Doom of the Darksword Read online

  Rather than appear foolish, the catalyst decided not to mention the matter, hoping something would happen to explain it. Simkin led them down the cliffs, into the forest below. At first, all of them were thankful to see that it wasn’t swamp but thick woods. They felt less cheerful about the forest on entering it, however. Although it was winter, the trees unaccountably retained their leaves. A sickly brown color, the foliage smelled of decay. The trail they were following was overrun with a broad-leafed vine that twined among the trunks of the tall trees, blocking their way.

  “There’s something about this plant … Can’t remember what, though,” Simkin mused, staring at it. “I think maybe it’s edible….”

  Mosiah stepped gingerly in among the tangle of the vines. Instantly the leaves wrapped around his ankles, tripped him, and pulled him headfirst into it.

  “Help me!” he shouted wildly. Long thorns emerged, digging into his flesh, and Mosiah began to scream in pain. Drawing the Darksword, Joram waded into the plant, slashing at it with the blade. At the sword’s touch, the vine’s leaves blackened and curled up. The vine — with seeming reluctance — loosed its victim. They dragged Mosiah out, bleeding, but otherwise unharmed.

  “It was sucking my blood!” he said, shuddering and staring at the plant in horror.

  “Ah, I forgot,” said Simkin. “A Kij vine. It considers us edible. Well, I knew it had something to do with food,” he added defensively, as Mosiah glared at him.

  They trudged on, Joram going ahead to clear the path with the Darksword.

  Saryon watched the young men closely, hoping to catch some hint of their plans. Joram and Mosiah seemed content to follow Simkin’s lead, and, strolling unconcernedly in his Dirt and Dung or Mud and Muck attire, Simkin led them confidently wherever it was they were going. He never hesitated, never appeared lost. The paths he found among the winding labyrinth of Kij vines were easy to follow — too easy. Mosiah pointed out more than once where bones had been stacked in a deliberate manner to mark the trail. Centaur tracks could be seen in the frozen mud. Once they came to a place where all the vines had been smashed flat and several tall trees snapped off like twigs.

  “A giant,” said Simkin. “Good thing we weren’t around when he came through. They’re not very bright, you know, and — while not dangerous — they are fond of playing with humans. Unfortunately, they have a nasty habit of breaking their toys.”

  Every time they came to a break in the trees, and the sun was visible, Saryon saw that they were still heading due north. And no one said a word.

  Perhaps Joram and Mosiah have no idea where Merilon is, the catalyst thought. Both were raised in a Field Shaper village on the borders of the Outland. Joram can read, having been taught the skill by Anja. But has he ever seen a map of the world? Does he trust Simkin implicitly?

  That was hard to believe — Joram didn’t trust anyone. But the more Saryon listened and watched, the more the catalyst began to think this was the case. Their talk almost always centered around Merilon.

  Mosiah told childhood stories about the crystal city floating upon planes of magic. Simkin regaled them with more incredible tales about life in court. On rare occasions when a talkative mood was on him, Joram contributed stories of his own, tales he had heard from Anja.

  Having lived in Merilon many years, Saryon was most touched by these stories of Anja’s. There was a sadness and a poignancy in them — the memories of an exile — that brought visions of the city to the catalyst’s eyes. In them, he saw a Merilon he recognized, certainly different from Mosiah’s faerie tale and Simkin’s imagination.

  But if Joram hadn’t changed his mind, why was Simkin guiding them the wrong way?

  Not for the first time, the catalyst studied Simkin as they trudged after him through the forest, trying to guess his game. And, as before, Saryon had to admit utter defeat. Not only was it impossible to figure from the young man’s play what cards he held, the catalyst had seen with his own eyes that Simkin could literally pull tricks out of the air.

  Older than the other two, probably in his early twenties (though he could easily pass for anything from seventy to fourteen if he chose), Simkin was a mystery. A man who shifted stories of his past as often as he shifted his clothes, a man in whom the magic of the world sparkled through his veins like wine, a man of disarming charm, outlandish lies, and an irreverent attitude toward everything in life including death, Simkin was liked by all and trusted by none.

