Doom of the Darksword Read online

  “The feeling will pass soon,” said Saryon gently. “I had no idea you were such a powerful magus,” the catalyst added as he went to offer what empty words of comfort he could to the distraught Andon.

  “Neither did I,” Mosiah remarked in a kind of awe. “I … I don’t remember even thinking about it. It’s just — Simkin said something about a great, hairy beast and the image was in my mind and then the magic filled me! It was like the Life of everything around me was pouring into me, surging through me. I felt a hundred times more alive! And I —”

  “Oh, who cares!” Joram broke in impatiently. “Just shut up about it! We’ve got to get out of this damned place!”

  Mosiah fell silent abruptly, swallowing his words. He rose to his feet without a word, his eyes flashing in anger. Andon stared at Joram in wonder. Simkin — embarrassed — began to hum a little tune. Only Saryon understood. He, too, felt the sharp tooth of envy gnaw at him. He, too, knew what it was to be jealous of those blessed with the gift of Life.

  No one spoke, but stared at each other uneasily, nobody seeming to quite know what to do. It was all unreal, dreamlike. The sun, setting in a fiery blaze, cast long fingers of red through the streets. Flame flared from the windowpanes of the ugly brick dwellings. It flashed off the glazed eyes of the dead. At the forge, it glistened brightly on the metal of knife and spear-point, arrow-tip and dagger. Farther off, in the center of the village, they could hear the shouts growing louder.

  “Joram’s right,” Saryon said finally, trying to shake off the disquieting feeling of both standing in this place and being somewhere else at the same time. “The sun is setting and we must be gone before evening.”

  “Gone?” Andon came back to reality, staring at the catalyst in bewilderment. “But you can’t go, Father! Listen!” The wrinkled, gentle face twisted in fear. “Our peaceful life is ended! They’re —”

  At that moment, the sound of a gong rang out, booming, angry.

  “The Scianc!” Andon cried, grief contorting his face.

  Nine times the gong dinned, its vibrations jarring body and mind. Saryon felt the shock come up from through his feet, and wondered if the earth itself shivered in rage.

  “It’s war,” Joram said grimly. “Which way, Simkin?”

  “This way, down the alley,” Simkin said, pointing, his usually flighty manner disappearing into the air with the orange silk. He was off at a run.

  “C’mon! We better keep up!” Joram urged. “We’ll lose sight of him.”

  “Only if we’re lucky,” Mosiah growled. Hurriedly, he shook hands with the old man. “Good-bye, Andon. Thank you for everything.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Joram said briefly, his dark-eyed gaze going toward the forge. The sounds of battle were louder, coming closer. After a last look Joram started down the alley with Mosiah. The figure of Simkin could bearly be seen in the twilight, the feather in his cap fluttering in the air like a banner. He half-turned. “Hurry up, Saryon!”

  “Yes, go along. I’ll catch up,” the catalyst said, reluctant to leave, afraid to stay. Andon seemed to know something of what he was feeling.

  The old man smiled wanly. “I know why you are leaving, and I suppose I should be grateful that you are taking the darkstone away from us. At least we will be spared that temptation.” He sighed. “But I am sorry to see you go. The Almin walk with you, Father,” he said softly.

  Saryon attempted to return the blessing, but the words would not come to his lips. It was said that in the ancient world, those who had sold their souls to the powers of darkness were physically unable to speak the name of God.

  “Catalyst!” came Joram’s irritated shout.

  Saryon turned and left the old man without a word. Looking back from the shadows of the alley as twilight closed over them, he saw Andon standing in the street beside the bodies of the dead henchmen, his head bowed, shoulders slumped. The old Sorcerer’s hands covered his eyes, and the catalyst knew that he wept.

  7

  The Outland

  Leaving the Sorcerers’ village, Simkin led his charges north through a ravine filled with thick brush, canopied by broad-leafed trees. Twilight deepened to night swiftly among the trees and it was “as dark as the inside of a demon’s eyelids,” as Simkin put it. Walking through the dense tangle of vegetation became difficult, and, on occasion, almost impossible. Though Joram argued against it, the others insisted upon light.

