Triumph of the Darksword Page 5

  Working thus closely with the Sorcerers proved difficult for some of the Shapers to accept. Although more liberal in their views of Technology than most people in Thimhallan (carts with wheels could actually be seen in use in the city), the magi of Sharakan had been raised to believe that the extensive use of Technology was the first step on the path to the realm of Death. Only their love and loyalty for their Prince and King and their belief that this war was necessary for the continuance of their life-style caused the people of Sharakan to grit their teeth and perform what was considered a mortal sin—give life to that which was Lifeless.

  The Guildsmen worked with the Sorcerers, therefore, many discovering with a certain amount of pleasure and astonishment that Technology had definite advantages and that, when combined with magic, it could be used to create many functional and useful objects—the brick houses that so impressed Cardinal Radisovik, for example. While the Guildsmen and the Sorcerers worked, the Sif-Hanar made certain that the weather in the city was generally fine, while still providing rain for the crops in the outlying farming villages to insure a bountiful harvest. In case the city itself was besieged, the warlocks and catalysts would have no energy to spare conjuring food.

  The nobility of Sharakan—the Albanara—were preparing for war in their own way as well. Those who owned and managed the farmlands made certain that their Field Magi were working to the fullest. Those with some smattering of skill in Shaping volunteered to assist the Guildsmen at their work. This notion quickly caught on and became much the fashion in Sharakan. Soon it was not unusual to see a Marquis expending his magical energies repairing a crack in the city wall or a Baron merrily pumping the bellows of the forge. The nobles had an extremely good time, working at these arduous tasks for an hour or so each week, then returning home to collapse with fatigue, soak in a hot bath, and congratulate themselves on contributing to the war effort. Unfortunately, they were more of a hindrance than a help to the Guildsmen, who, however, could do nothing but put up with it and endeavor to repair the bungled jobs as best they could after the nobles tired of them.

  The aristocratic ladies of Sharakan were no less enthusiastic than their husbands about supporting the war, many contributing their own catalysts and House Magi to the cause. This involved considerable sacrifice. To have “done one’s own hair” became quite the rage, whereas the Baroness who could sigh and say she “simply did not have Life enough to play Swan’s Doom today as her catalyst had been summoned to the palace to learn to fight” was looked upon with envy by those less fortunate ladies whose catalysts had been pronounced unfit for duty and sent home.

  Prince Garald knew of these absurdities and overlooked them. The Marquis who had spent three hours shaping one small rock had contributed half his wealth to the war. The bellows-pumping Baron gave enough food to keep the city stocked for a month. Garald was well satisfied with the way his people were preparing for the forthcoming conflict. He himself worked untiringly at it, spending long hours in either training or study.

  If Garald had one secret wish in his life, it was his desire to be a warlock. Since he could not—having been born Albanara—he did the next best thing, throwing himself into the war body and soul. Having studied warfare extensively, he was nearly as knowledgeable in it as were the War Masters, those warlocks who spent their lives training for battle. Garald garnered the respect of these men and women—not an easy task—and, unlike some kingdoms where the War Masters were only too happy to hustle the king out of their way, those of Sharakan were only too happy to have the Prince’s help and advice. Prince Garald worked with them to teach the novice warlocks and their catalysts how to fight. He developed a strategy for the war and announced that he would take on the role of Field Commander at the Gameboard when the battle started—a decision that was not disputed by the War Masters, who recognized natural talent when they saw it.

  Cardinal Radisovik knew exactly where to find Prince Garald, therefore His Grace had—for all practical purposes—moved into the hall known now as the War Room. The three men searching for him found him easily. Approaching the building, Mosiah, the Cardinal, and Simkin (in a pink cravat) could hear Garald’s voice echoing among the high, ornately painted ceilings.

