Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The one consolation we had, if you could call it such, was Mosiah’s pronouncement. “The dung smells fresh,” he observed. “This must mean that your dragon is still alive, Father, and still making this cave its residence.”

  “I don’t remember the smell being this bad,” Saryon said, his voice muffled by the sleeve of his robe.

  “The dragon’s had twenty years to add to it,” Scylla observed. “I don’t like to think of what else we’ll find in that lair. Mounds of rotting corpses, among other things.”

  “Fortunately, dragons will not eat humans,” Eliza said, shivering, “or so we’ve heard. We taste bad.”

  “Don’t believe all you hear, Your Majesty,” Mosiah said, and that effectively ended that conversation.

  Our enthusiasm had begun to wane, though not our hope and hope is what carried us on. We were tired, our legs ached, and we were all of us half-sick with the stench, which tainted everything, even the water we had brought with us. We rounded yet another corner, our feet dragging, when Scylla, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt, her hand raised.

  The torchlight that had before gleamed off curve after curve in the rock wall now illuminated nothing. A vast yawning darkness gaped before us.

  “This is the dragon’s lair,” Saryon whispered, and so quiet were we that his whisper carried clearly.

  We hardly dared breathe, for we could hear the sound of other breathing, stentorian breathing, as if someone were pumping a giant bellows.

  We hesitated, at that tense point when the gambler at the craps table breathes on the dice, then clutches them in his hand for a single, heart-stopping instant, asking for the win. And then throws.

  “I will go first,” Saryon said. “Do not come until I call that all is safe. If the dragon attacks me, Scylla, Mosiah”—he gazed at them intently—”I expect you two to do everything possible to protect my children.”

  “I promise, Father,” Scylla said reverently, and raised her sword, hilt first.

  “I promise, as well, Father,” Mosiah said, his hands folded. “Good luck. I’m sorry …” He paused, and did not finish his sentence.

  “Sorry?” Saryon repeated mildly. “Sorry for what, my son?”

  “I’m sorry about Joram,” Mosiah said.

  Saryon lifted his eyebrows. Joram had, after all, been dead twenty years.

  He had been dead to them, but not to Mosiah.

  Eliza hugged Saryon close. Blinking back her tears, she managed a smile. “The Almin go with you, Father,” she whispered. “My father, the only father I have ever known.”

  I, too, embraced him in the name of father. It was right, eminently right.

  He asked the Almin’s blessing on us all and he alone entered the chamber.

  We waited in the tunnel, ears strained to hear the slightest sound. I was so tense, I no longer noticed the stench.

  “Dragon of the Night,” came Saryon’s voice from the darkness. “You know me. You know who I am.”

  Scraping sounds, as of a massive head sliding along the rock floor, a gigantic body shifting position. And then a pale, cold white light lit the chamber.

  We could see Saryon, a stark black silhouette against that white light. We could not see the dragon, for its head was far, far above Saryon, out of our view. I remembered that I was not to look directly into the dragon’s eyes.

  We held our breath for the answer, which might be instant death. Eliza and I clasped each other by the hand.

  “I know you,” said the Dragon of Night, hating him. “Why have you come to disturb my rest?”

  We breathed again. The charm had held! Impulsively, Eliza hugged me. I put my arm around her.

  Mosiah flashed us a stern, reproving glance. Neither he nor Scylla had lowered their guard. She stood with the torch held high in one hand, her sword in the other. He had his hands clenched, magic spells in his mind and on his lips. He reminded us silently that there was still great danger.

  Accepting the rebuke, Eliza and I drew apart, yet our hands again found each other’s in the darkness.

  “I come to relieve you of your burden,” Saryon said. “And to free you of the charm. This young woman is Joram’s heir.”

  “I am here,” Eliza called.

  Releasing my hand, she walked into the chamber. Scylla and I both would have followed, but Mosiah held out his arms, blocking the way.

  “Neither of you were mentioned in the charming!” he said swiftly. “You could break it!”

  His caution was sensible. He certainly knew more about charms and spells than I did. I was forced to stay behind, though it took every ounce of self-control I possessed to remain there in the tunnel and watch Eliza walk away from me, walk into deadly peril.

