Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “They were enraged, but helpless. They knew well what had happened, that magic was being kept within Thimhallan. Their powers dwindled, except for times of famine or plague or war, when Death stalked the world and increased their power. Even then, they could perform only small magicks, mostly for their own personal benefit. They never lost their ambition, nor their memory of how powerful they had once been. They believed that there would come a time when they would rise again.

  “And so, down through the ages, the Four kept their loose-knit organization. Parents would pass on this dark inheritance to their children. Worthy recruits were brought into the circle. Fearful of discovery, the Four worked their Dark Arts in isolation, keeping apart from others. Yet they always knew each other, one mage recognizing a fellow mage by certain secret signs and countersigns.

  “A central organization existed, run by the Khandic Sages. So secret was this that few of the members ever knew who was in control. Once a year the Sol-huena, the Collectors, appeared at the door of every Dark Cultist, demanding a tithe, which was used to keep the Council operational. The only time members ever came together was if one of their own had been lax in payment of funds or had broken one of their strict rules. The wizards of the Black Steed, the Sol-t’kan or Judges, sat in judgment and passed sentence. The Sol-huena carried out that sentence.

  “Eventually, as time passed, the modern world no longer believed in witches and warlocks. The Dark Cultists were able to leave their cellars and their caves, where they had once practiced their arts, move into apartments and town houses. They entered politics, became government ministers and rulers of nations, and when it suited their purposes, fomented war and rebellion. They delight in suffering and death, for by such is their power enhanced.

  “And then came the day when the Darksword was created.”

  Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who smiled gently and sighed softly and shook his head. For though he did not regret his part in the creation of the Darksword and the eventual downfall of Thimhallan and often said that he would do it again, he as often added that he wished change could have been accomplished with much less pain and suffering.

  “The Four knew of the sword’s creation,” said Mosiah. “Some of them said that they were aware of it from the very hour it came into being.”

  Saryon was perplexed. “But how is that possible? They were so far away. …”

  “Not far enough. Like it or not, threads of magic bind us together, like the gossamer strands of a spiderweb. If one strand is broken, the shock is felt throughout the web. The Four had no idea what had happened, but they felt the sword’s dark energy. They had strange dreams and portents. Some saw the shadow of a black sword, shaped like a man, rise out of flames. Others saw the same image of a black sword shattering a fragile glass globe. They took it for a symbol of hope. They believed that its creation would bring magic back to them. They were right.

  “Twenty years ago, by Earth time, Joram used the Darksword to shatter the Well of the World. Magic spewed out into the universe. The magic was diluted when it reached Earth, but to the parched members of the Dark Cults, the magic fell upon them like a renewing shower.”

  “But I don’t understand why they should want the sword,” Saryon protested. “The Darksword nullifies magic. It was invaluable to Joram in Thimhallan, because he was the only person alive who did not possess any magical powers. It was his only means of defense against a world of magi. But what would these Technomancers do with the Darksword here on Earth? Its power is nothing compared to that of … of … a nuclear bomb.”

  “On the contrary, Father. The Technomancers believe that the Darksword would give them immense power. Power similar to that of a nuclear weapon, in that they could control entire populations. And the Darksword would provide such power on an individual basis in a handy, compact, and inexpensive form. Far more convenient to use than a nuclear bomb and not nearly so messy.”

  “I am afraid I still don’t understand—”

  “The Darksword absorbs Life, Father. You have said yourself—and your young friend has written—how the sword drew from you the magic that you were drawing from the world. ‘The magic surged through him like a blast of wind,’ is, I believe, how Reuven phrased it.”

  Saryon paled. He had lifted his teacup, to drink, set it down again with haste. His hand shook. He gazed at Mosiah with sorrowful anguish.

