Triumph of the Darksword Read online

  Since the Thon-li were merely catalysts, with little magical Life of their own, the War Masters—the most powerful magi in Thimhallan—could have literally blown them off the face of the earth. This would have meant destruction of the transportation system in Thimhallan, however, something not even to be considered. Therefore, the Thon-li were permitted by the Rules of War to surrender after a token resistance, opening the Corridors to the armies of Sharakan.

  Prince Garald put on a grand show for his people that day. The battle began with the stirring music of trumpet and drum, calling the people to war. Out they came, dressed in their best clothes, clutching wildly excited children by the hand. Surging into the streets, the citizens gathered around certain predesignated locations throughout the city where the War Masters and their catalysts, dressed in accoutrements of war—red robes for the magi and gray with red trim for the catalysts—stood waiting.

  The martial music ceased. Silence fell. The crowd held its breath. Then the call of a single trumpet, blown by a bugler standing beside Prince Garald upon the palace battlements, rang through the clear, crisp air (the Sif-Hanar outdid themselves that day). At this signal, Prince Garald raised his voice in a shout that was echoed by his War Masters around the city, demanding in the name of the King of Sharakan that the Thon-li open the Corridors.

  One by one, Corridors opened, forming gaping voids in the center of the streets. Standing within them were the Thon-li, the Corridor Masters.

  “In the name of the King of Sharakan and his loyal subjects, we call upon you to grant us safe passage to the city-state of Merilon, that we may issue the Challenge to war,” cried Prince Garald to the Thon-li who faced him. The demand was repeated by all the War Masters throughout the city to all the Thon-li who faced them.

  “In the name of the Almin, who watches over the peace of this world, we refuse,” answered the Thon-li to the Prince in return. A high-ranking member of the catalysts and chosen especially for this important part, she threw herself into her role, glaring at Garald as fiercely as if he truly meant to take her post by storm.

  Though somewhat taken back by the catalyst’s vehement defiance, the Prince signaled for the trumpet to sound again. His War Masters came forward, their catalysts at their sides, and the “battle” began.

  The catalysts opened conduits to their wizards; the Life that they gathered into their bodies arcing into that of the magi with a blue light. Suffused with magic, the War Masters cast their spells. Balls of fire exploded in the skies. Cyclones appeared out of clear air, spinning in the palms of the warlocks who threatened to unleash their fury upon the Thon-li. Lightning crackled from fingertips, fiery hail sizzled on the street. The children shrieked in excitement, and one young War Master was so carried away by the spectacle that he accidentally caused a crack to open in the earth, frightening the populace as much or more than the Thon-li.

  Fortunately, the Corridor Masters surrendered immediately at this show of power, even the fierce catalyst who continued to glower at Prince Garald with wounded dignity. Stepping out of her Corridor, she held her hands in front of her, wrists together. The other Thon-li followed her example. The War Masters bound the wrists of the catalysts loosely with silken cord. The trumpet rang out in victory and a great cheer went up from the populace.

  Then the Thon-li returned to their Corridors, the citizens returned to their homes, and the Prince and his forces set forth to issue the Challenge.

  What the people of Sharakan did not know was that their Prince wasn’t playing a grand game. Garald believed secretly—and he had not shared this with anyone, either his father or the Cardinal, although he was fairly certain Radisovik suspected—that Xavier would not be content with winning on the Gameboard if he won. He would certainly not be content if he lost. No matter what the outcome on the Field of Glory, Prince Garald believed that once again war—true war—had come to the world.

  His heart swelled with excitement. Dreams of deeds of bravery done on the field of battle, of the glories of victory won over an evil foe set his blood burning. Looking into the heavens, the Prince gave fervent thanks to the Almin that he had been born to right the wrongs of this world.

  8

  The Challenge

  The Crystal Palace of Merilon outshone the sun in the early morning dawn. This was not a difficult task. Yesterday, the Sif-Hanar had spent most of the day practicing their war spells against the shining orb—covering it with black clouds, turning it ghastly colors, once attempting to obliterate it from the sky completely. Today the sun edged up over the mountains, appearing pale and sulky, seeming ready to set again in an instant if it caught sight of the weather magi.

