Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Eliza, beside me, made a choked sound. “Hush!” Scylla breathed.

  Mosiah cast them both a warning glance. I found Eliza’s hand. Her flesh was chill to the touch. Her fingers tightened convulsively around mine.

  “I’m going to talk to Joram,” Smythe was saying. “If he’s that bad off, he may be willing to cooperate. Two of you come with me. The rest of you wait outside.”

  Smythe entered the chamber where the prisoners were being held. Two of his guards followed after him. The others took up positions out in the corridor.

  There was nothing we could do but wait. Not only would we endanger ourselves if we tried to fight such overwhelming numbers, we would place the prisoners’ lives in jeopardy. There was every possibility the Technomancers would kill their prisoners rather than let them be rescued.

  We hid in the darkness, straining to hear. The first voice we heard was Father Saryon’s. His tone was strong and indignant, which meant that he was well. I closed my eyes and breathed a prayer to the Almin in thankfulness.

  “Joram is very ill, as you can see, Mr. Smythe. My friend needs medical attention immediately. I insist that you take him to the outpost. They have a medical facility there—”

  “Certainly,” said Smythe, and his voice was smooth and eager to please. “We will provide him with the antidote to the poison— as soon as he tells me where to find the Darksword.”

  “Poison?” Saryon was horrified. “You poisoned him?”

  “A slow-acting variety. We use the same to cause the deaths of the organisms in our perpetual generators. Death comes very slowly and very painfully, I am told. Now, my friend. Where is the Darksword? Tell us that, and you will feel much better.”.

  “He does not know!” Saryon said angrily.

  “Ah, but I think he does,” said Smythe. “He gave it to his daughter to hide. We saw her in possession of the sword, so you needn’t trouble to lie about it. We are on her trail—”

  “If you hurt her …” The voice was weak, but it was definitely Joram’s.

  We heard scuffling sounds and a stifled cry.

  Eliza turned her head into my shoulder. I held her tightly and the rage I felt toward Smythe at that moment appalled me. I had always thought of myself as a pacifist. Now I knew I had it in me to kill.

  “Don’t! Leave him alone!” Saryon cried, and we heard a rustling sound, as if he threw himself protectively in front of Joram. “He is weak and ill.”

  “He will be far more ill if he does not cooperate.”

  “He can be of no use to you dead!”

  “He isn’t going to die. At least not yet. As you say, I have need of him. Give him the stimulant. There. That will keep him alive a little longer. He won’t feel very good, but he’ll live, which is more than I can say for you, Father Saryon. You are of no use to me whatsoever. I have catalysts of my own, prepared to give the Darksword Life, once it is recovered.

  “Listen to me, Joram. You have five minutes to reconsider your stubborn refusal to tell me where your daughter is hiding. If you do not, Father Saryon will be flayed alive, a particularly nasty way to die. Bind his feet and his hands.”

  We four stared, horrified, at each other. We had five minutes to act, five minutes to rescue the hostages, or Father Saryon would most certainly be tortured and murdered. There were six guards, plus Kevon Smythe, and only four of us.

  “Scylla, you have your gun,” Mosiah began, speaking in a tense whisper. “You—”

  “Gun,” she said. “I don’t have a gun.”

  Mosiah glared at her. “You don’t carry a gun! What kind of agent are you?”

  “A smart one,” Scylla returned. “From what I’ve seen, carrying a gun is an open invitation for someone to shoot you.”

  Mosiah was grim. “We have no choice, I guess. We have to take on all six of the D’karn-darah—”

  “Make that seven,” Scylla said.

  Another silver-robed Technomancer had apparently entered the cavern. I say “apparently” because I had been watching the cavern entrance and I had not seen anyone come inside. The new arrival glided up behind the two guards waiting at the entrance. Reaching out a silver-gloved hand, the D’karn-darah tapped one of them on the shoulder.

  It was the Technomancer who had thrown the rock in the river. He jumped, turned. His robes flowed around him like liquid mercury.

  “What the devil—who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want? And don’t come sneaking up on someone like that. It’s bad enough being on this blasted planet, with rocks that have eyes and God knows what else! What do you want?” he repeated nervously.