  “I am afraid so, Father,” Mosiah answered the look, the unspoken protest. “The Technomancers know that the Darksword has the power to absorb Life. Once the sword is in their possession, they plan to study it, determine how to mass-produce it, and distribute Darkswords to their followers. The swords will absorb magic, then give up that Life, much as a living being gives up life when the being dies. And because the Technomancers are accustomed to taking magic from the dead, they believe they can use Darkswords to fuel their power—a far cheaper and more efficient means than that which they are now using.”

  A kind of magic battery, I typed.

  “What are they using to fuel their power?” Saryon asked, his voice low. His gaze was on the medallion, which had now gone almost completely dark—a brownish, blackish green.

  Mosiah picked up the medallion, held it to the light.

  “Imagine these organisms grown in immense vats—vats seven times the size of this house, whose circumference would encompass this block. Various gases are pumped into the vats. An electrical current is passed through the gases. The result is this simple form of life. Great quantities are manufactured. The living mass seethes and bubbles in the vats as it grows and reproduces. Now imagine many more vats, dedicated to the death of these organisms. Again, the electric current. But this time it destroys, it does not create.

  “As the catalysts give us Life …” Mosiah paused, looked at Saryon. “As you used to give me Life, Father. Do you remember? We were fighting Blachloch’s henchmen and I transformed into a gigantic tiger. … I was very young,” he added, with a slight smile, “and prone to flaunt my power.”

  Saryon smiled. “I remember. And I remember being quite happy to see that tiger at the time.”

  “At any rate”—Mosiah shook off memory—”as the catalysts give us Life, drawing the magic from all living beings and pouring it into those of us who use it, so the Technomancers receive their power from the deaths—not only of these manufactured organisms, but from the deaths of all things in this universe. The war with the Hch’nyv has been a blessing to them,” he added, his tone bitter.

  “I will never take the Technomancers to Joram,” Saryon said with absolute conviction. “Never. Like you”—he looked at Mosiah—”I would die first. You need have no worry.”

  “On the contrary, Father,” said Mosiah. “We want you to take them to Joram.”

  Saryon stared at Mosiah, stared a long time in silence. His pain was so great that it grieved me to look at him.

  “You want the Darksword,” he said. His brows drew together. “Who sent you?”

  Mosiah leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “The Technomancers are extremely powerful, Father. They have seduced a great number of our people, who are now finding it easier and faster to gain what they want in this world by exchanging magic for technomancy. King Garald—”

  “Ah!” Saryon exclaimed, and he nodded.

  “King Garald dares not openly defy them,” Mosiah continued resolutely. “Not now, not yet. But secretly, we are building our strength, readying our resources. When the day comes, we will take action and—”

  “And what?” Saryon cried. “Kill them? More killing?”

  “If you do not acquire the Darksword from Joram, what do you think they will do to him and to his family, Father?” Mosiah asked coldly. “The only reason they have left him in peace thus far is due to the laws of the mundane, which prohibit anyone from setting foot on Thimhallan. The Technomancers have not yet been ready to reveal themselves to the mundane.

  “All that is about to change, however. Their leader—this man Kevon Smythe—has
gained great political power among the mundane, who do not know he is a Technomancer and wouldn’t believe it if they were told. Smythe has convinced the heads of Earth Force that, using the power of the Darksword, the Technomancers can defeat the Hch’nyv. At this juncture in the war Earth Force is desperate enough to try anything. Tomorrow, Kevon Smythe, King Garald, and General Boris will call on you, Father Saryon. They will urge you to go to Joram and, speaking in the name of all the people of Earth, beg him to hand over the Darksword.”

  “He will not.” Saryon shook his head, firm with conviction. “You know that, Mosiah. You know him.”

  Mosiah hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, I know him. And so does King Garald. We are counting on the fact that he won’t give up the Darksword. We don’t want the Technomancers to obtain it.”

  Saryon blinked in confusion. “You want me to ask him to give up the sword that you don’t want him to give up?”