  “No one takes him seriously,” said Saryon to himself. “And I have a feeling that more than one person has lived to regret it — if he was lucky, that is.” The disturbing thought helped the catalyst make up his mind.

  “I am thankful you have reconsidered journeying to Merilon, Joram,” Saryon said quietly one day when they had stopped to rest for lunch.

  “I haven’t reconsidered,” Joram said, his gaze focusing on the catalyst with immediate suspicion.

  “Then, we are traveling the wrong direction,” Saryon said gravely. “We’re heading north, toward Sharakan. Merilon lies almost due east. If we turned we would —”

  “— run smack into the realm of the Faerie Queen,” Simkin interrupted. “Perhaps our celibate friend has dreams of returning to her perfumed bower —”

  “I do not!” Saryon snapped, his face — and, it must be admitted, his blood — burning at the memories of the wild, beautiful, half-naked Elspeth.

  “We can turn east, if you like, O Frigid Father,” Simkin continued, staring nonchalantly into the tops of the trees. “There is a path, not far from here, that will take you back into the swamp you enjoyed so much. It will lead you, eventually, to the ring of mushrooms and, on the way, takes you deep into the heart of the centaur country for a fascinating look at these savage creatures — a very brief look before they rip your eyes out of your skull, of course. If you survive that, there are interesting and entertaining side trips into dragons’ lairs, chimeras’ caves, griffins’ nests, wyverns lodgings, and giant’s hovels, not to forget the fauns, satyrs, and other beasties …”

  “You mean you are taking us this way because it’s safer,” said Mosiah impatiently.

  “Egad, of course,” replied Simkin, looking hurt. “I’m not so fond of walking or your company that I’d prolong this journey, dear boy. By avoiding the river, where most of the nasties lurk, we save in skin what we expend in boot leather. When we reach the northern border of the Outland, we’ll veer east.”

  It sounded plausible, even Mosiah admitted that, and Saryon made no further objection. But still he wondered. He wondered, too, if Joram had been aware of this or if he had been blindly following Simkin.

  Characteristically, the taciturn young man said nothing, his silence implying that he had planned this out with Simkin long beforehand. But Saryon had detected a brief flicker of alarm in the dark eyes when the catalyst first questioned Simkin, and he guessed that Joram had been sleeping with his eyes open, as the saying went. And a certain grim tightening of Joram’s mouth when Simkin next spoke indicated to Saryon that this wouldn’t happen again.

  They journeyed deeper into the forest and, by the seventh day in the Outland, the spirits of all of them began to darken. The sun abandoned them, as though it found this land too dark and dismal to bother brightening. Day after day of traveling beneath slate-gray skies that darkened sullenly into pitch-black night cast a pall over the group.

  There seemed no end to the trees, and the murderous Kij vines were everywhere. There were no animal sounds; undoubtedly nothing could live long among the carnivorous plants. But each man had the distinct feeling he was being watched and continually looked over a shoulder or whirled around to confront something that was never there.

  There were no more stories of Merilon. No one talked at all, except out of necessity. Joram was sullen and morose, Simkin insufferable, Saryon frightened and unhappy, and Mosiah angry at Simkin. Everyone was tired, footsore, and nervous. They kept watch by night in pairs, staring fearfully into the darkness that seemed to
be staring right back.

  Day after weary day dragged past. The woods went on and on; the Kij vines never lost an opportunity to pierce flesh and drink blood. Saryon was trudging along the path, head down, not bothering to look where he was going, not caring since it was bound to look just the same as where he’d been, when suddenly Mosiah — ahead of him — came to a stop.

  “Father!” he said in a low voice, clutching Saryon’s arm as the catalyst drew near him.

  “What is it?” Saryon’s head snapped up, fear tingled in his veins.

  “There!” Mosiah pointed. “Ahead of us. Doesn’t that look like … sunshine?”

  Saryon stared. Joram, coming up beside him, looked ahead as well.

  Around them stood the tall trees. Below them crawled the Kij vines. Above them, the sky was dull, dreary gray. But ahead of them, not far off — perhaps half a mile — they could see what appeared to be warm, yellow light filtering through the trunks of the trees.

