Doom of the Darksword Read online

  Realizing he was shivering with cold, Saryon returned to his bed. He knew, as he huddled into his blankets, that he should offer a prayer to the Almin in thanks for the young mans safe return.

  But Saryon did not trouble his unhearing, perhaps nonexistent god. Recalling Joram’s changed attitude and seeing behind it an even more fixed determination and resolve to achieve his goal, Saryon wasn’t certain if he wanted to offer up thanks.

  He felt more inclined to beg for mercy.

  14

  The Parting

  With the end of the snow, the wind died and the sky cleared rapidly. A hush settled over the forest, but there was a tension in the air that was far from peaceful, almost as though a giant had sucked up cloud and wind and snow and was now holding its breath in a fit of pique. The tension did not lessen during the days that followed, although the sky remained clear — its color the brittle blue seen only in winter — and there was no sign of returning storms.

  But everyone in the glade knew that a storm raged, if only in the soul of one young man. The storm clouds were never clearly visible; since the morning of his return, Joram had remained the same — cool and impassive, silent and reserved. He spoke only when spoken to, and then his answers were brief and careless, as though he had not heard. He was gone from camp much of the time, he and the Prince spending the largest part of each day together. When he came back from these sessions, Joram was even more withdrawn. It seemed to those observing him that his nerves were stretched taut as the strings of a badly tuned instrument.

  Saryon could only hope (he did not pray) that some master hand was slowly working to ease the pressure on those strings before they snapped, to find the beautiful music that the catalyst was convinced must be locked within the young mans dark soul. Was Garald’s the hand? Saryon began to believe it was, and this hope lightened the burden he bore. He had no idea what they did or talked about when alone together. Joram refused to discuss the meetings at all, and Garald said only that they were practicing Joram’s swordwork.

  Then, one early morning near the middle of the week, the catalyst was invited to accompany them to what the Prince jokingly referred to as “the arena.”

  “We need you to help us experiment with the Darksword, Father,” Garald explained when he and Joram roused the catalyst from his fitful slumbers. The three stood talking outside the Cardinal’s tent, speaking in low tones so as not to wake anyone else.

  Seeing Saryon’s solemn, disapproving expression, Joram gave an impatient sigh that was checked by a slight movement of Garald’s hand.

  “I understand your feelings, Father Saryon,” the Prince said kindly, “but you would not send Joram into Merilon without knowledge of the swords powers, would you?”

  I would not send Joram into Merilon at all, the catalyst thought but did not say.

  Saryon agreed to go along, however. He was forced to admit that the Prince’s argument had merit. And the catalyst was, in addition, secretly curious about the Darksword himself. Wrapping himself in a warm cloak provided by the Prince, he accompanied the two into the forest.

  “I am sorry to trouble you, Father,” Garald apologized as they walked through the frozen woods. “I could have asked Cardinal Radisovik, of course, but Joram and I believe that the fewer people who know the true nature of the Darksword, the better.”

  Saryon agreed wholeheartedly.

  “Then, too” — Garald smiled — “despite the fact that Radisovik is quite progressive and liberal in much of his thinking — far too liberal, according to your Bishop — I fear that the Darksword might stretch his tenets just a bit too far.”

  “I will try to do what I can to help, Your Grace,” Saryon replied, wrapping his chilled hands in the sleeves of his robes.

  “Excellent!” said Garald heartily. “And we will do what we can to keep the cold from you; something that never seems to be a problem for Joram and me.”

  He exchanged glances with the young man, and Saryon was astonished to see a slight smile on the stern lips and a flicker of warmth in Joram’s dark eyes. Saryon’s own heartache eased at that moment, and he felt warmer already.

  The “arena” turned out to be a patch of cleared, frozen ground located in the woods some distance from the glade. Though Saryon knew the watchful Duuk-tsarith must be around, he could not see the warlocks, and the three had at least the impression of being alone. Or perhaps the Duuk-tsarith weren’t there after all. The Prince might have meant what he said about keeping the Darksword’s powers secret.