  “Blachloch’s men have other things to worry about, from the sounds of it,” Mosiah said grimly, pulling thorns from his legs where he’d crashed headlong into a gorse bush in the darkness. “One of us could break an ankle or maybe even tumble into a hole and vanish completely in this godforsaken place! I’d rather take my chances on torchlight.”

  “Torchlight!” Simkin snorted. “How primitive you think, dear boy!”

  Huge moths with green-glowing wings appeared in the air. Fluttering above them, the gleaming moths shed a warm, soft light that extended outward in a surprisingly wide radius.

  Unfortunately, after one look into the wild- and forbidding-looking forest through which they traveled, Saryon was considerably more frightened than he had been stumbling about it in the dark.

  They continued walking down the gully until its sharp-thorned bushes opened out suddenly into a swamp. Giant trees rose from the mists of a thick fog; their roots — exposed by the water — looked like claws in the eerie light cast by the glowing moths. At the sight of this, Simkin called a halt.

  “Keep to the high ground on your left,” he said, from his position in the lead. He waved a hand vaguely. “Don’t fall in. Nasty sort of mud in that beastly pool. Grabs hold and won’t let go.”

  “We better not try that ‘til daylight,” Joram said wearily, and it suddenly occurred to Saryon that the young man must be near dropping over from exhaustion. The catalyst was bone tired, but at least he’d been able to rest some during the day.

  “Certainly,” said Simkin with a shrug. “I don’t think anything’s liable to munch on us during the night,” he added ominously.

  “I’m too tired to care one way or the other,” Joram muttered.

  They made their way back down into the gully and found a relatively dry place to spend the night. Taking off the Darksword, Joram laid it on the frozen ground, then made his bed beside it. Lying down, sighing in weariness, he rested his hand upon his sword and closed his eyes.

  “Simkin, where are we headed, anyway?” Mosiah asked in a whisper.

  Rousing himself, Joram looked up at them. “Merilon,” he said, and the next moment was fast asleep.

  Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who shook his head.

  “I feared as much. He must be persuaded from this course. Joram must not go to Merilon!” The catalyst repeated this several times, his hands rubbing back and forth on the worn cloth of his robe.

  Mosiah shifted uneasily, but said nothing.

  Saryon sighed. He could expect no help from this ally, he could see that now — and this was his only ally.

  The catalyst knew that Mosiah agreed with him in his head, but it was the young man’s heart that kept his tongue silent in the matter. Mosiah, too, longed to see Merilon the Beautiful — the fabled, enchanted city of dreams.

  Saryon sighed again, and saw Mosiah’s face grow tense; evidently fearing that the catalyst would take up the matter once more.

  Saryon didn’t bring up his arguments, however. He kept silent, glancing about nervously, all his fears and terrors of the wilderness returning to him.

  “Goodnight, Father,” Mosiah said awkwardly, resting his hand on Saryon’s shoulder. “I’ll help you argue with Joram in the morning, though I don’t think it will do much good.”

  He went over to lie down upon the cold ground, huddling near Joram for warmth. Within moments, he, too, was asleep — sleeping the sleep of youthful innocence. The catalyst stared at him in gloomy jealousy. Then Simkin sent the moths away, and the night returned. The darkness seemed to crawl out from the clawed trees, oblit
erating everything from sight. Saryon shivered in the chill air.

  “I’ll keep watch,” Simkin offered. “I slept all day, and whacking that lout quite stirred up my blood. Put your bald head to bed, Father.”

  Saryon was tired, so tired that he hoped sleep might overwhelm him, shutting down the waterwheel of thoughts that cranked over and over in his mind. But the terrors of the wilderness and the sound of Joram’s voice saying “Merilon” flowed through the catalysts brain and kept the wheels turning.

  The bitter-cold winds of approaching evening rustled the few dead leaves still clinging stubbornly to the trees. Clutching his robes close about him, Saryon tried to shake off the growing feelings of gloom and despair. He told himself they were due to his fatigue and the horror over the death of the warlock that was only gradually beginning to fade from his mind.

