Doom of the Darksword Page 4

  “But yesterday we was told to keep ’em locked up. And Blachloch’s not —”

  “I said take him,” the guard growled with a meaningful look at his fellow.

  “Come on, then,” the man said to Joram, giving him a vicious shove.

  Saryon watched as Joram and the guard made their way through the streets. The guards’ nervousness had spread to the populace. The catalyst saw men passing by on their way to work cast dark glances at Blachloch’s henchmen, who glared at them with equal enmity. Women who should have been going to market or taking laundry to the stream stared out the windows of their houses. Children starting to go out to play were yanked back indoors. Did the Sorcerers know about Blachloch’s disappearance or were they simply reacting to the nervous state of the warlock’s henchmen? Saryon couldn’t guess and he dared not ask.

  His brain numb with exhaustion and fear, the catalyst sank down in a rickety chair and leaned his head in his hand. A loud voice made him start, but it was only Simkin muttering about cards, apparently playing a game of tarok in his sleep.

  “Last trick falls to the King of Swords….”

  4

  Waiting

  Never had a morning passed more slowly for Saryon, who tracked it by the counts of his heartbeat, the drawing of his breath, the blinking of his gummed eyes. There had been a flurry of activity in the house across the street shortly after Joram-left, and the catalyst guessed that a contingent of Blachloch’s henchmen had decided to go off in search of their missing leader. Now, every second that dragged past, Saryon expected to hear the commotion that would tell him the warlock’s body had been discovered.

  The catalyst could do nothing but wait. He actually envied Joram his work at the iron forge, where mind and body — tired though they might be — could find refuge in numbing labor. The sight of Simkin, sprawled luxuriously on his cot, made every muscle in the catalysts middle-aged body ache for rest, and he tried to seek refuge in sleep. Saryon lay down on Joram’s bed, tired enough that he hoped he would sink into oblivion swiftly. But the moment he began to slip over the edge of consciousness, he imagined he heard Vanya’s voice calling him, and he started awake, sweating and trembling.

  “Vanya is going to contact me again tonight!” In his excitement over Joram’s return, Saryon had shoved that threat from his mind. Now he remembered, and the minutes that had been creeping past on leaden feet suddenly sprouted wings and took off.

  Locked in the prison cell, light-headed from lack of food and sleep, Saryon’s thoughts centered on this forthcoming confrontation with the Bishop, going round and round, caught like a stick in a whirlpool.

  “I will not surrender Joram!” he said to himself feverishly. That much was certain. As the catalyst envisioned this meeting with Vanya, however, he began to realize helplessly that he might have little choice in the matter. Unless Vanya had ways of talking with the dead as the ancient Necromancers were said to have possessed, the Bishop’s attempt to contact Blachloch this day must fail. Vanya would demand of Saryon where the warlock was, and Saryon knew he would not have the strength to hide the truth.

  “Joram killed the warlock, murdered him with a weapon created of darkness, a weapon created with my help!” Saryon heard himself confess.

  How is that possible? Bishop Vanya would question in disbelief. A seventeen-year-old youth and a middle-aged catalyst destroying one of the Duuk-tsarith? A powerful warlock who could drag the winds from the skies to crush a man like a dried, autumn leaf? A warlock who could inject a fiery poison into a man’s body, setting ablaze every nerve, reducing the victim to little more than a convulsing, writhing blob of flesh? This was the man you destroyed?

  Sitting on the edge of the Joram’s cot, the catalyst nervously clasped and unclasped his hands. “He was going to kill Joram, Holiness!” Saryon murmured to himself, rehearsing. “You said the Church did not condone murder. Blachloch called upon me to grant him Life, to draw the magic from the world and feed it into his body to do this foul deed! But I could not, Holiness! Blachloch was evil, don’t you see that? I saw it. I had seen him kill before. I could not let him kill again! I began to drain the Life from him! I took away his magic. Was that wrong? Was it, Holiness? To try to save another’s life? I never meant for the warlock himself to die!” Saryon shook his head, staring down at his worn shoes. “I only wanted to … render him harmless. Please believe me, Holiness! I never meant for any of this to happen….”

