Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Maybe not, I typed. We’ll take the sword back to its hiding place and he’ll never realize it was gone.

  “Are you sure that would be right?” she asked me, troubled. “Wouldn’t that be lying, in a way?”

  The truth will serve no purpose, I wrote, and only hurt him. Later, when all this is passed, then you can confess to him what you did.

  She liked that. She agreed to return to the Font with me, although she refused to let me carry the sword.

  “It is my burden now,” she said with a half smile. “At least for a little while.”

  I was given the honor of carrying Teddy. Trying to ignore the fact that the bear winked its button eye at me as I took hold of it, I was about to ask Eliza how long she had known Teddy was Simkin or vice versa, when suddenly the bear said, in quite a different tone, a serious alarming tone, “We are not alone.”

  “What?” Eliza asked, pausing and staring around. “Who’s there? Is it Papa?”

  “No, it is not Papa! Keep quiet! Don’t move! Don’t even breathe! Too late.” Teddy groaned. “They’ve heard us.”

  Silver shimmered in the night. Two figures clad in silver robes, their faces hooded and masked, were walking along the highway. They were twenty paces from us and coming up on us rapidly. Eliza opened her mouth. I put my fingers on her lips, to warn her to keep silent. We stood in the shadows, hardly daring to breathe, as Teddy had cautioned. The figures continued walking and they came to a halt, right opposite us. Their faceless faces turned slowly in our direction.

  “This is where we heard voices, sir,” one was saying, speaking into some sort of communication device. “They came from somewhere around here. Yes, sir, we’ll check it out.”

  Eliza shrank close to me. Her free hand clutched mine. She pressed the Darksword to her body. I put my arm around her, held fast to her, and thought frantically of what to do if they found us, which it seemed they must do any moment. Should we make a break for it? Should we—

  “Almin’s blood,” said Simkin irritably. “It seems I must get you out of this.”

  The bear vanished from my hand. A translucent form, much as if smoke had taken the shape of a young and foppish nobleman from about the time of Louis XIV, materialized right in front of the Technomancers.

  “Oh, I say! Lovely night for a walk, isn’t it?” Simkin languidly waved his orange scarf in the air.

  I must give the Technomancers credit. They would have been more than human if they had not been startled by the apparition materializing before them, but they kept amazingly calm. One thrust her hand into the molten fabric of the silver robe, held up a gob of it, and a device shaped itself out of the fabric.

  “What is this thing?” asked the other Technomancer, a male by his voice. The faceless head was gazing at Simkin.

  “I’m analyzing it now,” the woman replied.

  “Analyzing me? With that?” Simkin cast the device a scathing glance and smiled smugly. He seemed to find the entire idea hilarious. “What does it say I am? Spirit? Specter? Spook? Ghost? Ghoul? Wraith? I know—doppelganger! No, better yet. Poltergeist.”

  He sidled around, craned his head to try to get a look at the device. “Perhaps I’m not here at all. Perhaps you’re hallucinating. Sleep deprivation. A bad acid trip. Or maybe you’re going mad.” He appeared eager to help.

  “Residual magic,” the woman reported. Snapping shut the device, she slid it back into the robe, which seemed to swallow it whole. “We postulated that there are likely to be pockets of leftover magic all over Thimhallan.”

  “Residual magic!” Simkin quivered, his voice cracked with outrage. He could barely speak for his emotion. “Me! Simkin! The darling of Kings, the play toy of Emperors! Me! Magical leftovers! Like some damn moldy sandwich!”

  The Technomancer was reporting in again.

  “The voices checked out, sir. Nothing to worry about. Residual magic. A substanceless phantasm, possibly an Echo. We were warned about such. It poses no threat.”

  He paused a moment, listening, then said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Our orders?” the woman asked.

  “Continue. The other teams are on site and advancing.”

  “What do we do with this thing?” The woman gestured at Simkin. “It has a voice. It could warn the subject.”