  The pallid sun couldn’t hold a candle, therefore, to the brilliance of the Crystal Palace, whose lights had been burning all night. At dawn, the tapestries covering the transparent walls of every room in the palace were rolled up, curtains were opened, shades and shutters raised. Magical light spilled out, beaming down upon the city below.

  In the days of the old Emperor and his enchanting Empress, this brilliant splendor would have meant night-long revelry and merriment. In the old days, beautiful women and elegant men would have thronged the palace, filling the rooms with laughter and perfume. In these days of the new Emperor, the brightly burning lights meant night-long plotting and planning. In these days, red-robed warlocks lurked about the halls, filling the rooms with grim discussion and the faint smell of sulphur.

  On this morning, the morning of the Challenge, Emperor Xavier hovered in the air near the transparent wall of his study in the Crystal Palace, staring down at the city below his feet. To all appearances, he was waiting impatiently for his enemy. A glance showed him his War Masters at their posts, observing from vantage points both within the Crystal Palace and without Xavier and his ministers planned to be able to gauge Sharakan’s military strength by the Challenge. In particular they expected to get some hint of how Garald intended to utilize the Dark Arts of the Sorcerers in his battle formations. Not that Xavier expected Prince Garald to reveal all his secrets. No, the Prince was far too intelligent a military strategist for that. Still, Garald would have to exhibit some of his military might in order for his Challenge to be taken seriously and, according to old custom, “frighten” Merilon into surrender.

  Xavier knew, of course, from his spies in Sharakan, that the Sorcerers had taken up residency in that city and that they were working day and night developing weapons. But his spies had been unable to penetrate that closed society, whose years of persecution made them wary of strangers. The DKarn-Duuk had no idea what weapons they were developing and how many. Worst of all—as far as Xavier was concerned—he had no idea if the Sorcerers had discovered how to use darkstone or whether the Darksword—forged by Joram—was the only weapon in existence made of the magic-absorbing ore.

  An Ariel, one of the winged messengers of Thimhallan, appeared outside Xavier’s wall, the mutated man’s gigantic wings beating slowly in the morning breeze, allowing him to rest on the air currents that swirled gently about the Palace.

  Dissolving the wall with a wave of his hand, Xavier motioned the Ariel to fly inside.

  “The Taking of the Corridors has just been completed, my lord,” the Ariel informed his Emperor.

  “Thank you. Return to your post.” Dismissing the messenger, Xavier absently replaced the wall, then gave the prearranged signal. Red smoke filled the sky. His War Masters ceased talking among themselves and crowded near the walls, watching expectantly.

  The DKarn-Duuk himself was prepared to witness the event from the best possible vantage point, having had his study magically transported to the topmost turret of the crystal-spired Palace. Looking down, he could see the people of Merilon jostling to gain the best views of the proceedings. The wealthy rode in their splendid winged carriages or drifted lightly among the clouds of City Above. The middle-classes flowed into City Below, gathering around the Gates, crowding into the Grove, massing around the perimeter of the protective magical dome.
<
br />   There was a festive air about the crowd. Not even the oldest among them could remember the last time a Challenge had been issued. It was an historic occasion and excitement was widespread. Lavish parties were being given by the nobility this night following the Challenge. Military garb of every day and age was the style; the city looked somewhat like an encampment of Julius Caesar’s that had been overrun by the combined forces of Attila the Hun and King Richard the Lion-Hearted. But amid all this heady excitement, there ran a single thread of disappointment. One tiny cloud cast a shadow over an otherwise perfect day.

  There was to be no party held at the Crystal Palace.

  People wondered at this. Emperor Xavier was known to be a serious-minded man (some even used the term dour to describe him—but only in whispers). Everybody believed it perfectly right and proper that he treat this war seriously. But a party in honor of the momentous event had been expected and, when it was not forthcoming, when word went out that the Emperor specifically demanded not to be disturbed, people exchanged dark looks and shook their heads. Such a thing would not have happened under the old Emperor, they said wistfully (again only in whispers). And more than a few began to speculate that perhaps this war wasn’t going to be the easy victory. The DKarn-Duuk had been predicting.

