Doom of the Darksword Read online

“This time I agree with the Priest,” Joram said abruptly. “You forget that I am Dead. Once in the Corridors, they would have me trapped.”

  “Then, what do we do?” Mosiah asked, his voice too shrill. “We can’t run, we can’t hide….”

  “Shush. We attack,” Joram replied.

  The dark eyes were cool; a half smile touched the full lips. His face, seen from its hiding place among the grass, looked almost bestial.

  “No!” Saryon said emphatically, shuddering.

  “Excellent idea, really,” whispered Simkin in excitement. “The raven will tell them that we’re alerted to their presence. They’ll expect us to run and probably have their plans laid for that. What they won’t expect us to do is circle around and attack them!”

  “It’s Duuk-tsarith we’re talking about!” Saryon reminded them bitterly.

  “We have surprise and we have the Darksword!” returned Joram.

  “Blachloch nearly destroyed you!” Saryon cried softly, clenching his fist.

  “I’ve learned from that! Besides, what choice do we have?”

  “I don’t know!” Saryon murmured brokenly. “I just don’t want any more killing….”

  “It’s them or us, Father.” Bringing his hands together, Mosiah spoke a few words. There was a shimmer of air as a bow and quiver of arrows materialized in his grasp. “Look at this,” he said proudly. “I’ve been studying war spells. We all were, back in the village. And I know how to use it. With you to grant me Life, and Joram and the Darksword —”

  “We better hurry,” urged Simkin, “before they lay any spells of entrapment or enchantment on the glade itself.”

  “If you don’t want to come, Father,” said Mosiah, “just grant me Life here. You can stay —”

  “No, Joram’s right,” Saryon said in low tones. “If you insist on this madness, I’m coming. You might need me for … for other things. I can do more than grant Life,” he said with a meaningful glance at Joram. “I can take it away, as well.”

  “Follow me, then!” whispered Simkin. Rising to a half crouch, he began to creep slowly through the tall grass toward the waterfall.

  “Where will you be?” Mosiah asked Simkin, who was changing his attire as he moved.

  “In the thick of the battle, you may rest assured,” Simkin replied in a deep, grating voice. He was now clad in snakeskin, highly suitable for crawling through the grass. Unfortunately, the overall effect was rather marred by a metal helm complete with visor that covered his face, obscured his vision, and looked vaguely like an overturned bucket.

  “They’re Duuk-tsarith, all right,” whispered Saryon.

  It was late afternoon. The sun was just beginning its downward slide to night. Crouched in the grass at the border between meadow and forest, the catalyst could see the two men and their long black robes clearly. Saryon sighed in despair. He had been hoping that this was another of Simkin’s “monsters” which would unaccountably disappear the moment anyone looked for it.

  But these were, indeed, warlocks — members of the deadly Order of Duuk-tsarith. They stood motionless, as though listening intently. Their hands were clasped in front of them as was proper, their faces hidden in the shadows of their black pointed hoods. If there was any further doubt, it was dispelled by the sight of the raven, sitting on a tree limb near the two, its eyes gleaming red in the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Saryon watched the black-robed men. His mind went back to the Font, when the two Duuk-tsarith had discovered him reading the forbidden books….

  “That must be their catalyst,” he whispered, hurriedly banishing those fearful memories. Moving cautiously, afraid that they might hear the sound of his hand raising, he pointed out a third individual dressed in a long traveling cloak. Although the cloak concealed his robes, the man’s tonsured head marked him a priest. He and a fourth man stood apart from the warlocks. Close together, they were obviously involved in conversation and every so often the hand of the fourth man moved as if to emphasize a point. It was this fourth man who drew the catalyst’s attention. Taller than the rest, his cloak was made of costly fabric. When the man gestured, Saryon caught the glint of jewels upon his fingers.

  The catalyst pointed him out. “I’m not certain about that fourth man. He isn’t Duuk-tsarith. He’s not dressed in the black —”

  “Is he a warlock of any type?” Joram asked. Shifting the Darksword restlessly in his hand in order to get a better grip on the heavy weapon, he nearly dropped it, and irritably wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt.