  Garald settled the catalyst comfortably in a veritable nest of luxurious cushions he conjured up. He would have added wine and any other delicacies the catalyst might have desired had not Saryon, embarrassed, refused.

  Saryon could not help liking the Prince. Garald treated the catalyst with the utmost respect and courtesy, always solicitous of his welfare and comfort, yet never demeaning or patronizing. Nor was the catalyst alone in this. Garald treated everyone this way — from Simkin and Mosiah to the Duuk-tsarith and Joram.

  How his people must love their Prince, the catalyst thought, watching the graceful, elegant nobleman talk to the awkward, diffident youth — listening to Joram respectfully, treating him as an equal, yet not hesitating to point out when he thought the young man was wrong.

  Joram, too, appeared to be studying Garald. Perhaps this was what was causing the turmoil in his soul. Saryon knew that Joram would give anything to be accorded the same respect and love that this man received. Maybe the young man was beginning to realize that it had to be given before it could be gained back in return.

  Joram and the Prince took their places in the center of the arena, but they did not immediately assume their fighting stances.

  “Hand me your sword a moment,” said Garald.

  Joram’s eyes flashed, the brows came together, and he hestitated. Saryon shook his head. Well, he couldn’t expect miracles, he told himself. Garald, his gaze on the sword, appeared not to notice but waited patiently.

  Finally Joram handed over the weapon with an ungracious “Here.”

  Keeping his face carefully expressionless, pretending not to notice the rude comment, Gerald accepted the sword and proceeded to study it intently.

  “The last few days, we’ve practiced with it just for the sake of swordsmanship alone,” he said. “Yet, all the time, I can feel it tugging at me, draining my magic so that by the end of the day, I can feel the weakness in my body. But it doesn’t have that effect on me when, for example, we are back in camp. I don’t notice it at all.”

  “I think it has to be wielded in order to produce the Life-draining effect,” Joram said, forgetting himself in his interest in the sword. “I noticed the same thing when I fought the warlock. When Blachloch first came into the forge, the sword did not react. But when he attacked me, and I raised the sword to defend myself, I could feel the weapon begin to fight on its own.”

  “I think I understand,” Garald murmured thoughtfully. “The weapon must react from some sort of energy it feels from you — anger, fear, the strong emotions generated by battle. Here” — casually he unbuckled the scabbard of his own sword and handed the beautiful weapon to Joram — “take mine. Go ahead. You can use it. The fact that you’re Dead won’t matter. Its magical properties can be activated by command.” The Prince took his fighting stance, raising the Darksword awkwardly. “I wish someone had taught you the art of swordmaking,” he muttered. “This will always be a clumsy, unhandy weapon. But, never mind that now. Say the words ‘hawk, strike,’ and attack me.”

  His hands wrapping lovingly around the finely crafted hilt of the Prince’s sword, Joram faced Garald, weapon raised. “Hawk, strike,” he spoke, and pressed forward to the attack. Garald raised the Darksword in defense but, as quick as lightning, his own weapon penetrated his guard, wounding him in the shoulder.

  “My god!” Seeing blood stream down the Princes arm, Joram dropped the sword. “I didn’t mean to, I swear! Are you all right?”

  Saryon jum
ped to his feet.

  “My own fault,” Garald said grimly, pressing his hand over the wound. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch, as the actors in the play say right before they drop dead — I’m teasing, Father. It really is a scratch, look.” He exhibited the wound and Saryon saw, with relief, that the sword had cut through only the surface layers of skin. He was able to stop the bleeding with a spell of minor healing, and the “lesson” continued.

  At least, thought Saryon grimly, this proves the Duuk-tsarith aren’t around. Joram would be torn to a hundred pieces by now. It also pleased him beyond measure to have heard a note of true caring in Joram’s voice, although — from the smooth, cold expression on the young man’s face — the catalyst could almost believe he had imagined it.

  “It was my own stupidity,” Garald said ruefully. “I could have been killed by my own blade!” He glared at the Darksword. “Why didn’t you work?” he asked, shaking it.