  “I think you’re right,” Saryon said softly, as though speaking aloud might cause it to vanish. He hadn’t realized, until this moment, how much he longed to see sunshine, to feel its warmth ease the chill from his bones. He looked for Simkin. “What is that?” he asked, gesturing ahead. “Have we reached the end of this wretched forest?”

  “Uh,” said Simkin, appearing ill at ease, “I’m not quite certain. Better let me check.” And before anyone could stop him, he had disappeared, cloak, boots, hat, feather, and all.

  “I knew it!” Mosiah said grimly. “He’s gotten us lost and he won’t admit it! Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to wait here in this horrible “forest one moment longer.”

  He and Joram plunged forward, hacking grimly at Kij vines with renewed effort. Saryon hurried after them.

  The light grew brighter the closer they came. It was about midday, the sun would be at its zenith, and the catalyst thought longingly of warmth and light and an end to the oppressive trees and the blood-sucking plants. As they drew nearer, he heard a welcome sound — the sound of fresh water, splashing over rocks. Where there was fresh water, there might be fresh food: fruits and nuts — no more clumsily conjured, tasteless bread, no more water that tasted like Kij vine.

  Throwing caution to the wind, the group hurried forward, no longer caring if anything or anyone was watching them. Saryon believed he might well give his life for the warmth of sunlight on his face one last time.

  Bursting through the trees, the men came to a stop, staring in awe.

  Sunlight from a cloudless sky beamed down through a break in the forest canopy. The sun sparkled upon a cascade of blue water falling from a high cliff, danced in the ripples of a shallow stream. It formed rainbows in steam that drifted above a bubbling pool. It shone down upon a glade filled with tall grass and sweet flowers.

  “Thank the Almin,” breathed the catalyst.

  “No, wait!” Simkin appeared suddenly, out of nowhere. “Don’t go in. This isn’t supposed to be here.”

  “So this is not supposed to be here!” Mosiah muttered lazily.

  Three of them, Mosiah, Joram, and Saryon, lay in the tall grass, reveling in its warm, fragrant sweetness, sated with the luscious fruit they had found growing on bushes lining the hot springs.

  “If anything, this place is more real than he is!”

  Although Simkin protested even entering the glade — “I tell you, it wasn’t here the last time I was” — the other three were determined to camp here for the night.

  “We’ll keep low,” Joram told him impatiently when Simkin’s vague hints became too ridiculous to tolerate. “It’s actually safer in this grass. We’ll see and hear anything that enters this glade long before it gets to us!”

  Simkin fell into a sulking silence. Trailing after the rest as they entered the sunlit glade, he moodily ripped off the heads of flowers. The others drank their fill of the cool water from the falls, bathed in the warm spring, and hungrily devoured the fruit. Then they spread their blankets beneath a giant tree at the glade’s edge, resting in the tall grass, a feeling of comradeship enveloping them in its warmth.

  But Simkin spent the time prowling about restlessly. He fidgeted in the grass, kept starting up to peer into the woods, and changed his clothes from one garish color to another.

  “Ignore him,” Mosiah said, as he saw Saryon watching the young man, a worried expression on the catalyst’s face.

  “He’s acting strangely,” Saryon said.

  “Since when is that anything new!” Mosiah retorted. “Tell us about Merilon, Father. You’re the one who’s lived there and you’ve never said a word. I know you don’t exactly approve of us going….”

  “I know. I’ve been sulking as badly as Simkin.” Saryon smiled. Feeling comfortably weary, he began to talk at length about the Merilon he remembered — telling of the beauty of the crystal Cathedral and the wonders of the city. He described the fanciful carriages drawn by huge squirrels or peacocks or swans that flew in the air upon the wings of magic, carrying their noble passengers up into the clouds to make their daily appearances in the crystal palace of the Emperor. He told about the Grove where stood the Tomb of Merlyn, the great wizard who had led his people to this world. He spoke of the enchanted sunsets, the weather that was always spring or summer, the days when it rained rose petals to sweeten the air.