  “A message from HQ for the master.”

  “He’s inside the prison cell.”

  “It’s urgent,” said the D’karn-darah.

  “I’ll go tell him,” volunteered the other Technomancer.

  “Wait,” said the first. His tone was suspicious. “Why didn’t they just send the message the usual way—using the seerstones?”

  “None of your seerstones are working. Try them.”

  The first Technomancer put his wrist to his ear. The second did the same. The second looked at the first, who shrugged and jerked his head toward the prison cell. The Technomancer left to report.

  Smythe emerged. His choleric face was a fierce red, his brows drawn tight in a vicious scowl.

  “What do you mean the seerstones aren’t working?” he demanded.

  “We don’t know, sir,” returned the newly arrived Technomancer. “Perhaps it’s this cave, blocking the signal. I have an urgent message for you, sir.”

  “Deliver it!” Smythe snapped.

  The silver-hooded head revolved, glanced in the direction of the other D’karn-darah. “It is for you alone, Master. We should speak in private. It is most urgent, sir.”

  Smythe looked back in frustration toward the prison. His unhealthy choler increased. “Of all the damn luck. I just about had, him broken! This better be good!” He turned to one of the guards. “Remind the good father that he has three minutes left. Three minutes.”

  “Come over here, Master,” said the messenger, and he gestured—alarmingly—in the direction of our small hidden cavern.

  The two walked toward us. The silver robes of the D’karn-darah swished about his ankles, revealing his silver-slippered feet, and I suddenly noticed that this Technomancer was wearing orange socks.

  “Simkin!” Mosiah breathed into my ear.

  Beyond all reason, it was, it had to be Simkin, disguised as a Technomancer and leading Kevon Smythe straight toward our hiding place.

  “That bastard!” Mosiah whispered. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll—”

  “Shhh!” Scylla hushed him.

  Eliza gripped my hand tightly. We didn’t dare move, for fear he’d hear us. We went completely immobile in the darkness, every breath seeming to whistle loud as a cyclone, our heartbeats booming like thunder. Mosiah’s body tensed. He was readying his magic for one gigantic, lethal burst.

  Desperate, frantic plans rushed through my mind, none of them making any sense, or offering any hope.

  Four more paces and Kevon Smythe would bump right into us. At the second pace, the D’karn-darah that was Simkin came to a halt.

  Smythe stopped, turned to face him.

  “What’s all this about?” he asked irritably.

  “Sir,” said Simkin, “the representatives of the Hch’nyv have arrived in Zith-el.”

  I heard a soft gasp, as if Mosiah had been punched in the solar plexus. Scylla exhaled softly.

  Smythe’s color went from red to sallow yellow, as if someone had opened a major artery and drained all his blood in an instant. Such stark terror was on his face that I could almost have felt sorry for him. He quickly recovered his equanimity, but the vestiges of that fear remained.

  “What do they want?” he asked, his voice under tight control.

  “The Darksword,” said Simkin laconically.

  Smythe cast a furious glance back toward the prison. “W
e haven’t recovered it yet. We will. They must give us more time.”

  “Earth Forces are in retreat. Earth takeover is beginning. You haven’t much time. Such were their words to us. It is their religious leaders that are pushing the issue, sir. Their gods or whatever it is they worship have warned them that the Darksword is a distinct threat.”

  “I know all about their blasted gods!” Smythe said, his voice shaking with fury and fear. Once again, he clamped down hard on himself. “We made a deal. Remind them of it. They have Earth in exchange for the Darksword. We have Thimhallan. They provide us with Death. We provide them with Life. We will recover the Darksword and we will give it to them, but in our own good time. Tell them that.”

  Simkin shook his silver-hooded head. “They will not listen to those they consider underlings.”

  Smythe fumed, glanced again at the prison, in an agony of indecision. “Very well. I’ll go deal with the matter.” He turned on his heel, stalked away, shouting orders. “My guards! Come with me. I’m needed back at HQ. You two. Kill the priest. I don’t care how. Do it slowly and make certain Joram has a ringside seat.”