  “In a way, yes, Father. Simply ask Joram to show you where the sword is hidden. Once we know where it is, we will take over. We will retrieve it and keep it in our possession. We will keep it secret and safe, guard it with our very lives, as we will guard Joram and his family. Of that, you can rest assured.”

  Saryon’s long hair was quite gray and very thin and lay on his shoulders, soft as a child’s. He had acquired a stoop, and sometimes a slight palsy made his hands tremble. These physical attributes, combined with a generally benign expression, caused people to take him for a weak, gentle old man. There was nothing gentle about him now as he sat bolt upright, his body rigid, the warmth in his eyes igniting to fire.

  “You’ve tried before to find the Darksword, haven’t you? Tried and failed!”

  Mosiah regarded Saryon steadily. “It would have been better for Joram if we had been able to discover the sword’s location and safely remove it. The Technomancers would then have no interest in him. Rest assured, Father, if you do not acquire the Darksword by peaceful means, they will take it by whatever means they can.”

  “And what about the Duuk-tsarith!” Saryon demanded, the fire within him burning bright. “What means will you use to take the sword?”

  Mosiah rose to his feet. His black robes fell in folds about him. He clasped his hands together. “Know this, Father. We will not let the Darksword fall into the hands of the Technomancers.”

  “Why not?” I signed. “What if they can use it to defeat the Hch’nyv? Wouldn’t it be worth it?”

  “The Hch’nyv plan to exterminate humankind, the Technomancers to enslave us. An unhappy choice, wouldn’t you say, Reuven? And, of course, for me and those like me, there would be no choice at all. And, there are those among the Duuk-tsarith who think that we may be able to use the sword in the battle against the Hch’nyv.

  “Well, Father?” Mosiah waited for an answer. “Through King Garald’s intercession, we give you this chance to acquire the Darksword by peaceful means. If you do not, the Technomancers will take it from Joram by force. Surely your choice is clear.”

  ‘“And what of Joram?” Saryon rose to face him. “What of his wife and child? He is the most hated man in the universe. The Duuk-tsarith once pledged his death. Perhaps the only reason you haven’t killed him before now is because you don’t know where he’s hidden the sword!”

  Mosiah’s face was stern, pale. “We will protect Joram—”

  Saryon gazed steadily at the Enforcer. “Will you? And what about the rest of our people? How many countless thousands have vowed to kill Joram and his wife and child on sight?”

  “How many people will the Hch’nyv kill?” Mosiah countered. “You speak of Joram’s child, Father. What of the millions of innocent children who will die if we lose the battle against the Hch’nyv? And we are losing, Father! Every day they draw nearer Earth. We must have the sword! We must!”

  Saryon sighed. The fire died within him. He seemed suddenly very old, very frail and feeble. He sank back down into his chair, rested his head in his hands. “I don’t know. I can’t promise.”

  Mosiah frowned, appeared prepared to add to his arguments.

  I rose from my chair, confronted the Enforcer.

  “My master is very tired, sir,” I signed. “It is time you left.”

  Mosiah glanced from one of us to the other.

  “This has been an unnerving experience for you both,” he said. “You’re not thinking clearly. Go to bed, Father. Sleep on your decision. The Almin grant that it be the right one.”

  To our intense astonishment, two Duuk-tsarith materialized. Black-hooded, black-robed, faces hidden, they appeared, one on either side of Mosiah.

  Bodyguards, reinforcements, witnesses … Perhaps all of these. Certainly they had been here this entire time, watching, guarding, protecting, spying. The three formed a triangle. They raised their hands, each placed the palm of one hand on the palm of the hand of the person beside him. Thus linked, their power merged, they vanished.

  Saryon and I stared at the place where they had been standing, both of us shaken and disturbed.

  “They planned this!” I signed, when I was over my shock enough to be able to give expression to my thoughts. “They had advance knowledge that the Technomancers were coming here this night. King Garald could have sent us warning, told us to leave.”

  “But he didn’t. Yes, Reuven,” Saryon agreed. “It was all staged for our benefit, to make us fear the Technomancers and force us to join sides with the Duuk-tsarith.

