged young man. “Yes, I should have guessed that is your idea of a nobleman, Joram. And this is precisely why you will never be one. I’m beginning to think that I mistook you, that you belong in Merilon, because this is exactly what many of them think!” The Prince glanced eastward, in the direction of the faraway city. “They will soon learn they are wrong,” he said earnestly, “but they will pay dearly for their lesson. And so will you.” He focused his attention on the quivering, angry young man standing before him. “The Almin teaches us that a man is noble, not by some accident of birth, but by how he treats his fellow man. Strip away the fine clothes and the perfume and the gilt, Joram, and your body is no different from that of your friend, the Field Magus. Naked, we are all the same — nothing more than food for the worms.

  “The dead have little use for honor, as I said before. They have little use for anything else, either. What are title, wealth, breeding to them? We may walk different paths through this life, Joram, but they all lead the same place — to the grave. It is our duty — no, it is our privilege, as fellow travelers who have been blessed more than others — to make the way as smooth and pleasant for as many as we can.”

  “Fine words!” Joram retorted furiously. “But you’re quick enough to lap up ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Your Highness’! I don’t see you dressed in the coarse robes of the peasants. I don’t see you rising at dawn and spending your days grubbing in the fields until your very soul starts to shrivel like the weeds you touch!” He pointed at the Prince. “You’re a wonderful talker! You and your fancy clothes and bright swords, silk tents and bodyguards! That’s what I think of your words!” Joram made an obscene gesture, laughed, and began to walk away.

  Reaching out, Garald caught hold of him by the shoulder and spun him around. Joram shook free. His face distorted by rage, he struck at the man, swinging his fist wildly. The Prince countered the blow easily, catching it on his forearm. With practiced skill, he grabbed Joram’s wrist, gave it a twist, and forced the young man to his knees. Gagging in pain, Joram struggled to stand up.

  “Stop it! Fighting me is useless. With one word of magic I could tear your arm from its socket!” Garald said coldly, holding the young man fast.

  “Damn you, you — !” Joram swore at him, spitting filth. “You and your magic! If I had my sword, I’d —” He looked around for it, feverishly.

  “I’ll give you your cursed sword,” the Prince said grimly. “Then you can do what you want. But first, you will listen to me. In order to do my work in this life, I must dress and act in a manner befitting my station. Yes, I wear fancy clothes and bathe and comb my hair, and I’m going to see to it that you do these things, too, before you go to Merilon. Why? Because it shows you care what people think of you. As for my title, people call me ‘milord’ and ‘Your Grace’ as a mark of respect for my station. But I hope it is a mark of respect for me as a person as well. Why do you think I don’t force you to do it? Because the words are empty for you. You don’t respect anybody, Joram. You don’t care for anybody. Least of all yourself!”

  “You’re wrong!” Joram whispered huskily, looking for the sword. But it was hard to see, a green-tinged, blood-red pool of rage blinded him. “You’re wrong! I care —”

  “Then, show it!” Garald cried. Grabbing hold of the long black hair, the Prince jerked Joram’s head back, forcing the young man to look up at him. Joram did so, he had no choice. But the pain-filled, defiant eyes glared at the Prince in bitter hatred.

  “You were willing to give your life for Mosiah last night, weren’t you?” Garald continued relentlessly. “Yet, you treat him as if he were some mongrel slouching at your heels. And the catalyst — a man learned and gentle, who should be spending his middle years in peace, pursuing the study that he loves. He fought the warlock with you, and now he follows you through the wilderness, weary and aching, when he could have turned you over to
the Church. For what reason, do you suppose? Ah yes, of course, I forgot. His ‘ulterior motive.’ He wants something from you! What? Insults, gibes, sneers?”

  “Bah!” Garald sent Joram sprawling facedown on the frozen ground. Lifting his head, Joram saw the Darksword lying right in front of him. Lunging forward, he grasped the hilt. He scrambled to his feet, twisting around to face his enemy. Garald stood staring at him coldly, a smile of amused contempt on his lips.

  “Fight! Damn you!” Joram shouted, leaping at the man.

  The Prince spoke a word of command, and his own sword rose from the grass where it lay and flew into his hand, the blade shining silver in the gray light of sunless sky.

  “Use your magic against me!” Joram challenged. He could barely speak; froth covered his lips. “I’m Dead, after all! Only this sword makes me Alive! And I’m going to see you die!”

  Joram intended to kill. He wanted to kill. He could feel the satisfying impact of the sword striking flesh, see the blood flow, the proud figure crumble at his feet, the dying eyes gazing up at him …

  Garald regarded him calmly a moment, then slid his own bright sword back in its leather scabbard. “You are Dead, Joram,” he said softly. “You stink of death! And you have made a sword of darkness, a thing as dead as you are. Go ahead, kill me. Death is your solution!”

  Joram willed himself forward. But he couldn’t see. A film coated his eyes and he blinked, trying to clear them.

  “Come to life, Joram,” Garald said earnestly. The Princes voice sounded far away, drifting to Joram out of the blood-red mist that surrounded him. “Come to life and wield your sword in the cause of life, the cause of the living! Otherwise you might as well turn that sword upon yourself, and spill every drop of that noble blood right here on the ground. At least it will give life to the grass.”