  “Who holds the Fool card?” Simkin asked sternly, the unexpected voice causing the catalysts heart to leap into his throat. Shaking, Saryon glared at the young man angrily.

  Simkin appeared to be sound asleep. Rolling over on his stomach, he clutched the hard pillow to his chest and rested his cheek against the mattress. “Do you hold the Fool card, Catalyst?” he asked dreamily. “If not, your King must fall….”

  The King must fall. Yes, there was no doubt about that. Once Vanya knew his agent was dead, nothing his catalyst could do or say would prevent the Bishop from sending the Duuk-tsarith immediately to bring Joram to the Font.

  “What am I doing?” Saryon gripped the edge of the mattress, digging his fingers through the worn fabric. “What am I thinking? Joram is Dead! They will not be able to locate him! That is why Vanya must have me or Blachloch. He cannot find the boy on his own. The Duuk-tsarith track us by the Life, the magic within our bodies! They will find me, but they cannot track the Dead. Or maybe they won’t find me. Maybe they won’t find Joram.”

  An idea struck Saryon a blow that was physical in its intensity. Trembling in excitement, he stood up and began to pace the small cell. His mind went over the calculations swiftly in search of a flaw. There were none. It would work. He was as certain of it as he was certain of the very first mathematical formula he had learned at his mothers knee.

  For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. So the ancients taught. In a world that exudes magic, there is a force that absorbs it as well — the darkstone. Known to the Sorcerers at the time of the Iron Wars, they had used it to forge weapons of tremendous power. When the Sorcerers were defeated, their Technology was labeled a Dark Art. Their kind was persecuted, banished from the land or forced into hiding, as were those in this small colony where Saryon now lived. The knowledge of darkstone had sunk under the turbulent harshness of their lives and their fight for survival. It had sunk beyond memory, becoming only meaningless words in a ritual chant, unreadable words in old, half-forgotten books.

  Unreadable except to Joram. He had found the ore, learned its secrets, forged a sword….

  Slowly, Saryon reached beneath Joram’s mattress. He touched the cold metal of the sword, wrapped in torn cloth, and he cringed away from its evil feel. His hands kept searching, however, and found what they sought — a small leather bag. Pulling it out from its hiding place, Saryon held it in his hand, pondering. It would work, but did he have the strength, the courage?

  Did he have a choice?

  Slowly, he tugged open the leather string that held the bag shut. Inside were three pieces of rock. Plain and unlovely, they looked very much like iron ore.

  Saryon hesitated, holding the bag in his hand, staring inside in rapt fascination.

  Darkstone — this would protect him from Vanya! This was the card he could play that would keep the Bishop from winning the game! Reaching inside the bag, Saryon drew forth one of the rocks. It felt heavy and strangely warm in his palm. Thoughtfully, he closed his hand over it and, with an unconscious movement, pressed it against his heart. Bishop Vanya contacted him through the magic. The darkstone would absorb that magic, act as a shield. He would be — to Vanya — as one of the Dead.

  “And I might as well be one of the Dead,” Saryon murmured, clutching the stone close to his body, “for this act will put me outside the laws, both of my faith and of the land. By doing this, I repudiate everything I have been brought up to believe. I repudiate my life. All I have lived for up until this time will crumble and slip through my fingers as so much
dust. I will have to learn the world all over again. A new world, a cold world, a frightening world. A world without faith, a world without comforting answers, a world of Death….”

  Drawing the leather thong tight, Saryon shut the bag and slipped it back once more into its hiding place. He kept one rock fast in his hand, however, holding it tightly. His decision made, he moved rapidly now, plans and thoughts falling into place in his mind with the logic and clarity of the skilled mathematician.

  “I must go to the forge. I must talk to Joram, convince him of our danger. We’ll escape, travel into the Outland. By the time the Duuk-tsarith arrive, we will be far away.”

  Still clutching the rock in his hand, Saryon splashed water on his face and, grabbing up his cloak, flung it — all tangled and awry — around his shoulders. With a backward glance at the slumbering Simkin, he tapped on the barred window of the prison house and beckoned to one of the guards.