  “Do you know, Reuven?” my master added, glancing at the chair in which Mosiah had been sitting. “I grieve for him. He was Joram’s friend, when it was not easy to be Joram’s friend. He was loyal to Joram, even to death. Now he has become like all the rest. Joram is alone now. Very much alone.”

  “He has you,” I said, touching my master very gently on his breast.

  Saryon looked at me. The sorrow and anguish on his pale and haggard face brought tears to my eyes.

  “Does he, Reuven? How can I say no to them? How can I turn them down?” He stood up, leaning heavily upon the chair. “I am going to bed.”

  I bid him have a good night, though I knew that was impossible. Taking my computer, I went up to my room and entered all that had happened while the incidents were still fresh in my mind. Then I lay down, but I could not sleep.

  Every time I drifted off, I saw, once again, my spirit rise from my body. And I was afraid that next time, it would not know how to return.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “What you did was right, my son. Always believe that! And always know that I love you and honor you.”

  SARYON’S FAREWELL TO JORAM; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKS WORD

  T he next morning, quite early, an army of police entered our neighborhood and took over our quiet row of flats. Arriving shortly after the police was a cadre of reporters in huge vans with various gadgets all pointing skyward.

  I can only imagine what the neighbors thought. Again it struck me as odd, how the human mind dwells on the most inconsequential issues at times of crisis. While I was busily engaged in preparing our dwelling to receive three such notable dignitaries— the three most powerful men in the world—my biggest worry was how we were going to explain this to Mrs. Mumford, who lived in the flat across the street.

  She was (or thought she was) the conductor of the orchestra of our lives here on our street and nothing was supposed to happen—be it divorce or a case of breaking and entering—without the wave of her baton.

  So far she had left Saryon and me in peace, our lives being, up until this juncture, extremely uninteresting. Now I could see her pinched, inquisitive face pressed close against the glass of her living-room window, avid with frustration and curiosity. She even made a tentative foray out into the street, to accost a policeman. I don’t know what he told her, but she dashed like a rabbit to the home of her assistant conductor, Mrs. Billingsgate, and now two faces pressed against the latter’s living-room window. They’d be pressed against our front door tomorrow.

  I was arranging some last-o
f-the-season roses in a vase, and trying to think what we would say to our neighbors in the way of explanation, when Saryon entered the room. The idle curiosity of two snoopy old ladies vanished from my mind.

  My master had not risen for breakfast, nor had I disturbed him. Knowing he had been up late, I left him to sleep as long as he could. He didn’t look to have slept a moment. He had aged twenty years during the night; his face was bleak and drawn, his stoop more pronounced. He peered about the room vacantly and smiled and thanked me for tidying up, but I knew well that he wasn’t seeing any of it.

  He went to the kitchen. I brewed tea and brought him buttered toast. He stared hopelessly at the toast, but he drank his tea.

  “Sit down, Reuven,” he said in his quiet, gentle manner. “I have made a decision.”

  I sat down, hoping to persuade him to eat. At that moment the doorbell rang, and at the same time there was a knock on the back door. I gave my master a helpless glance, and with a wry smile and a shrug, he went to answer the front door while I took care of the back.

  The army of policemen, having secured the street, now moved into our house. A woman in a business suit, who said she was head of Earth Force security, took charge of Saryon and me, telling us that her people would be searching and securing the premises. She marched us back into the kitchen, sat us down, and laid out The Plan. A team of cool-eyed, professional, and thorough people moved in behind her, bringing with them cool-eyed, professional dogs.

  I could soon hear them upstairs, down in the cellar, and in every room in the house. Whether or not they found any more green-glowing devices I do not know. I assume they did, they found everything else, including a half-eaten biscuit from beneath a couch cushion, which one of the men politely handed over to me. I offered it to his dog, who was, however, far too professional to accept such treats while on the job.