  “Unlikely,” the man responded. “Echoes mindlessly repeat words they’ve heard others speak. They mimic, like parrots, and like parrots, sometimes give the illusion of appearing intelligent.”

  I cannot describe the look on Simkin’s face. His eyes bulged, his mouth opened and shut. Perhaps for the first time in his life— which, considering that he was probably immortal, had certainly been a long one—he was struck dumb.

  The man started to walk on. The woman was more dubious. Her silver face was turned toward Simkin.

  He hung in the air, appearing more nebulous than when he had first taken shape; a wisp of smoke and orange silk that looked as if it could be puffed away in a breath.

  “I think we should disrupt it,” the woman said.

  “Against orders,” the man returned. “Someone might see the flash and raise the alarm. Remember, those damn Duuk-tsarith are around here, too.”

  “I suppose you are right,” the woman agreed charily.

  The two walked on, moving at a rapid pace up the highway toward the Font.

  Eliza and I kept still, waiting until they were out of earshot and beyond. I hushed Eliza when she would have spoken, for I could see by the Technomancers’ swift and easy movement that they had some sort of night vision and I was afraid they might have technologies which enhanced their hearing, as well.

  When they had disappeared, going down a dip in the highway, I moved cautiously to where I could get a better view. I guessed from their words what was going forward, but I needed to see it for myself.

  Here and there across the hillside, figures, shining silver in the lambent light, formed a cordon around the Font, moving inexorably toward it, closing in.

  “Who are they? What are they?” Eliza demanded.

  “Evil,” I signed, and she needed no translation.

  “They’ve come for the Darksword, haven’t they?” she asked fearfully.

  I nodded and recalled the glowing listening devices in the living room.

  “Would they …” She had to pause to find the courage to speak. “Would they kill to get it?”

  I nodded again, reluctantly.

  “They won’t believe Papa when he says he doesn’t have the sword,” Eliza said, thinking through the scenario, as I was myself. “They’ll think he’s lying, trying to keep it from them. If we give it to them, perhaps they’ll leave us alone. We must take it back! We’ll use the shortcut.”

  I agreed. I could see no other way. But it occurred to me that even taking the shortcut, burdened as we were with the heaVy sword and forced to keep to the shadows, we would arrive long after the Technomancers had stormed the building.

  Simkin! Simkin could warn Joram, could tell him that we had the sword and we were bringing it back.

  I turned to see the diaphanous figure floating over the highway. The words residual magic blew hot against my face, like a dry desert wind.

  “No threat? Well, we’ll see about that!” cried Simkin. “Mer-lyn? Merlyn, where are you? Never around when you might be of the slightest use, of course. The old fool!” and with that, he was gone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Yow fool is here to save you from your folly. Rather a nice ring to that. I must remember it.”

  SiMKIN; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD

  I hoped that Simkin had read my thoughts and was gone to alert Joram and the others to their danger. Capricious and erratic as I knew Simkin to be, however, my hope was a forlorn one. And I did not think it likely we could count on Merlyn—with a y or an i—to save us.

  “Hurry!” urged Eliza, taking my hand and drawing me back among the trees. “This way is faster! Through the fields.”

  We had to cross the wall, not difficul
t, as it was low to the ground. Eliza was hampered by her long skirt and her cloak, and needed both her hands to climb over. She hesitated only a moment, looking into my eyes, then she handed me the Darksword, wrapped in its cloth blanket.

  I knew immediately what she’d meant about the physical burden of the sword. The sword’s weight was considerable, for it was made of iron, mixed with darkstone, and had been designed to be wielded by a grown man with immense physical strength. But as heavy as the sword was to carry, it weighed far more heavily on the heart than it did on the hands. Holding it, I glimpsed the soul that had produced it—a dark maelstrom of fear and anger.