  “What do you want, Catalyst?”

  “Weren’t you given orders this morning regarding me?” Saryon asked, assuming a smile he hoped would be taken for bland innocence but which felt more like the frozen grin of a dead possum.

  “No,” the guard said with a frightful scowl.

  “I — um — am needed at the forge this day.” Saryon gulped. “The smith is undertaking a difficult project and has asked to be infused with Life.”

  “I don’t know.” The guard hesitated. “Our orders were to keep you inside.”

  “But surely those orders were for last night,” Saryon said. “Haven’t you … er … received new orders today?”

  “Maybe we have and maybe we haven’t,” the guard mumbled, with an uneasy glance at the house on the hill. Following the guard’s gaze, Saryon saw a group of Blachloch’s henchmen gathering in a small, dark knot outside the door. He wished desperately he knew what was going on.

  “I guess you can go,” the guard said finally. “But I’ll have to take you.”

  “Of course.” Saryon checked a relieved sigh.

  “Is the twit still in there?” The guard jerked his head toward the prison house.

  “Who? Oh, Simkin.” The catalyst nodded.

  Peering through the barred window, the guard saw the young man stretched out on the bed, his mouth wide open. His snores could be heard clearly in the street and, at that moment, he was seized with a particularly violent one that practically lifted him from the bed.

  “Pity he don’t choke.” The guard opened the door, let the catalyst out, then shut it with a vicious snap. “Come on, Priest,” the guard said, and the two began their walk.

  As they passed through the village streets with their rows of brick houses — houses that Saryon could still not look upon without a shudder, houses that had been made by the tools and hands of man instead of molded from the elements by magic — the catalyst noticed the restlessness growing among the people. Many men had given up all pretense of working and now stood around in small groups, talking in low tones, glaring at the guard as he passed with grim defiance.

  “Aye, just wait,” the guard muttered, glaring back at them. “We’ll take care of you shortly.” But Saryon noticed that Blachloch’s henchman said this beneath his breath. Clearly, he was nervous and worried.

  The catalyst did not blame him. Five years ago, the man called Blachloch had appeared in the Sorcerers’ village. Claiming to be a renegade from the ranks of the powerful Duuk-tsarith, the warlock had easily wrested control from Andon — the gentle, old man who was the leader of the Coven. Bringing in his henchmen — thieves and murderers sent expressly by the Duuk-tsarith for this purpose — the warlock tightened his grip upon the Sorcerers, ruling through both fear and the promise that it was now time for the Sorcerers to rise up and take back their proper place in the world. But there were those — Andon among them — who had openly defied the warlock and his guards. Now that the powerful warlock was missing, his men were understandably concerned.

  “So, what project are they working on today, Priest?”

  Saryon started. He had the vague awareness that this was the second time the guard had asked the question, but he had been so lost in his thoughts he had not noticed.

  “Uh, a special weapon … for the … the kingdom of Sharakan, I believe,” Saryon stammered, flushing uncomfortably. The guard nodded and lapsed into his uneasy silence again, darting swift, suspicious glances from the corners of his eyes at the townspeople they met as they continued toward the forge.

  Saryon knew he was safe in mentioning Sharakan. A large kingdom lying well to the north of the Outland, Sharakan was preparing for war and had incurred the wrath, and fear, of the catalysts by daring to seek out the Sorcerers of the Dark Art and engage their help. Thus, for the past year, the Sorcerers had been working day and night, forging iron arrow-points, spear-points and daggers. Enhanced by the powerful magic of Sharakan’s own warlocks, these weapons could make them an extremely formidable enemy. And, right now, the iron dagger of Sharakan was pointed directly at the ancient and beautiful throat of the kingdom of Merilon.

  No wonder Bishop Vanya was frightened. In this, Saryon did not blame him, and, as he thought about it, his heart almost misgave him. The Order of catalysts had kept the peace among the various kingdoms of Thimhallan for centuries. Now it was unraveling, the frail fabric being ripped apart. Sharakan made no secret of its plans for conquest and, though the Church was doing its best to keep this from the rest of the world lest it start a panic, rumors were spreading and fear was growing daily.