  “No,” the catalyst answered, puzzled. “It’s odd, but by his clothes I’d take him for a —”

  “It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s not Duuk-tsarith,” interrupted Joram impatiently. “There’s only two of them we have to worry about now. I’ll take one. You and Mosiah deal with the other. Where’s Simkin?”

  “Here,” said a sepulchral voice from beneath the helm. “Got dark awfully quick, didn’t it.”

  “Raise the visor, fool. You take care of the fourth man.”

  “What visor?” came the pathetic response, the helm turning this way and that. “What fourth man?”

  “The man standing by — Oh, never mind!” Joram snarled. “Just keep out of the way. Come on. Mosiah, go left. I’ll go right. You stay between us, Catalyst.” He crept forward through the brush. Mosiah headed the opposite direction while Saryon, his face haggard and drawn, followed behind.

  “’Tisn’t my fault,” Simkin muttered gloomily from beneath the helmet. “Wretched invention, this. I’m completely in the dark. Knights of old and all that. Bloody nonsense. No wonder Arthur had a round table. He couldn’t see the damn thing! Probably kept bumping into it and knocking off the corners. I —”

  But Simkin was talking to himself.

  Mosiah fit an arrow to the bow, his hands shaking so with fear and excitement that he had to try several times before he succeeded. “Grant me Life, Father,” he whispered.

  His throat dry from fear, the catalyst repeated in a cracked voice the words that absorbed the magic of the world into his body. He had not been trained in the art of supporting fighting warlocks; that required certain specialized skills that he did not possess. He could enhance Mosiah’s already strong magical powers, enabling the young man to cast spells that otherwise would have been beyond his strength, such as they had done in the fight in the village. But that had been using magic against unthinking brutes. This was far different. They were fighting experienced warlocks. Neither of them had ever been in a battle like this, neither truly knew what he was doing.

  This is insane! Saryon’s mind repeated to him over and over urgently. Insane! Stop it before it goes too far!

  “But it’s already gone too far,” Saryon told himself. “We have no choice now!”

  “Father!” Mosiah whispered urgently.

  Head bowed, Saryon laid his hand upon the boy’s quivering arm and chanted the words that opened the conduit to him. The magic flowed from the catalyst into Mosiah like sparkling wine.

  Watching Mosiah’s face in the sunlight, the catalyst saw the young man’s lips part, the eyes glow. He looked like a child tasting his first sweets.

  Saryon’s heart misgave him. “No, Mosiah, wait … You can’t —”

  But he was too late. Whispering words the young man had learned from the Sorcerers, Mosiah let fly his arrow in the direction of the man in black robes nearest him. His aim was hurried, but it was not important. As the arrow flew, the young magus cast a spell upon it, causing the arrow to seek out and kill any warm-blooded, living object. Used by the Sorcerers of old, the spell permitted even untrained troops to be highly effective in battle.

  But not this battle.

  What drew the warlock’s attention? Perhaps it was the rustle of Mosiah’s clothes brushing against the grass. Perhaps it was the twang of the arrow leaving the string or the whisper of the feathers on the shaft as it flew through the air. Or perhaps it was the warning caw of the raven, although that came late.

&n
bsp; Swifter than the arrow flying toward his heart, the man in the black robes spoke and pointed. There was a flash of flame and the arrow was nothing more deadly than a streak of ashes that vanished upon the winds.

  The second Duuk-tsarith acted as quickly as his partner. Raising his hands to heaven, he shouted a command and darkness fell upon them with a swiftness of a thunderbolt. Brilliant, sunlit day became blinding, stifling night. Saryon could see nothing, and crouched helplessly in the brush, afraid to move. Then, just as his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, strange silver moonlight filled the forest. Though it lit up everything in the woods, it caused human flesh to glow brightly, with an eerie purplish-white radiance. The catalyst — blinking — could see clearly the astonished faces of the fourth man and the priest as they turned in their direction.

  More by accident than by design, Saryon was crouched down among the brush. Even though the moonlight made his flesh gleam, he knew he must be difficult to see. But Mosiah had risen out of the grass to fire his arrow. Struggling to adjust his vision to the sudden darkness, he was bathed in the silver pool of moonlight, plainly visible to the two black-robed men. With a cry, he raised his bow.