  But he wasn’t succeeding, and now this announced decision of Joram’s made matters worse.

  Saryon shifted restlessly, shivering with cold and fear. The slightest noise made him cringe in terror. Were those eyes, staring at him from the shadows? He sat up in alarm, looking wildly around for Simkin. The young man was sitting peacefully on a tree stump. Saryon fancied he could see Simkin’s eyes shining in the darkness like an animal’s, and they appeared to be watching him with amusement. The catalyst huddled back down in his robes, shut his own eyes against the night, and tried to take his mind off his fear and cold by going over and over what he intended to say to Joram tomorrow.

  Eventually, the wheel bogged down and ceased to turn. The catalyst drifted into a dream-haunted, restless sleep. His hand went reassuringly to the darkstone that hung around his neck, and he realized, sleepily, that the ore’s power had apparently worked.

  Bishop Vanya had not contacted him.

  Saryon woke next morning, aching and stiff. Though he was not hungry, he forced himself to eat. “Joram,” he said reluctantly, mechanically chewing and swallowing stale bread, “we must talk.”

  “Brace yourself, my friend,” said Simkin cheerfully, “Father Spoilsport intends to talk you out of going to Merilon.”

  Joram’s face darkened, his expression grew stern, and Saryon cast an irritated glance at the mischievous Simkin, who simply grinned innocently and sat back upon his stump, legs crossed, to enjoy the fun.

  “Bishop Vanya will expect you to go to Merilon, Joram!” Saryon argued. “He knows about Anja and her promise that you would find fame and fortune there. He’ll be waiting, and so will the Duuk-tsarith!”

  Joram listened in silence, then he shrugged. “The Duuk-tsarith are everywhere,” he said coolly. “It seems that I am in danger no matter where I go. Isn’t that true?”

  Saryon could not deny it.

  “Then, I will go to Merilon,” Joram said calmly. “My birthright is in that city, according to my mother, and I intend to claim it!”

  Oh, if only you knew what you truly meant! Saryon thought bitterly. You are not the illegitimate son of some poor, deluded girl and her hapless lover. You do not need to go back a beggar, returning to lay claim on a family who spurned their daughter and turned her from their door seventeen years before.

  No. You could go back a prince. To be wept over by your Empress mother, to be embraced in the arms of your Emperor father….

  To be condemned to death, dragged by the Duuk-tsarith to the Borders of Thimhallan, to the magic-guarded, misten-shrouded edges of the world, and there cast out.

  “The soul of this unfortunate is Dead.” Saryon imagined Bishop Vanya’s voice echoing through the chill, dank fog. “Let now the physical body join the soul and provide this wretched being with his only chance for salvation.”

  I must tell Joram the truth, Saryon thought desperately. Surely that will dissuade him from going!

  “Joram,” he said, his heart pounding so he could barely talk. “Joram, there is something I have to —”

  But the catalyst’s logical mind stepped in.

  Go ahead, his brain told him. Tell Joram he is the son of the Emperor. Tell him he can walk in and claim the title Prince of Merilon. Is that going to stop him from going there? Where would be the first place you’d go if you heard that news?

  “Weil, what now, Catalyst?” Joram said impatiently. “If you have anything to say, say it and quit muttering to yourself. Although, I warn you, you are wasting your breath. My mind is made up. I am going to Merilon, and no words of yours will change that!”

  Yes, he is right, Saryon realized. Biting back his words, he swallowed them like bitter medicine.

  And they continued on toward Merilon.

  As far as Saryon could recall, the next five days were the most miserable of his life. The swamp took three days to traverse. The smell of the place made the stomach turn and left an oily taste in the mouth that completely killed the appetite. Although there was no lack of pure water — even children can work that simple magic — the putrid smell of the swamp made the water taste bitter and tainted. Their thirst never seemed quenched, no matter how much they drank. And not even magic could start a fire that would burn the wet wood. They never saw the sun, were never warm. Tendrils of perpetual fog coiled about them, haunting the imagination. Nothing materialized out of that fog, but they had the feeling they were being watched. This was made worse by Simkin’s frightful hints.