  But surely, Saryon thought, now that Blachloch is dead, that will all end! Andon, the wise, elderly leader, was opposed to this talk of war among the Sorcerers. With Blachloch no longer around to foment the idea, the old man could bring his people back to their senses.

  I will warn him of their danger before we leave, Saryon thought. I will tell him that Blachloch was leading them into a trap. I —

  “Here we are,” announced the guard, catching hold of the catalyst, who had, in his dark musings, nearly stumbled headlong into the forge. Once again cognizant of his surroundings, Saryon heard the pounding of the hammers and the harsh breathing of the bellows, like the heart and lungs of some great beast, its eyes gleaming fiery red from the darkness of the lair in which it crouched. The beast’s master, the smith, stood within the doorway. A giant of a man, skilled in both magic and technology, the smith led the faction of Sorcerers who favored war. He favored it, however, without interference from Blachloch. No one would be more pleased to hear of the warlocks death than the smith. And there was no doubt that the henchmen had much to fear from this big man and the large number of Sorcerers who supported him.

  The smith was talking with several young men now. Seeing the guard, they broke off their conversation. The young men drew back into the shadows of the cave where the forge was housed, and the smith returned to his work, though not before he cast the guard a glance of cool defiance.

  “Father …” There came a touch on his arm.

  Saryon looked around behind him, startled.

  “Mosiah!” he cried, reaching out to clutch the young man thankfully. “How did you esca —” Glancing at the guard, he broke off. “That is, we were worried —”

  “Father,” said Mosiah, interrupting gently, “I must speak to you. In private. It is a … spiritual matter,” he said, looking at the guard. “It will not take long.”

  “All right,” the guard said grudgingly, conscious of the smith watching him closely. “But don’t get out of my sight, either of you.”

  Mosiah drew Saryon into the shadows of a stable where they kept the horses for shoeing. “Father,” the young man whispered, “where are you going?”

  “To — to talk with Joram. I have something … we need to discuss …” Saryon stammered.

  “Is it about this rumor?”

  “What rumor?” the catalyst asked uneasily.

  “Blachloch…. He’s missing.” Mosiah regarded Saryon intently. “Hadn’t you heard?”

  “No.
” Saryon averted his eyes and drew further back into the shadows.

  “They’ve sent a search party into the wilderness.”

  “How — how do you know?”

  “I was at Blachloch’s house when Simkin came to tell the warlocks men the news.”

  “Simkin?” Saryon stared at Mosiah. “When? What did he say?”

  “Early this morning. You see, Father,” Mosiah continued hurriedly, his eyes on the guard, “last night, after you and Joram left, the guards came and took me away. Blachloch wanted to question me, or something like that, they said. When we arrived at the house, he wasn’t there. Someone said he’d gone with you to the forge. We waited, but he never came back. Some of his men went to the forge looking for him and couldn’t find him. Then, near morning, Simkin turned up with a story about how Blachloch had gone into the woods to settle an old score with centaurs —”

  Saryon groaned.

  Mosiah looked at the catalyst intently.

  “This isn’t news to you, Father, is it? I didn’t think it would be. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you now!” Saryon said in a low voice. “How did you get away?”

  “Just walked off in the confusion. I came to warn Andon. Blachloch’s men are gathering up there, making plans to take over the village and crush any rebellion before it starts. They’ve got weapons — clubs and knives and bows —”

  “Hey, come along! I ain’t got all day,” the guard shouted, obviously eager to escape the smith’s wrathful gaze.

  “I’ve got to go,” Saryon said, starting for the forge.

  “I’m coming with you,” Mosiah said firmly.

  “No! Go back to the cell! Keep an eye on Simkin!” Saryon ordered desperately. “The Almin knows what he’ll say or do next!”

  “Yes,” Mosiah said, after an instant’s consideration, “that’s probably a good idea. You’ll be coming back?”

  “Yes, yes!” Saryon answered hastily. He saw the guard glance at the young man uncertainly, as though thinking it odd that Mosiah was free to walk the streets. But if the guard had any intentions of stopping Mosiah, another glance at the frowning smith caused him to reconsider.