  Mosiah listened open-mouthed, propped up against a tree. Joram, lying prone, turned his face toward the sun, an unusually relaxed expression softening the sharp, angular lines. He listened with apparent enjoyment, a dreamy look in the dark eyes, perhaps seeing himself riding in one of those carriages. Suddenly Simkin popped out from behind a tree, interrupting the catalyst, staring into the glade with an intense frown.

  “Lie down, you’re driving us crazy,” Mosiah said irritably.

  “If I did lie down, I’d never get up,” Simkin responded in ill humor. “You’d find me bored stiff by nightfall, just as we found the Duke d’Grundie after one of the Emperor’s speeches. Had to soak him in a vat of wine to limber him up.”

  “Go ahead, Father,” Mosiah said. “Tell us more about Merilon. Ignore this fool.”

  “No need,” said Simkin loftily. “I’m leaving. I tell you again I don’t like this place!”

  With a toss of his head — which now sported a green pointed hat with a long pheasant feather dangling down his green-cloaked back — Simkin left the campsite, disappearing into the wilderness.

  “He’s in an odd mood,” the catalyst remarked thoughtfully. Noticing that he had spread his blanket down over a protruding tree root that was poking him uncomfortably in the back, Saryon stood up and shifted his blanket to another location. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have let him go….”

  “How do you propose to stop him?” Joram asked lazily, tossing bits of bread from his pack to a raven. The bird had been perched in the branches of the tree under which they lay, and now fluttered down to the ground to accept the food with a condescending air. So comfortable were they that no one thought to wonder why this bird was here, when they had seen no animal for days.

  “Oh, Simkin’s all right,” said Mosiah, watching the bird’s dignified strutting with a smile. “He’s just mad because he’s lost and won’t admit it. Go on about Merilon, Father. Tell about the floating platforms of stone and the Guild Houses —”

  “If he’s lost, so are we!” Saryon’s peaceful mood was broken. The sunlight in the glade was suddenly too hot, too bright. It was giving him a headache.

  “Don’t start on Simkin again, Catalyst!” said Joram, scowling and accidentally hitting the bird with a hunk of bread. Squawking indignantly, the raven flew up into the tree again, where it sat moodily pruning its ruffled feathers. “I’m sick and tired of you two —”

  “Hush!”

  Seemingly coming out of the empty air, the voice startled all of them. Mosiah cast a wild glance at the bird, but before he could react, Simkin materialized in the center of the glade, his hat askew, his thin, sharp face pale beneath the soft
beard.

  “What is it?” Joram was on his feet, his hand reaching instinctively for the Darksword.

  “Down! Hide!” Simkin gasped, pulling him back into the tall grass.

  The rest followed, flopping down flat on their stomachs, hardly daring to breath.

  “Centaurs?” Mosiah asked in a choked whisper.

  “Worse!” Simkin hissed. “Duuk-tsarith!”

  9

  Caught!

  “Duuk-tsarith!” Mosiah gasped.

  “But that’s impossible!” Saryon whispered. “They could never have tracked us; the Darksword shields us! Are you certain?”

  “Almin’s blood, Hairless One,” sputtered Simkin, staring at them wild-eyed from among the tall grass. “Of course, I’m certain! Granted, it’s a bit hard to see in the dark woods, of course, especially if the parties you are observing are all wearing black robes. But if you’d like, I can return and ask them —”

  At that moment, the raven gave a loud caw that sounded exactly like raucous laughter and flew from the trees. “Or better yet, ask him,” Simkin said with grim irony. “How long has that bird been here?”

  Shaking his head, Saryon sighed. Sprawled flat, he still felt little protection from the tall grass, and hugged the ground as though he could crawl into it. The forest was more than a hundred feet away. They might make a run for it.

  “Name of the Almin, what do we do now?” Mosiah asked urgently.

  “Leave!” said the catalyst urgently. “Get out of here quickly —”

  “That won’t do any good!” Simkin retorted. “They know we’re here, and they’re not far away — in the woods on the other side of the waterfall. There’s two of them, at least. They’ve obviously been watching us through the eyes of their little feathered friend. Where can we go that he can’t spot us — unless we use the Corridors —”

  “No!” Saryon said hastily, his face pale. “That would be throwing ourselves into their hands.”