  The Duuk-tsarith spoke.

  Dropping the bow, Mosiah clutched his throat.

  “I — I —” He tried to speak, but the magical paralysis cast upon him by the warlock cut off his words, as it was cutting off his ability to breathe. His eyes rolled upward until the whites showed, the young man fought desperately to draw air into his lungs, but it was a futile struggle.

  Saryon half rose, thinking to plead for surrender, when a dark shape hurtled past the catalyst, nearly knocking him to the ground. Mosiah’s eyes were bulging, his face was slowly darkening. Leaping in front of his friend, Joram raised the Darksword. The strange moonlight did not touch the metal, the weapon was a streak of night in his hand.

  The moment the sword came between the Duuk-tsarith and Mosiah, the warlock’s spell shattered. Gasping for breath, the young man collapsed. Saryon caught hold of Mosiah and eased him to the ground as Joram stood above them protectively, holding the crude sword in his strong hands.

  Saryon waited grimly for the blast of icy wind that would freeze their blood in seconds or the shattering crack as the ground opened and swallowed them — not even the power of the Darksword would stop such spells as those, he imagined. But nothing happened.

  Peering out from the tall grass, Saryon saw the fourth man walking toward them. Perhaps he had spoken; the catalyst could not hear over the splashing of the waterfall some distance behind him. But both of the Duuk-tsarith had turned their hooded heads toward the tall man. He made a motion with his hand, telling them to back off, and the warlocks bowed in obedience. Saryon’s wonder increased, as did his fear. Who was this man the powerful Duuk-tsarith obeyed without question?

  Whoever he was, he approached Joram coolly, without fear, his eyes studying the young man intently as he drew near.

  “Be careful, Garald,” called the man in the long traveling cloak whom Saryon had taken — and rightly so — for a catalyst. “I sense something strange about the weapon!”

  “Strange?” The man referred to as Garald laughed, mellow, cultivated laughter that seemed to be made of the same rich material as the fabric of his cloak. “Thank you for the warning, Cardinal,” he continued, “but I see only one strange thing about this sword — it is the ugliest of its kind my eyes have ever be-held!”

  “It is that, Your Grace —”

  Cardinal! Saryon, staring in bewilderment, could see the color of the catalyst’s holy robes beneath his cloak and knew him for what he was — a Cardinal of the Realm! And this Garald; that name seemed familiar, but Saryon was too nervous to be able to think clearly. The costly clothes, the man referred to as Your Grace….

  The Cardinal continued speaking. “— but it is this ugly sword, Your Grace, that has disrupted the spell of your guards.”

  “The sword did that? Fascinating.”

  The richly dressed man was close enough that Saryon could see him clearly in the magical moonlight. The beauty of the voice matched the features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The eyes were large and intelligent. The mouth was firm, the lines about it indicative of smiling and laughter. The chin was strong without arrogance, the cheekbones high and pronounced. Brown hair, with a slight reddish cast in the bright moonlight, was worn short in military fashion. One lock dipped down over the man’s forehead in a graceful, careless wave.

  Taking a step nearer Joram, the man called Garald held out a hand gloved in fine lambskin. “Surrender your sword, boy,” he said in a voice that was neither threatening nor demanding, yet obviously accustomed to being obeyed.

  “Take it from me,” Joram said defiantly.

  “‘Take it from me,’ Your Grace,” the Cardinal amended, shocked.

  “Thank you, Cardinal,” Garald said, and a smile played about his lips, “but I do not think this is the time for coaching thieves in court etiquette. Come now, boy. Surrender your sword peacefully and nothing will happen to you.”

  “No! Your Grace,” Joram said with a sneer.

  “Joram, please!” whispered Saryon in despair, but the young man ignored him.

  “Who is this Garald guy?” Mosiah whispered. He started to sit up, but he froze almost immediately. The elegant man had warned the Duuk-tsarith away from Joram, but he had apparently left Mosiah in their care. Mosiah saw the glittering eyes of the warlocks fixed on him, he saw the hands clasped before the black robes make a slight movement, and he held quite still, hardly daring to breathe.