  The answer came to Saryon’s mind, but — mathematician that he was — he had to prove it first to his own satisfaction before he revealed it.

  “Give the sword back to Joram, milord,” Saryon instructed. “You take your sword and attack him, using the same spell.”

  Garald frowned. “It is a powerful spell, as you’ve seen. I could kill him.”

  “You won’t,” said Joram calmly.

  “I agreed, milord,” added Saryon. “Please. I think you will be interested in the result.”

  “Very well,” Garald said, though with obvious reluctance. He obediently switched blades, and he and Joram took their positions.

  “Hawk, strike,” Garald commanded.

  Instantly, his silver blade flashed in the sunlight, soaring like the bird it was named for toward its victim. Joram defended himself with the Darksword, his movements unskilled and clumsy compared to those of the Princes magically enhanced weapon. The silver blade skimmed toward the young man’s heart, only to be deflected at the last moment and turned aside as though it had hit an iron shield.

  “Aahh!” cried Garald. Lowering his weapon, he rubbed his arm that tingled from the jarring blow. He looked over at Saryon. “I take it that’s what you wanted me to see. All right, why does it work for him? Does it know its owner?”

  “Not at all, milord,” answered the catalyst, pleased at the success of his experiment. “Now I understand a statement I read in one of the ancient texts. It said that the swords made of darkstone were wielded by legions of the dead. I discounted it, thinking this a fanciful legend of ghosts and spirits. But now I see the Sorcerers of old meant legions of men who — like Joram — are Dead. It has to be used by someone possessing little or no magic of his own that would work against the energy of the sword.”

  “Fascinating,” said Garald, regarding the weapon with awe. “This allows those who might otherwise be worse than useless in a battle against wizards to become an effective fighting force.”

  “And it requires a minimum of training, milord,” said Saryon, growing more interested in his subject. His thoughts raced like quicksilver. “Unlike warlocks — whose training begins practically from birth — warriors armed with darkstone weapons can be taught to use them in a matter of weeks. Then, too, they require no catalysts —” Saryon stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much.

  But Garald was quick to catch his meaning.

  “No, you’re wrong!” he cried in excitement. “I mean yes, you are right — to an extent. Darkstone weapons don’t require catalysts to work. But you spoke of giving the sword Life when it was forged, Saryon. What if you gave it Life now? Wouldn’t that enhance its powers?”

  “It must!” Joram said eagerly. “Let’s try.”

  “Yes!” agreed Garald, raising his sword again.

  “No!” said Saryon.

  The two turned, staring at him — Joram angry, Garald disappointed.

  “Father, I know this is difficult for you —” he began to argue tactfully.

  “No,” Saryon repeated in subdued, hollow tones. “No, Your Grace. Anything else you ask of me, I would grant you, if I could. But I will not do that, ever again.”

  “A vow to your god?” Joram could not help but ask bitterly.

  “A vow to myself,” Saryon replied in a low voice.

  “Oh, for the love of —” Joram began, but Garald cut in smoothly.

  “It was a matter of curiosity, nothing more,” the Prince said, shrugging. He turned to Joram. “Certainly, it should not affect your use of the sword. You could not count upon a catalyst being with you when you might be called upon to wield it. Come, let us try it against more powerful magic. I will cast a spell of shielding around myself and we will see if you can penetrate it. Father, if you could grant me Life …”

  Saryon granted the prince Life, feeling a true pleasure in pouring the magic of the world into such a noble vessel. He even had the satisfaction of watching Joram struggle to control his anger and eventually get the best of it. Sitting back down among the cushions, the catalyst was able to watch and enjoy the contest between the two, learning more about the Darksword as he did so. But he knew in his heart that he had dropped a notch in Garald’s opinion. A warrior to his core, the Prince could not understand what he must consider the catalyst’s squeamish reluctance to grant Life to the sword.

  To Garald, it was a tool, nothing more. He did not see it as the object of darkness, the destroyer of life that Saryon beheld when he looked at the ugly weapon.