  “All catalysts will now take up their positions either to the left or right of his or her warlock, depending on which side the wizard prefers.” A pause, during which a murmur of voices rose in the air, warlocks explaining that they were right- or left-handed. Then Garald’s voice rose above the hubbub. “You catalysts, stand about five paces to the side and five paces back.” There were sounds of shuffling and some confusion. Arriving at the great doors of the ballroom, the three could see the catalysts and wizards moving about, taking up their positions preparatory to practicing their own type of dance upon the polished marble floors that had once, not so long ago, gleamed beneath the feet of less deadly couples.

  When all had assumed their fighting positions, the Prince walked up and down the long rows of red-robed warlocks and gray-robed catalysts, inspecting them with a critical eye. Two black-robed Duuk-tsarith—the Prince’s own guards—paced solemnly behind him, their hands folded before them.

  “The positioning of the catalyst is crucial in the battle.” The Prince continued the lecture as he moved among the ranks, moving a catalyst forward a step here, motioning one to stand farther off there. “It is the catalysts’ responsibility to grant Life to his warlock during the fighting. That much you know. Thus he stands near enough to his warlock to open a conduit and let the magic flow from him into his partner. Since this requires the catalyst’s complete concentration and attention, the catalyst has no means of defending himself. Therefore he positions himself slightly behind his warlock so that his partner may use whatever magical shields or other means he chooses to protect his catalyst.

  “An intelligent opponent will, of course, endeavor to knock out his enemy’s catalyst at the first opportunity, thus severely weakening the warlock. All of you warlocks have learned standard defenses against this, which we will practice later.

  “Today I want to concentrate on an ability of the catalyst that is sometimes overlooked. Not only are you catalysts able to grant Life to your wizard, you have the ability to drain the Life of your opponent and utilize this additional magical energy to feed to your partner. This involves great skill in judgment and a keen eye, for you must know that your own warlock has sufficient Life to be able to carry on the fight without requiring your assistance and you must also know when an enemy warlock is so preoccupied with battle that you can strike him unawares. The inherent danger in this is, of course, that the enemy will immediately sense the Life being drained from him and will act at once to stop the catalyst attacking him. Therefore you must strike quickly, concentrating all your efforts on the job at hand.”

  Having finished his inspection, Garald floated up in the air above the heads of his troops so that he could look down upon them. “The two front rows face each other. The rest of you take your places against the wall. You there! Pay attention. You’ll have your turn soon enough. I expect those now watching to perform perfectly the first time, since they will have had the advantage in seeing others do this first. Warlocks—skip to third and fourth round combat spells. Go ahead and rehearse your chants, the room is protected with a dispersion spell. You catalysts, see if you can successfully drain the Life from the enemy opposite.”

  Sounds of numerous voices rose into the air, casting fire, raising windstorms, calling forth lightning as the warlocks went into action. Standing in position next to them, the catalysts began the difficult task of attempting to drain Life instead of giving it. Most of the catalysts were less than successful at this. Although each had been taught the technique at the Font, few had ever seen it done and no one in the room had ever attempted it, there having been no warfare on Thimhallan for countless years. Some mistakenly drained Life from their own warlocks. Many couldn’t remember the correct words of the prayer that gave them the power, and one poor young cata
lyst was so flustered that he accidentally drained himself, passing out in a dead faint on the floor.

  Mosiah watched, open-mouthed, so fascinated that he nearly forgot the reason he’d come. He had never seen a training session before and, up until now, the talk of war had been just that to him—talk. Now it became reality, and a tingle of excitement shot through his blood. Like Garald, he, too, longed to be a War Master, but—again like his Prince—although a skilled magus, Mosiah was not born to the Mystery of Fire, the gift of the Almin necessary to excel in the art. Garald had promised Mosiah, however, that the young man would be among the archers, since he was already trained in the use of the bow and arrow. The archer’s practice sessions were due to start any day now and suddenly Mosiah couldn’t wait.

  But if the young man had forgotten the reason for his visit, Cardinal Radisovik had not. He had interrogated Mosiah and Simkin on the way. The two described what they had seen on the Borderland, the Cardinal listening with outward calm to their recital of the strange and unnatural happenings. He was so calm, in fact, that Mosiah grew ashamed and embarrassed, receiving the distinct impression from the minister that he was being frightened by—as Simkin said—a cyclone in a teapot. But Radisovik was far more disturbed and worried than he let on to the two young men, and, when a halt was called in the training session to remove the catalyst who had passed out, the Cardinal took advantage of the lull in the proceedings to approach Prince Garald, beckoning to Mosiah and Simkin to follow him.