  Xavier knew the people were disturbed by his refusal to celebrate tonight. His Minister of Morale had spent the last two days informing him of nothing else. The DKarn-Duuk didn’t care. Moody and restless, he flitted back and forth in front of the vast expanse of crystal wall, his hands twisting together behind his back. Xavier indulged himself in this unusual outward display of agitation only because he was alone in his study. Though the walls were transparent in order that he could see out, he had cast a Mirror Image spell upon them, thus keeping others from seeing inside. A highly trained and disciplined warlock, Xavier appeared to the rest of the world to be enigmatic and imperturbable. Indeed, he was, most of the time. But not on this particular occasion. Not with what he had on his mind.

  And it wasn’t the Challenge.

  The entrance of someone into the Emperor’s study brought Xavier’s pacing to a halt The person had traveled the Corridor that opened silently to admit him; the rustle of heavy robes and the grunt of labored breathing were the first indications of the man’s arrival. Xavier knew who it was—only one man in this world had access to him through the Corridors—and so he merely glanced over his shoulder to see the expression on the face, more interested in that than the face itself.

  At the sight of that expression, Xavier scowled. Biting his lip, he turned back to staring intently out at the panorama of city spread beneath him. There was nothing to see yet. The Challenge hadn’t begun, and he wasn’t truly watching anyway; his thoughts and his vision ranged far afield. Pretending to be preoccupied with the forthcoming event provided him with the opportunity to conceal his face from his visitor.

  “I take it the news is bad, Eminence?” Xavier said in a cold, even voice. He had ceased his airborne pacing and stood perfectly still now, his hands held quietly before him—the Almin alone knew by what effort of will.

  “Yes,” puffed Bishop Vanya.

  Although the stroke had left the Bishop paralyzed in his left arm and had immobilized the left side of his face, Vanya had been able—with the help of the Theldara—to overcome these handicaps and lead a fairly normal life. Certainly his power in the realm had not diminished. If anything, it had grown under Xavier’s new regime.

  The elderly Bishop tired easily these days, however. Even the few steps that he had taken from the desk in his office in the Font to the Corridor and out of the Corridor into the study of the Crystal Palace of Merilon had exhausted him. Collapsing into a chair, Vanya gasped and wheezed for breath while Xavier stood waiting, outwardly calm, inwardly seething with suppressed impatience—and fear.

  When he had recovered somewhat, Bishop Vanya shot a sharp glance at the warlock from beneath half-closed eyelids. Seeing that The DKarn-Duuk was staring intently out the wall and, apparently, not looking at the Bishop, Vanya hurriedly lifted his paralyzed left hand with his right, and placed it upon the arm of the chair, carefully arranging the limp fingers so that he might hide all signs of paralysis. Everyone knew the Bishop did this, of course, and everyone deliberately kept their eyes politely averted until Vanya had managed to arrange himself. These were a people accustomed to dissembling. After all, they had pretended the corpse of their Empress was alive for a year.

  Hearing the Bishop finally settled in his chair, Xavier half-turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, Eminence?” he demanded abruptly. “What kept you? I expected you last night.”

  “The Duuk-tsarith did not return until early this morning,” Vanya said, leaning back cautiously in the chair, careful not to disturb the placement of his arm. He spoke clearly and distinctly, with only a slight slurring due to the paralysis of the left side of his face, a disfigurement barely noticeable (through the help of magic) by a downward slant to the corner of his lips and an almost imperceptible droop of the left eyelid. The Bishop would have considered this intolerable, had not the Theldara who treated him assured Vanya that he should thank the Almin he was alive, and not complain about such mundane matters.

  “I know from your expression the news isn’t good,” Xavier said, turning back to glare down upon the city. “The Darksword is gone.”

  “Yes, Highness,” Vanya replied, the fingers of his good hand crawling spiderlike over the arm of the chair.

  “What took them so long to discover that?” Xavier demanded bitterly.