  As for what Joram thought, Saryon believed sadly that nothing he did could further lower him in the young man’s opinion.

  After several hours of hard practice, Joram, the Prince, and Saryon returned to camp. During the remainder of their stay, Garald was unfailingly kind to the catalyst, but he never asked Saryon to go back to the arena with him and Joram.

  The week passed uneventfully. Joram and Garald practiced with the swords. Saryon enjoyed several interesting philosophical and religious discussions with Cardinal Radisovik. Simkin teased the raven (the exasperated bird finally bit a chunk out of the young man’s ear, much to everyone’s delight). Mosiah spent the days leafing wistfully through books he found in Garald’s tent, studying the pictures and puzzling over the mysterious symbols that said so much to Joram but spoke meaningless gibberish to him. Evenings the Prince and his guests came together, playing tarok or discussing ways to enter Merilon and how to survive once they were inside the city.

  “Simkin can get you through the Gate,” Garald said one night, on the eve of their departure. Mosiah and Joram sat inside the Princes luxurious tent, resting after a delicious dinner. Their idyllic time was coming to an end. Each of the younger men was thinking with regret that tomorrow night they would be fighting Kij vines and perhaps other, more fearsome monsters in the strange and foreboding wilderness. The splendors of Merilon suddenly seemed dreamlike and far away, and it was hard to take the thought of danger in that distant place seriously.

  Seeing something of this reflected in their faces, Garald’s tone grew more serious. “Simkin knows everyone in Merilon and they know him — which in some instances may make matters very interesting.”

  “You mean those … those outlandish stories of his are true, milord? Did you really bring a live bear to a costume ball?” Mosiah blurted out before he thought. “I beg pardon, Your Grace,” he began, flushing in embarrassment.

  But the Prince only shook his head. “Ah, he told you about that, did he? Poor Father.” Garald grinned. “To this day he refuses to wear a cravat in the presence of a naval officer or anyone in a bear costume. But, to return to more serious subjects …

  “Saryon is quite right when he cautions against going to Merilon. It is dangerous,” the Prince said, “and you must never relax your guard. Danger is present not only for Joram, who is one of the living Dead and as such can be sentenced to physical death. There is danger for you, Mosiah. You are considered a rebel. You fled your home, you have lived among the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. You will be entering Merilon under false pretenses. If you
are caught, you will be sentenced to the dungeons of the Duuk-tsarith, and few come out of those places unchanged. There is great danger for Saryon himself, who lived in Merilon for a number of years and could easily be recognized —

  “No, Joram, I’m not trying to keep you from going,” Garald interrupted himself, seeing the young man scowl in anger. “I am telling you to be cautious. Be wary. Above all, be on your guard. Particularly around one person.”

  “You mean the catalyst?” Joram returned. “I already know that Saryon was sent by Bishop Vanya….”

  “I mean Simkin,” Garald said gravely, with no trace of a smile.

  “There, I told you!” Mosiah muttered to Joram.

  Almost as if he knew they were talking of him, Simkin raised his voice, and each of them sitting in the tent turned to look. He and the catalyst stood near the fire, Simkin having volunteered to devise a disguise for the catalyst that would get him into Merilon without being recognized. Now he was working magic with Father Saryon, essentially making the poor man’s life miserable.

  “I’ve got it!” Simkin cried shrilly. “Come and go entirely unnoticed, plus you’ll be useful in carrying our luggage.” He waved his hand and spoke a word. The air shivered around the catalyst. Saryon’s form changed. Standing near the fire, in place of the unfortunate catalyst, was a large, gray, despondent-looking donkey.

  “That fool!” Mosiah said, jumping to his feet. “Why doesn’t he leave that poor man alone. I’ll go —”

  Garald laid a hand on Mosiah’s arm, shaking his head. “I’ll handle it,” he said.

  Reluctantly resuming his seat, Mosiah saw the Prince make a sign with his hand to Cardinal Radisovik, who stood nearby, watching.

  “What was that you said, Father?” Simkin asked.