  Bitter lessons learned, Joram had struggled up from the darkness of his soul, saved himself from drowning beneath the perilous waters. He had returned the original Darksword to the stone from which it was made. He had released magic into the universe. And though he had destroyed a world, he had saved the lives of many thousands who would otherwise have perished in the great war Earth waged for Thimhallan. If Joram did not walk in the light, at least he could feel the sun upon his upturned face.

  The Darksword had passed out of his life.

  Through anger and fear, it had been reforged.

  Eliza climbed over the wall. Turning, she held out her hands. I gave the Darksword back to her and the biblical quote about the sins of the fathers came to mind.

  We trudged up a long, grass-covered slope, moving cautiously, keeping watch in all directions for the silver-shining Technomancers. We didn’t see any; probably—I said to myself—because they are already nearing their goal. We did not make very good time. Clouds moved in, hiding the stars, thickening the darkness, and making it difficult to find our way.

  We reached the crest of the hill. Not far from us, I could barely make out the scattered white rocks which marked the trail. I was already winded and Eliza, keeping up gamely, was breathing heavily from the exertion of climbing and carrying the sword. I gazed at the trail in despair. It had not seemed so steep or so long, coming down. Tired as we were, I wondered how we would manage, even without the sword.

  I turned to Eliza and saw my dismay reflected on her pale face. Her shoulders and arms must have been burning with fatigue. The point of the sword dropped to the rocky ground, hitting it with a metallic thunk.

  “We have to keep going,” she said, and it was not me she was exhorting to further effort but herself.

  I was about to offer to take the sword, to give her rest, when a concussive blast rocked the land. The ground shuddered beneath our feet. The blast echoed among the mountains and then finally died away.

  “What was that?” Eliza gasped.

  I had no idea. Though storms raged in the valley below us, that sound had not been thunder. It was too sharp and I had seen no lightning. I looked up toward the Font, terrified of seeing fire and smoke erupt from the building.

  Logic eased my fear. The Technomancers would never destroy the Font if they could not find the sword.

  The blast and the concern it brought lent us strength. Eliza and I resumed our climb when, for a second time, a strange sound caused us to halt. This was nearer and more frightening—the sound of footfalls, coming from very close behind us.

  We were caught out in the open, with no cover. We lacked the strength to run and would not have been able to run far, in any case, hampered as we were by the heavy sword.

  Eliza heard the steps the same moment I did. We both turned, and such are the incongruities of the mind that my first thought was one of relief. At least, if the Technomancers captured us, I wouldn’t have to climb that damn hill!

  The person was a dark shadow against the backdrop of the trees, so dark that I couldn’t distinguish features. At least,. I thought, my heart resuming its beat, the person was not clad in silver.

  “Wait there a moment, Reuven and Eliza, will you?” called a clear voice, a woman’s voice.

  The woman materialized out of the night, and as she came to us she flicked on a flashlight and played it swiftly over us.

  We blinked painfully in the harsh light, averted our faces, and she switched the flashlight off us and played it down around her feet.

  “What do you want?” Eliza asked, her voice strong and unafraid. “Why do you stop us?”

  “Because,” answered the woman, “you should not return home. There’s nothing you can do to help, and much you might do to harm. By great good fortune, the Darksword has been kept out of their hands. It would be folly to cast away this opportunity.”

  “Who are you?” Eliza asked coldly, keeping both hands around the sword’s blanket-covered hilt.

  The woman stood before us, held the light on herself so that we could get a good look at her. Of all the strange sights we’d seen that night, this woman seemed the strangest, the most incongruous.

  She was wearing military-style fatigues and a green flight jacket. Her hair was cut very short, almost a crew cut. Her eyes were overlarge, her cheekbones strong, her jaw and chin jutting, her mouth wide. She was tall—over six feet—and muscular and her age was difficult to guess. Older than I was, by perhaps ten years. Nine tiny earrings, in the shape of suns, moons, stars, glittered up and down her left ear. Her nose was pierced and so was her right eyebrow. She could have stepped out of some bar in Soho.