  Seeing the Cardinal, Garald immediately and respectfully descended to the floor where the catalyst stood. The Prince was attired in the tight pants and white, flowing-sleeved shirt he normally wore in practicing his swordsmanship—an art in which he was known to be highly skilled. Although he approached them with the winning smile and the grace and poise that came naturally to the handsome man, it was obvious from the dark line between the feathery brows that he was irritated. Whether this irritation stemmed from the fact that the Cardinal had interrupted him in his work or whether he was irritated by his students was difficult to determine.

  His first words soon cleared up the matter.

  “Well, Cardinal Radisovik,” Prince Garald said, frowning at the head of the Church in Sharakan. “I am not at all impressed with your brethren.”

  Radisovik, preoccupied with more important matters, merely smiled. “Be patient, Your Grace,” he said soothingly. “The catalysts are beginners at this. They will learn. I seem to recall a time when you yourself were a beginner in the art of fencing.”

  Prince Garald glanced at Radisovik out of the corner of his eye, seeming a bit chagrined. “Come now, Radisovik, I wasn’t that bad.”

  “I seem to recall Your Grace entering the classroom, tripping over your sword, and falling flat on your—”

  “I did no such thing!” Garald denied, his face flushed. Seeing Radisovik regarding him with a stern gaze, he shrugged. “All right, I did stumble over the sword, but I did not fall…. Oh, have it your way!” Grinning ruefully, he relaxed, his frown easing. “And you are correct, Cardinal, as always. I am being too impatient. Mosiah, it is good to see you again.” He made a point to recognize the young man with a warm smile, extending his hand not to be kissed but in friendship. “You are well, I hope? How are things at the forge?”

  Having known the Prince for some months, Mosiah had recovered from his awe of this man sufficiently to be able to take his hand and reply to his question without having to untangle his tongue. Though the initial feeling of awe was gone, it had been replaced by respect, admiration, and love. It was easy for Mosiah to understand why all of Sharakan was following their handsome Prince to war. They would have done the same if Garald had announced his intention of leaping into the sea.

  “Simkin,” said Garald, turning to the bearded young man, “I find your attire strangely depressing. Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “Matters of grave consequence, Your Grace,” said Simkin in a doleful tone that might have served the head pallbearer in a funeral procession.

  Garald raised his eyebrows at this, a laugh playing about his lips, prepared to hear the rest of the joke. But a glance at the grave face of Radisovik warned the Prince instantly that the matter was of an important and serious nature.

  “Send the people to their luncheon,” Garald ordered one of the War Masters who floated in the air nearby. “Call them back in half an hour. If I have not returned, have them repeat this drill.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said the War Master, bowing, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his flowing red robes.

  Prince Garald led the Cardinal and the two young men from the War Room that was now echoing with relieved sighs and cheerful voices. The castle at Sharakan was a warren of rooms and it was not difficult for the Prince to find one vacant, suitable for private conversation.

  Long unused, the chamber was empty and windowless. Waving his hand, Garald caused globes of light to flicker among the shadows of the high ceiling. The light was bright as the sun, gleaming warmly from the walls and sparkling on the shaped, inlaid, decorative tiles that graced the floors in intricate patterns of flowers and birds. There was no furniture in the room. Garald obviously didn’t expect to be here long and he waited for the Cardinal to speak, standing before him with an expectant, impatient air.

  “I believe you should seal this chamber, Your Grace,” said Radisovik.

  Looking somewhat surprised and also annoyed at the waste of time, Garald ordered the two Duuk-tsarith who accompanied him everywhere to perform the task. When the room was secure—both from intrusion and from curious ears and prying eyes—he turned to the Cardinal.

  “Very well, Radisovik. What is on your mind?”