  “What’s all that sniffing you’re doing?” Mosiah asked grumpily, plunging through the marshy grass behind Simkin. “Don’t tell me you’re determining the direction we’re heading by smell!”

  “Not the direction. The path,” corrected Simkin.

  “Oh, come on! How can you tell the path by smell? And how can you smell anything besides rot in this awful place, anyhow?” Mosiah stopped to wait for the weary catalyst to catch up with them.

  “It’s not the path I smell so much as what’s making the path up ahead of us,” Simkin said. “You see, I don’t believe It is likely to misstep and lose Itself in the swamp, having been brought up around here. But then, I always say it is better to be safe than sorry.”

  “It? What It? Why are we following an It?” Mosiah started to ask in alarm, but Simkin clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth.

  “There, there. Mustn’t worry. Generally, It sleeps through the day quite soundly. Exhausts Itself during the night — all that ripping and tearing with Its fangs and those great, ugly claws. Don’t mention. It to the bald party,” he murmured into Mosiah’s ear. “Nervous enough. Never get anywhere.”

  And as if these terrifying hints weren’t bad enough, there were occasional alarms from their “guide” as well.

  “Look! Ahead of us!” Simkin cried, grabbing Mosiah and clinging to him, trembling in every limb of his body.

  “What?” Mosiah’s heart leaped into his throat, the expression “great, ugly claws” having left an indelible impression on his mind.

  “There! Don’t you see It?”

  “No —”

  “Look! Those eyes! All six of em! Ah, gone now.” Simkin heaved a sigh of relief. Dragging forth the orange silk, he mopped his brow. “Lucky thing, too. We must have been upwind of It. Fortunately It doesn’t have a very keen sense of smell. Or was that hearing? I always get those mixed up….”

  Either It knew where It was going or their “guide” did, because they reached the end of the swamp safely at last, coming out at the bottom of a box canyon. So thankful were they to be out of the horrid place and away from the stench that the prospect of a steep climb up into the rocky cliffs towering above them appeared an inviting one. The path was clearly marked — Mosiah wisely refrained from asking Simkin who or what had marked it — and in the beginning it wasn’t difficult to follow. Breathing crisp, cold air and feeling the sunlight upon their faces again gave them added energy. Even the catalyst cheered up and kept pace with them.

  But the trail grew more indistinct the farther they went, and the way grew steeper.

  After two days of clambering over rockfalls, backtracking to find the trail, and sleeping out on windswept, expo
sed ledges, Saryon was so exhausted that he walked in a somnambulic state half the time, starting to wakefulness when he stumbled off the path or felt Mosiah’s guiding hand upon his arm. He managed to keep going only by setting his mind to walking — putting one foot in front of the other — and shutting it off to the cold and the pain of both body and mind. In this state, he often staggered on when the others had stopped to rest, and when they had caught him and brought him back, he slumped down on the ground, his head on his knees, and dreamed he was walking still.

  Eventually, however, the exercise and the fresh air gave the catalyst what he had long been needing — nights of sleep so deep that not even the memory of the dying warlock or the aching of his sore muscles could penetrate it. One morning, on the fifth day of their journey, he woke to find his head clear and, other than stiffness in his joints and sharp pain in his back from lying on the ground, he felt unusually refreshed.

  It was then he noticed that they were traveling in the wrong direction.

  8

  The Glade

  They were on top of the cliffs now, looking down into thick, rolling woodland, The morning sun, which should have been shining directly in their eyes as they walked, was rising to its zenith from their right.

  We’re heading almost due north, toward Sharakan, Saryon realized. Merilon, if that was still their goal, lay much farther to the east. Should I say something? he wondered uneasily. Perhaps Joram has come to his senses, changed his mind and decided not to go to Merilon after all. Perhaps he’s too proud to admit to the rest of us he might have been wrong. Or perhaps he made the decision, discussed it with the others, and I was just simply too exhausted to pay it any heed. Saryon tried to remember if he had heard the young men talking about a change in direction, but so thick had been his fatigue that all memories of the last few days were hazy and distorted.