  The woman fumbled in a zippered pocket, pulled out something. She flicked the light on it, snapped open a well-worn leather case, and exhibited an ID card. The light was so bright that I couldn’t read the card very well and she moved the light off the card again almost immediately. She was an agent of something, or at least that’s what I think the card read, but I wasn’t clear on what.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ve never heard of the people I work for,” she said. “We’re a very low-profile organization.”

  “I have to go back,” Eliza said, her gaze going up the mountainside, straining to see her home through the darkness. “My father and mother and Father Saryon are there alone. And without the sword, they’re in danger.”

  “They’d be in worse danger with the sword. There’s nothing you can do, Eliza,” said the woman quietly.

  “How do you know my name?” Eliza regarded the woman with suspicion. “And Reuven’s. You knew his name, too.”

  “Our agency has files on both of you. Don’t be upset. We have files on everyone. My name’s Scylla,” the woman continued.

  CIA, I thought, or maybe Interpol. FBI or Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Some sort of government agency. It’s strange, for I had always been extremely cynical about the government, but as we stood in the darkness the thought that some immense and powerful organization was looking after us was rather comforting.

  “Look, do we really have time for all this?” Scylla was saying. “You should take the sword to a place of safety.”

  “Yes,” said Eliza. “A place of safety. That’s with my father. I’m going home.” She lifted the sword, or at least tried to lift it. It appeared heavier than ever.

  Scylla gazed at Eliza, measuring her, perhaps; trying to determine if she was serious. A glance at Eliza’s pale, rigid, and resolute face could leave no doubt, as Scylla herself must have seen.

  “Look, if you’re set on this, my air car’s not far back,” she said. “I’ll drive you there. It will be faster.”

  Eliza was tempted. I don’t think she could have carried that sword another three feet, though she would have made the attempt until she dropped down on top of it. And she was desperate to reach her father and mother. I was desperate to reach Father Saryon. I nodded my head.

  “Very well,” Eliza answered grudgingly.

  Scylla gave me an approving clap on my shoulder that knocked me two or three paces back down the hillside. I had the feeling she had done that deliberately, to prove her strength, to intimidate us. She turned and left, running at an easy lope toward the highway, her flashlight guiding her steps.

  Eliza and I stood alone in the darkness that was beginning to lighten. It was near dawn, I realized in amazement.


  “We could leave, before she comes back,” Eliza said.

  It was a statement of fact, nothing more. Yes, we could leave. But we wouldn’t. We were both too tired, the sword was too heavy, our fear and anxiety too great. We didn’t have long to wait. The air car appeared, a blot against the night.

  The car soared over the wall, over the trees alongside the highway. It slid quiet as a whisper through the air toward us. When it was near us, Scylla lowered the car to the ground.

  “Climb in,” she said, twisting around to open the back door.

  We did so, bringing the Darksword with us. Settled in the backseat, Eliza placed the sword across both our knees and held on to it, to keep it from sliding off. I was uncomfortable, holding the sword. The touch of it was disquieting, unnerving, as if there were a leech on my skin, sucking out my blood. I had the feeling it was drawing something out of me, something that, before now, I wasn’t even aware I possessed. I wanted to be rid of the sword, yet I could not cast it off, not without losing Eliza’s trust and respect. If she could bear its incubus touch, then so could I, for her sake.

  Scylla sent the air car into a steep climb and we sped up the hill, traveling smooth and fleet as the wind. Eliza stared fixedly out the front window, straining to see her home.

  We approached the garden, then the building came in sight. Scylla cut the air car’s engines. It hovered noiselessly above the garden wall near the spot where I’d fallen while trying to climb over.

  I don’t know what I’d expected—anything from the building surrounded by Technomancers to flames leaping from the roof. What I had not expected was to find the building dark and quiet and seemingly as peaceful as when I’d left.