  Scylla was pale, her eyes dark and huge. She, too, understood the wisdom of Mosiah’s words, yet she was in agony at the thought of her charge going where her knight could not follow. Sweat beaded on the knight’s brow. She bit her nether lip.

  We could do nothing but wait.

  Eliza and Saryon stood in silhouette before the dragon, bathed in that pale, white light, which did not illuminate, but turned all it touched a ghostly gray.

  “She is Dead,” said the dragon. And then, in a terrible voice, the dragon repeated the Prophecy. “ ‘There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world.’ “

  “That was spoken of my father,” said Eliza, proudly, calmly.

  “You are indeed what you claim. Take that which is yours. Remove it from my lair. It has troubled my sleep these past twenty years.”

  The two walked to a large mound of rocks, which stood just to the left of our line of sight. With Eliza’s help, Saryon began to shift the rocks, working swiftly. Neither wanted to stay in there any longer than they had to. The three of us, waiting for them, dared not stir. Though we could not see the dragon, we knew that it was aware of our presence. Its hatred and loathing were almost palpable. It longed to slaughter us, not for food, but for revenge. The charm held it back, but just barely.

  And then the work was finished. Saryon and Eliza stood above the cairn. She saw for the first time her father’s creation. Repulsed, her courage failed her. Then, jaw tightening, she reached down and picked up the Darksword.

  Without warning, black-robed figures materialized out of the darkness. Five surrounded us. More appeared in the dragon’s lair, their black robes and hoods standing out in stark contrast to the white light.

  “Keep still!” Mosiah warned softly, urgently. “Go quickly before it is too late! You will destroy us all!”

  “Silence, traitor.”

  One of the Duuk-tsarith raised his hand and Mosiah doubled over in wrenching pain and fell to his knees. Still he was defiant.

  “Fools!” he managed to gasp.

  Scylla advanced a step, her sword raised.

  The same Duuk-tsarith again moved his hand. Scylla’s steel blade changed to water, ran down her upraised arm, and dripped upon the stone at her feet. She stared, in openmouthed astonishment, at her empty hand.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Father Saryon demanded angrily.

  “Relinquish the Darksword,” another of the Duuk-tsarith commanded. He approached Eliza. “Relinquish it and you will come to no harm.”

  “We have no need of you. Leave us. We will take the Darksword to the Emperor!” Eliza said imperiously.

  “Emperor no more,” countered the Duuk-tsarith. “Garald and his false, lying bishop have been deposed. We rule Thimhallan now. Give us the Darksword.”

  Eliza fell back before them. “You have no right—”

  Red flame sprang from the fingertips of the Duuk-tsarith, formed into fiery tentacles that reached out to encircle Eliza and make her captive.

  Instinctively, she lifted the Darksword to shield herself from the magic.

  Tentacles of flame struck the Darksword. The darkstone drank them in greedily and began to glow
with a white-blue flame of its own.

  “The child of the traitor Joram is hereby sentenced to death,” the Duuk-tsarith pronounced.

  Magic surged and heaved and sparked.

  “Stop! Cast no spells!” Saryon cried in terror. He stumbled forward, to put himself between Eliza and the Duuk-tsarith. “The dragon—”

  The Darksword sucked in the magic. The metal seemed superheated, the white-blue glow of the flame was dazzling, blinding… .

  The Dragon of the Night roared in pain and fury. It lifted its wings, the deadly stars glittered. The dragon opened its eyes wide. Its mind-shattering light flared within the cavern. Saryon clutched his head and reeled in pain, then he collapsed upon the stone floor. White stars of death showered down around us. The Duuk-tsarith’s black robes burst into flame. They and their spells withered in the horrific blaze.

  “Fools!” Mosiah repeated, with the grim quiet of despair. “You have doomed us all!”

  I looked for Scylla, but could not find her. Weaponless and alone, she must have gone forth to do battle with the dragon.

  “Eliza!” I cried, and ran into the cave, not to save her, for nothing could do that, but to die with her.