  Cardinal Radisovik gestured to Mosiah to speak.

  Unaccustomed to commanding the complete attention of both Prince and Cardinal, and having to deal with Simkin’s intermittent and irrelevant insertions—“Underwear wrapped around my neck! … I assure you those pictures are art of the highest form!”—Mosiah haltingly told what he had seen and experienced on the Borderlands.

  Prince Garald’s face grew increasingly solemn as the tale unfolded. When Mosiah told of finding Saryon’s statue smashed and desecrated, the Prince flushed in anger.

  “I presume you know what this means?” he demanded of Radisovik, interrupting Mosiah’s description of the storm raging on the beach.

  “I’m not certain that I do, Your Grace,” Radisovik said gently reprovingly. “I think you should hear the young man out.”

  “Mosiah understands that I am not being rude,” the Prince answered impatiently. “He knows the seriousness of this information—”

  “But the storm—”

  “Storms! There are always storms!” Pacing about the room, the Prince brushed aside the matter with a wave of his hand.

  “Not on the Borderlands,” Radisovik said quietly.

  “That isn’t important!” Garald cried, his fist clenching. His voice had risen almost to a shout and the Cardinal was regarding him with a worried look. Drawing a deep breath, the Prince mastered himself. “Don’t you understand, Radisovik! This means he has it!”

  “Who has what?” Simkin asked with a yawn. “I say, you all can march up and down if you like, but I’ve had an exhausting day. Beastly tired. Mind if I sit down?”

  Making a fluttering motion with the orange silk, the bearded young man caused a fainting-couch to appear in the room and languidly stretched himself full length upon it, blissfully ignoring the Cardinal’s glare of stern disapproval, for no one sat in the presence of the Prince unless given permission.

  Glancing at Mosiah, Garald said in low tones, “Thank you, my friend I am deeply indebted to you for this information Now, if you will excuse us, I would like to discuss this privately with the Cardinal—”

  “No, keep them here, Your Grace,” Radisovik said unexpectedly, moving closer to the Prince “They know as much about this as we do, Garald. Or more,” he added in an undertone.

  The Prince reg
arded Radisovik dubiously a moment, then glanced at Mosiah who, aware of the scrutiny and perhaps aware of what the Cardinal had whispered, shifted uncomfortably beneath the penetrating gaze Garald’s eyes went next to the languishing Simkin. The Prince frowned.

  “Very well, Radisovik,” he said in low tones. “What I am about to say must not leave this room, young men!”

  Mosiah muttered something unintelligible, aware now of the unseen eyes of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith upon him.

  “You may trust me implicitly, Your Grace,” said Simkin, with a flutter of orange silk. “Cross my heart and hope to die, though not quite as suddenly as the Duchess of Malborough, who toppled over on the spot. She always took things so literally.

  Garald cast an irritated glance at Simkin, who immediately snapped his mouth shut. “Mosiah, did you see the sword—Joram’s sword—anywhere in the sand near Saryon?”

  Mosiah shook his head “No—”

  “You see!” Garald interrupted, speaking to Radisovik.

  “—but there was so much sand flying around, it could have easily been buried, Your Grace,” Mosiah continued.

  “Yes,” struck in Simkin cheerfully. “The catalyst’s poor old bald head had been covered up to the eyebrows Had to dig for it. Beastly task. Felt a bit like a grave robber.”

  Mosiah made a strangled, choking sound, covering his face with his hand.

  “I am truly sorry, Mosiah,” Garald said sternly. “I share your grief. But this is a time for action and revenge, not for tears.”

  “Revenge?” Mosiah looked up, startled.

  “Yes, young man,” Garald said grimly. “Your friend Saryon was murdered.”

  “But … why?” Mosiah gasped.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Garald said. “The Darksword. I think we may safely assume that now it is in the hands of our enemy. Xavier finally succeeded in obtaining it.” The Prince resumed his pacing. “Fool that I was!” he muttered to himself. “I should have kept watch! But I didn’t think there was any way for him to—”