  “What if he decides to talk, Master?”

  “Get his information, then transport him immediately to me at HQ. Use the teleporter.”

  “Yes, sir. Do we still kill the priest?”

  “What do you think?” Smythe demanded impatiently. “He’s of no use to me.”

  “Yes, sir. Could you leave someone to help us, sir? The teleporter is not functioning efficiently on this planet.”

  “I’ll stay here and give them a hand,” said Simkin from beneath his silver hood.

  “Very well.” Smythe was obviously anxious to be gone. He left the cavern, his four bodyguards trooping after him.

  I looked at the others, to see my own feelings of revulsion, horror, and fury reflected on their faces. I could not comprehend how any human could be so consumed with power that he would make a deal with a heinous enemy, a deal sacrificing millions of his fellow humans on the altar of his own ambition.

  The two Technomancers went into the prison to retrieve the captives. Simkin remained outside, rocking back and forth on his heels and humming to himself. The humming was off-key and extremely jarring to the nerves. He did not once look in our direction or give us the slightest sign.

  I was beginning to think that we had been mistaken. Perhaps the Technomancer wasn’t Simkin, after all. Perhaps it was merely a Technomancer with an odd taste in footwear.

  Mosiah shared my doubts. “That fool! What’s he doing? If it is him …”

  “Whether it is or it isn’t, he got rid of Smythe,” Scylla pointed out. “And four of the guards. We should attack now.”

  “Let them bring the hostages out of the cell first,” said Mosiah. “They’re probably using a stasis field to hold them and we’d never be able to remove it ourselves.”

  “Good point, Enforcer,” said Scylla admiringly. “What’s the plan?”

  “Plan!” Mosiah snorted. “I’m the only one with a weapon and that’s my magic.”

  “Not even a laser pistol would have any effect on that protective armor of theirs,” Scylla returned in a hoarse whisper. “Besides, I have my own weapons.”

  “Which are?”

  “You’ll see. I guarantee you that I’ll put one out of commission, if you can handle the other.”

  Mosiah didn’t like it, but this was no time to argue. We could hear scuffling sounds from inside the prison. Simkin’s humming grew louder and more nerve-racking, if that was possible.

  “At my signal, Scylla, you attack,” Mosiah ordered. “Reuven, you and Eliza rescue Joram and Father Saryon.”

  “Where do we take them?” Eliza asked.

  “Down the tunnel. Back to the cavern where you hid the Darksword.”

  “What then?”

  “Let’s get that far first,” Mosiah said.

  Simkin’s humming was setting my teeth on edge. I’ve never heard such a strange and ear-piercing sound come from any living human throat. But then, this was Simkin. The two Technomancer guards emerged. One had hold of Father Saryon. He looked upset and anxious, but I knew that his anxiety was for Joram, not for himself, though he was the one who was about to be put to death. Saryon kept twisting his head, trying to see over his shoulder, trying to see Joram, who was being dragged out behind him.

  At the sight of her father, Eliza gave a small moan and immediately covered her mouth with her hand to prevent any further cries from escaping her.

  Joram’s skin was a grayish white, beaded with sweat. Blood matted his hair and was caked on one side of his face, where a deep, ugly wound crossed over his cheek, almost laying the bone bare. His right hand was clasped over his left arm, which hung limp. His shirt was torn, blood covered the shirtfront, and the sleeve of the left arm was saturated. The stimulant, his fever, and his anger gave his eyes an unnatural luster. He was weak, but grimly alert and defiant.

  “Release Father Saryon. Then and only then will I tell you where to find the Darksword.”

  “You’ll tell us,” said one of the Technomancers. “When you see the priest lying there with half his flesh flayed from his body, screaming for us to end his torment in death, you’ll tell us.”

  The Technomancer flung Father Saryon to the ground. His hands were bound, he was unable to break his fall, and he landed heavily, crying out in pain. I would have rushed forward then and there, but common sense and Mosiah’s whispered warning prevailed.

  Simkin approached Father Saryon, looked down at him.

  There was a sharp snapping sound.