  I ran and it was as if I had leapt off an immense cliff. I spread my arms and discovered I could fly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Simkin’s a monumental liar. I don’t see how you can put up with him!”

  “Because he’s an amusing liar. And that makes him different.”

  “Different?”

  “From the rest of you.”

  MOSIAH AND JORAM; FORGING THE DARKSWORD

  Again, the frightening sensation of being squeezed, the air forced from my lungs, my body compressed and flattened like that of a mouse squeezing itself into a tiny crack. My flight ended abruptly and painfully in a tumble. I rolled down a rocky incline, came up hard against a stone wall.

  For a moment I lay there, dazed and bruised and cut, gasping for air like a landed fish. Fearing the dragon, I opened my eyes, prepared to do what little I could to defend myself and Eliza. I looked around, blinked.

  The dragon was gone. The Duuk-tsarith were gone. Father Saryon was gone. Scylla was there, and Mosiah, and Eliza. We were in a cavern, the same cavern. It smelled the same. The floor was covered with refuse, bones lay scattered about. Eliza stood in the center of the cavern, holding the Darksword.

  Dropping the sword, she hurried to me, bent over me. “Reuven! That was a nasty fall! Are you all right?” Was I? No, I wasn’t.

  Eliza no longer wore the blue velvet riding outfit, no glittering golden circlet adorned her head. She was dressed in the plain woolen skirt and simple blouse she had been wearing when we first set out upon this strange journey.

  I started to push myself up, mindful of entangling myself in my robes, except that I wasn’t wearing robes. I was wearing jeans and a blue sweater.

  “Scylla! Quick! He’s hurt!” Eliza cried.

  Scylla, clad in combat fatigues, her earrings winking and sparkling in the light of a flashlight, squatted down and peered at me intently. Reaching out her hand, she brushed aside the hair on my forehead.

  “The cut’s not deep. The bleeding’s already stopped. He may have a headache for a while, but no permanent damage.”

  Eliza drew out a handkerchief—a plain, white handkerchief— and began to dab at the cut on my forehead.

  Angrily, I thrust away her hand. Scrambling to my feet, I backed up against the wall and glared at the two women, who were regarding me in astonishment. Had it been a dream? A hallucination? If so, it was the most incredibly real dream I had ever experienced.

  “What’s going on here?” Mosiah demanded, coming over to us.

  “Reuven’s foot turned on a stone and he fell and hit his head,” Eliza said. “Scylla says it’s not serious, but look at him. He’s staring at me as if I were a dragon about to tear him apart!”

  “And you,” said Scylla, confronting Mosiah. “Where have you been?”

  “I don’t know,” he said harshly. “Where have I been?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Scylla demanded, looking amazed. “What’s wrong? Did you hit your head, too?”

  Mosiah was suddenly grave, thoughtful. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Come to think of it, I did.”

  He knew! He had been there, wherever it was! Limp with relief, I leaned back against the cave wall and tried to collect my thoughts. Most of them were too far scattered to get hold of, but at least I knew I wasn’t going insane. I started to ask Mosiah one of the thousand questions that was in my mind, but he made me a discreet sign with his hand.

  “Say nothing. Not yet,” he counseled.

  “There,” Scylla said, dusting off my clothes with an enthusiasm which nearly had me back on the stone floor again. “You look a little better.”

  Eliza bent down, picked up the Darksword. I had a sudden, horrifying vision of a black dragon, claws stained red with blood, knocking the Darksword from her hands. She fell. The claws ripped and tore her flesh. Her screams …

  The vision faded, though not the horror. My body was wet with sweat and I shivered in the cavern’s dank air.

  “You do realize that we are standing in a dragon’s lair,” Mosiah said sharply.

  “That’s what Scylla told me.” Eliza shrugged. She was too preoccupied with worry over her father to evince much interest.

  “It’s an old one,” Scylla said. “No need to be afraid. All the dragons died when the Well of Life was destroyed.”