  “The storm on the Border is worsening,” Vanya said, moistening his lips. “By the time the Duuk-tsarith arrived, the statue of the catalyst had been completely covered by sand. The entire landscape has changed, Highness. They could not even recognize the Borderland and they were present during the Execu—”

  “I am aware of when they were there, Eminence,” Xavier interrupted impatiently. The man’s hands, clasped correctly before him, were white from the strain of maintaining this semblance of outward calm. “Get on with your report!”

  “Yes, Highness,” Vanya muttered. Irritated at the imperious tone, he took advantage of the man’s turned back to glower at him in hatred. “It took the warlocks some time even to discover the location of the statue, then they had to remove the mounds of sand covering it. The Duuk-tsarith were forced to work under magical shields to protect themselves from the storm that blew fiercely about them. It took two warlocks and four catalysts alone just to maintain the shield so that work could proceed. Finally, they dug down to the remains of the statue.”

  “Is the catalyst—that Saryon—dead?” Xavier asked.

  Vanya paused to mop his sweating forehead with a white cloth. He was either too hot or too cold these days. There never seemed any in-between.

  When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. “Certainly the spell was broken, the spirit fled. But whether to the realm of the dead or the living, no one is certain.”

  “Damn!” Xavier muttered beneath his breath, the fingers of one hand clenching. “And the sword is gone?”

  “Sword and scabbard.”

  “You are certain?”

  “The Duuk-tsarith do not make mistakes, Highness,” Vanya replied acidly. “They combed a wide area around the site of the statue and found nothing. What is more important is that they felt no trace of the swords presence as they surely must have if it had been there.”

  Xavier made a snarling sound. “The sword was quite capable of concealing its owner from the eyes of the Duuk-tsarith before—”

  “Only when it had lost itself and its owner in the crowd. When isolated, the Darksword can be sensed by the Duuk-tsarith due to the minute draining effect it has—even un-wielded—upon their magic. At least, that is what the witch tells me, Highness. They had little time to test the sword, she says, before it was turned to stone in the arms of that wretched catalyst.

  “No,” Vanya continued gloomily, “the Darksword is gone�
��. What’s more, the Duuk-tsarith say that only its power could have been used to break the spell surrounding Saryon.”

  The DKarn-Duuk stood in silence, staring out the wall. The Challenge had started. The Corridors surrounding the invisible, magical walls of Merilon gaped open. (Few Corridors provided entry into the city itself. Those that did were located in the Gates, guarded normally by the Kan-Hanar alone. Now, in time of war, the Duuk-tsarith and The DKarn-Duuk—the War Masters—also stood guard over the Gates of Merilon. This was really a formality, however. Besides being an infraction of the Rules of the War, any attempt by the enemy to enter the city through the Corridors would precipitate a magical battle that would endanger both the city and its inhabitants; something neither side wanted—at least at this early stage. The only other Corridors that led into and out of the city were the secret Corridors that connected the palace to the Font.)

  The army of Sharakan—hundreds of warlocks, resplendent in their red robes of war, followed by their catalysts—emerged from the Corridors. The warlocks arranged themselves at intervals surrounding the city, their catalysts at their sides. When all were in place, a single trumpet sounded and Prince Garald himself appeared, riding out from the Corridor in a golden chariot drawn by nine black horses. Flame breathed from the nostrils of the magic animals, lightning flickered at their hooves as they pawed the air. The animals’ shrill cries were so loud they could be heard through the magical dome.

  Holding his fiery steeds in check, Prince Garald was a magnificent sight, accoutered in silver armor that had been handed down among his family for generations; some said it came from the ancient world and that it was endowed with spells of victory and protection for the wearer. He carried his helm beneath his arm, his chestnut hair ruffled in the wind. Making a formal bow to the residents of Merilon, he turned his horses’ heads and began to drive his chariot around the walls of the city. As he galloped past, he caused banners of the kingdom of Sharakan to unfurl from out the air, until Merilon was ringed round by the sparkling colors of its enemy. So handsome was the Prince, so awesome was the sight of the black, fire-breathing steeds, and so beautiful were the banners that the inhabitants of Merilon gave the spectacular sight a rousing cheer.