  The Technomancer standing nearest Simkin stared wildly, gasped, and backed away.

  “What are you doing?” he cried shrilly.

  “Following orders,” said Simkin. “Giving you a hand.”

  He held out his own hand, which he had broken off at the wrist.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The magic that Joram longed for and sought every morning to feel burning in his soul never came to him.

  When he was fifteen, he stopped asking Anja when he would gain the magic.

  Deep inside of him, he already knew the answer.

  FORGING THE DARKSWORD

  “ In addition, I’ll help you get ahead,” Simkin added. He lifted his head from his shoulders—unscrewed his head would be more precisely the term—and flung it straight at one of the Technomancers.

  The man may have had some small magical powers, although from what I had seen, the Technomancers were so beholden to Technology as to make the magic almost irrelevant. Certainly he had never seen magic in such maniacal form. He gaped when Simkin broke off his own hand. But when Simkin’s head, covered with a silver hood, the ends flapping, flew through the air at him, the Technomancer gave a strangled cry and flung his arms over his face. Simkin’s head exploded with a force that stopped my heart, shook the cave … and resulted in a shower of daisies.

  “Now!” Mosiah yelled.

  The Life flowed through him and transformed him as he ran. His black robes writhed around him, flattened to cover his body in spiky black fur. His head elongated, changed to a muzzle with yellow fangs protruding from beneath black, curled lips. His legs transformed into the legs of a beast, his forearms were covered with black fur, claws sprouted from the fingernails. The hem of his robes twisted into a tail with a barb sharp as a razor. Mosiah had become a darkrover, the type known as a hunterkill, one of the most feared of all the creations of the ancient war masters.

  The Technomancer uncovered his eyes, gazed in bafflement at the daisies drifting down around his head. They might have been scattered over his grave. The next sight he saw was a terrible one—a hunterkill bounding across the cavern floor, running upright on its powerful hind legs, jaws snapping, its claws reaching for the Technomancer’s throat.

  His silver robes acted as armor, capable—as Scylla had said— of deflecting all attacks by conventional weapons. The darkrover was certainly not a conventional weapon, however. Mo
siah hurled himself on the Technomancer. The silver robes crackled and the darkrover shrieked in pain, but Mosiah’s claws scratched and tore. His weight carried the Technomancer to the ground.

  The other Technomancer guard was not quite as befuddled by the magic surging around him as his fellow. A weapon appeared in his hand, a scythe, that gleamed with a fell energy. He stood over Father Saryon, swinging the scythe in a vicious arc. The blade sang as it whipped through the air, reminding me of Simkin’s off-key humming.

  Eliza and I held back, agonized, afraid for the captives. But there was nothing we could do. Saryon lay flattened on the ground. Every sweep of the scythe came a little closer to him. Joram was behind the scythe-wielding Technomancer, leaning up against the cavern wall, his eyes bright and burning with the effects of the poison. He lurched forward, with the idea of knocking down the Technomancer from behind.

  The guard heard him, however. Whipping the scythe around, he struck Joram on the side of the head with its handle. Joram fell, landed near Father Saryon. Even then, defiantly, Joram raised his head. Blood, fresh blood, covered his face. His head sank between his arms. He lay still.

  Eliza cried out and would have run to her father, regardless of her own danger. I caught hold of her, held her.

  “Allow me, Your Majesty,” said Scylla, and advanced, barehanded, on the Technomancer wielding the scythe.

  “Be careful, Scylla!” the darkrover shouted, using Mosiah’s voice.

  The jaws of the hunterkill dribbled blood and saliva, its claws were red, blood smeared its black fur. I glanced over at its prey and was sorry I did. Hastily, I averted my gaze from what was left of the Technomancer’s body. It was covered with blood and daisies.

  “That scythe can drain a person of Life,” Mosiah cautioned.

  “I don’t know why you think that would affect me,” Scylla said, flashing Mosiah a grin and a wink.

  She advanced on the Technomancer, watching his movements, and suddenly kicked out her leg in the path of the swinging scythe. Eliza covered her eyes. I watched in horror, expecting to see Scylla’s leg hacked off by the vicious blade.