  “It certainly smells occupied,” Mosiah maintained, frowning. “And how did the Darksword end up here! I threw it through the gate—”

  “And damn near made me into a shish kebab,” came a plaintive voice from a dark corner. “Bear-on-a-Spit. Teriyaki Teddy. Lucky for you I was around. Those silver-plated goons would have snapped it up if it hadn’t been for me. As for the cave, it’s hermetically sealed. Like Tupperware. Keeps the rot fresh for centuries.”

  Flashing her light around the cavern, Scylla located the source of the voice.

  “Teddy!” Eliza cried in delight.

  The stuffed bear sat propped up against a stalagmite. “I thought you’d never get here,” he said peevishly. “What have you been doing? Going on picnics, I suppose. Taking bus trips to Brighton. I’ve been waiting and waiting. It’s been frightfully dull, I don’t mind telling you.”

  Still carrying the Darksword, Eliza walked over to Teddy, bent down to pick him up.

  The bear’s beady black eyes glittered in alarm. The stuffed body squirmed out of her reach. “Don’t bring that ugly thing near me!”

  “The Darksword?” Eliza said, wondering, then added, “Oh, of course. I understand.”

  “I don’t,” Mosiah said sharply. “The Darksword disrupts his magic. He can’t stand to have it near him. And yet he maintains that he brought it here!”

  “You’d be amazed what I can do when I put my mind to it,” Simkin said, sniffing. “And I never said I brought it here. I do have friends left in this world, you know. People who appreciate me. My dear friend Merlyn, for one.”

  “Merlyn. Of course.” Mosiah’s lip curled. “Kevon Smythe for another?”

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones but Darkswords will never hurt me,” Teddy said, and the bear grinned.

  “What does it matter how the sword came to be here?” Eliza asked impatiently. “Now that we have it, we must find my father and mother and Father Saryon.”

  Startled, I looked at Mosiah.

  “Your father. Joram,” Mosiah asked. “He’s alive?”

  “Of course he is!” she answered, and repeated emphatically, “Of course he is.”

  “Oh, yes, Joram’s alive, all right,” the bear said in languid tones. “In a foul temper, though. Can’t blame him. Locked up in a prison cell with only the elderly bald party for company.”

  Eliza grasped the Darksword tightly, her knuckles whitening, on the hilt. “You’ve found him? He’s safe?”

 
“He’s seen better days, as the Duchess of Orleans said when she discovered her husband impaled on the door knocker. He’s conscious, and taking solid food. Your father. Not the Duke. There was nothing much we could do for him, beyond polish his head every Sunday.”

  “What about my mother?”

  “Nada. Nothing. Zip. Sorry and all that, but I sighted neither hide nor hair of her. She is not being held captive in the same location as your father and the catalyst, that much I can tell you.”

  “You’ve been there.” Mosiah was skeptical.

  “Certainly,” replied the bear.

  “To the Technomancers’ prison. Where they’re holding Saryon and Joram.”

  “If you would remove that black hood from over your head, Mosiah,” the bear said in nasty tones, “you might be able to hear better. Isn’t that what I said? I was just returning from there, in fact, when you hurled that great bloody sword at me.”

  “And where is this prison?”

  “Right there,” the bear replied, and gave a bored glance upward.

  “Above us!” Eliza exclaimed. She had looked pale and downcast at hearing no news of her mother, but now the color came flooding back to her cheeks.

  “In the upper chambers of the cave. Not far. A good, brisk walk on a summer’s day, straight uphill, of course, but think what wonders the climb will do for your calves.”

  While this may have been good news in one respect, it was certainly chilling in another. We flashed alarmed glances at each other.

  “I’ll watch the door,” Scylla offered. “And keep your voices down!”

  That warning came a bit late. We hadn’t been shouting, but we hadn’t been talking in whispers, either. And noise echoes in caverns.

  “If the Technomancers are in the chambers above us, why did you bring the Darksword here?” Mosiah demanded of Simkin. “Unless you meant to give it to them.”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be down here in this smelly, dank hole with the lot of you, now, would I?” Simkin said, his nose button twitching. “I’d be up there where it’s dry and comfy and stinks of nothing worse than Kevon Smythe’s cheap cologne. He may be a man of the people, but I don’t see why he has to smell like one.