  Saryon shook his head, keeping his eyes on Joram and this Garald, who drew several steps closer. Joram shifted in his position, raising the sword.

  “Very well,” the elegant man said, shrugging, “I accept your challenge.”

  Tossing his cloak over one shoulder, Garald drew a sword from its scabbard and stepped expertly into a fighting stance. Saryon’s throat tightened. The sword, of ancient design and make, was as delicate and beautiful and strong as the man who wielded it. The moonlight burned in it with a cold, silver flame, dancing off the sharp edge and flashing from the carved, hawk-winged hilt.

  The hawk. Something stirred in Saryon’s mind, but he could not relax his attention on Joram long enough to attend to it. The boy was a shabby, almost pathetic figure compared to the tall, noble man in his rich clothes. Yet there was a pride in Joram, a fearlessness and courage in his dark eyes that rivaled his opponent’s and spoke to Saryon of the noble blood that flowed in the boy’s veins as well as in the man’s.

  Moving awkwardly, Joram imitated his enemy’s fighting stance, knowing little about it except what he had been able to pick up from the books he’d read. His clumsiness appeared to amuse Garald, although the Cardinal — his eyes still on the Darksword — shook his head and murmured once more, “Your Grace, I think perhaps —”

  Garald motioned the Cardinal to silence even as Joram, confident in the power of his sword and angry at the arrogant demeanor of his opponent, leaped forward.

  Heedless of the watching Duuk-tsarith, Saryon sprang to his feet. He could not allow Joram to harm this man!

  “Stop —” the catalyst cried, but the words died on his lips.

  There was a clash of steel, a yelp of pain, and Joram stood, wringing an injured hand and staring stupidly at the Darksword as it flew through the air to land at the feet of the Cardinal.

  “Seize him and the other one,” Garald said coolly to the waiting Duuk-tsarith, who did not hesitate to use their magic now that they were permitted.

  With a word, they cast the Nullmagic spells that robbed their victims of all the magical energy upon which every person in the world depends. Mosiah fell over with a cry. But Joram remained standing, staring at the Duuk-tsarith with grim defiance, rubbing the swordhand that still tingled from the jarring blow.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” said one of the Duuk-tsarith, “but the boy there does not respond to
our spell. He is Dead.”

  “Is he, indeed?” Garald regarded Joram with a look of cool pity more wounding to Joram than any sword thrust. The young man’s face flushed deeply, his mouth twisted in fierce anger. “Use something stronger,” the elegant man said, watching Joram. “Be careful not to injure him, however. I want to learn more about this strange sword.”

  “And what about the catalyst, Your Grace?” asked the warlock, bowing.

  Glancing about, Garald’s gaze fixed on Saryon, and the man’s eyes widened.

  “Almin’s blood, Cardinal,” Garald said in astonishment. “Here is one of your Order! Let me assist you, Father,” he added courteously, extending his hand to the confused catalyst.

  Though spoken in the utmost respect, the words were not an invitation so much as a command, and Saryon had no choice but to obey. Garald took hold of Saryon’s arm, gently assisting the catalyst to step out of the tangle of thick brush.

  Seeing Garald preoccupied, Joram made a move toward retrieving his sword. He came to an abrupt halt as three rings of pure fire descended from the air and hovered about him — one level with his elbows, one dropping to his waist, the other to his knees. The flaming rings did not touch Joram, but they were close enough to his skin that he could feel their flesh-searing heat and he dared not move.

  Satisfied that their prey was, for the moment, under control, the Duuk-tsarith looked expectantly at their lord, asking in their silent way for further instructions.

  “Search the glade,” Garald ordered. “There may be others out there, hidden in the grass. Oh, first — get rid of this confounded darkness, will you?”

  The Duuk-tsarith complied. Night departed and day returned with a suddenness that left everyone blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight. When Saryon could see again, he noted that the warlocks, like darkness embodied, had vanished with it. He was staring around in confusion when he became aware that Garald was speaking to him.

  “I trust you are not in league with these young bandits, Father,” he said steadily, but with a certain coldness in his voice. “Although I have heard that there are renegade catalysts abroad in the land.”