Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  By this time I was climbing up onto the dragon. I followed Saryon, who appeared to have been riding dragons all his life, though I know for certain he had never done such a thing. We crawled up the bony structure of the enormous black wing, being careful—as he warned us—not to step on the membrane or we might tear it. The dragon’s body quivered beneath us, as the ground in the vicinity of a volcano quakes from the pent-up fire within. Saryon and I both helped Eliza, who would not relinquish the sword to anyone, not even for a moment. We were settling on the dragon’s bony back, which proved extremely uncomfortable, Mosiah had just climbed off the wing and onto the back, when the Technomancers in their silver robes entered the cavern.

  “Hide your eyes!” Mosiah shouted to us, and pulled his hood over his head.

  I did as he ordered, covered my eyes with my hands, but I could still see the white glare, so intense was the pale light beaming from the dragon’s eyes. The beast roared and reared its head and lifted its wings, but even as it attacked it took care not to dislodge us, who were seated on its back.

  I heard dreadful, agonized screams. Star bursts flashed on the backs of my closed eyelids. The screams ended very suddenly.

  The body beneath me began to move, to ripple into motion. The wings creaked, the glow of the white light faded. A rush of fresh air, cool and sweet smelling after the rank stench of the cavern, struck me in the face. I opened my eyes. Before me was a gigantic opening, like a huge chimney, large enough for the dragon to ascend.

  We soared out and upward, the dragon’s wings beating slowly, carrying our weight without effort. We were nothing more than annoying insects, clinging to its hide.

  I looked up into the night sky and I gasped.

  It was filled with stars, more stars than I remembered having seen when we first arrived. And then the truth hit me a terrible blow, even as Mosiah put it into words.

  “Those aren’t stars. Those are spaceships. Refugees. The last survivors from Earth. They have come here, the final hope. The Hch’nyv are behind them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Merlyn looked upon it with eyes that had seen centuries pass, chose this place for his tomb, and now lies bound by the Last Enchantment in the glade he loved.

  FORGING THE DARKSWORD

  We flew over the darkened land of Thimhallan, while above us the sky was bright with the lights of thousands of starships, carrying millions of people. Hope sparkled above us. Hope and desperation. They must have sighted us on their sophisticated instruments. I wondered what they made of us—a gigantic black winged shape flying just above tree level. Probably nothing. Dismissed as animal life indigenous to the region.

  A few knew the truth, perhaps; knew that the image showing up on their radar screens was a dragon. King Garald, Bishop Radisovik, and General Boris would have recognized the creature. But they could not know that we rode the Dragon of the Night. They had come here out of faith and because this was the last place to run to. They could not know where we were bound or upon what errand. For that matter, now that I thought of it, we knew little more. Did the Technomancers know it all? Was this a trap? Had Gwen and Queen Eliza been an illusion?

  Mosiah thought so, apparently, but then he was one who would always term the glass half-empty. I did not know what to think. Gwendolyn had seemed so real, the love and affection for her daughter had been genuine, of that I am certain. And how could the Technomancers have conjured up an illusion of Eliza from an alternate time? When I thought of all this, my spirit soared with the dragon.

  But they could have knowledge about that time, I realized, and my spirit plummeted to the ground. Kevon Smythe and the Dark Cultists had been present in that time as well. Perhaps everything we had experienced had been their doing.

  I looked up into the sky again, the sky that was pocked with life. I thought of the millions up there, afraid, despairing, bewildered. All that remained of mankind, who had fled the only home he’d ever known and embarked into space, a cold and lonely place to die. The assault ships of the Hch’nyv would come soon, once their conquest of Earth was assured. I imagined the sky bright with fire… .

  Shivering, I turned my gaze away. When I looked back, the sky was covered over with storm clouds and all was darkness. I felt a certain amount of relief, hidden away from the pleading, trusting, frantic gazes of those who were—all unknowing—-depending on us.

  The ride was not a pleasant one. We flew through a rain squall and were thoroughly soaked. The chill air rushing over the dragon’s wings set our teeth to chattering. We huddled together for warmth, clung together to keep from falling off. The dragon’s back was broad and we sat between the wings, but the bones of the spine were sharp and dug painfully into my backside, while my thighs soon ached from the uncomfortable position. And though the dragon was under a geis to fly us to Merilon and the tomb of Merlyn, the beast’s enmity toward us was strong.

  The dragon loathed our touch, our smell, and, if the charm had failed, would have immediately rolled over and dumped us to our deaths. As it was, the dragon would occasionally veer to one side, forcing us to cling to its mane and scales to avoid sliding off before it would reluctantly and slowly level off. I suppose it considered that if one of us was clumsy enough to fall, that was our own concern and it could not be held responsible.

  Eliza grasped the Darksword. Mosiah kept hold of her, as did Father Saryon. I hung on to a bony protuberance right above the main tendon for the wings. I could see nothing below us, except when the frequent flashes of lightning illuminated the ground and then it was only for an instant. All I saw at first were thick stands of forest or the smooth grass of the plains. Then I located a winding river.

  “The Famirish,” shouted Saryon over the rush of air swirling past us. “We are getting close!”

  We flew along the course of the Famirish, the dragon sinking lower until it seemed to me that we must crash among the treetops. The dragon knew its business, however, and though it came perilously close, so close that I should think the treetops must have tickled its belly, it never collided with any of them.

  A flash of lightning more brilliant than the rest spread across the sky in a blanket of flame. By its light, I obtained my first glimpse of the city of Merilon .

  According to lore, when the ancient wizard Merlyn had removed his followers from the persecutions of Earth and led them to Thimhallan, the first place they came to was a grove of oak trees on a plain between two ranges of mountains. Merlyn was so taken with the beauty that he founded his city here and proclaimed that this grove would be his final resting place.

  He and the other conjurers and shapers created a floating platform of delicately carved, translucent marble and quartz, which they had called the Pedestal. Upon this Pedestal, which drifted among the clouds, they built the city of Merilon . But what had once been considered a wonder in a world of magic where wonders abounded now lay in ruin, its broken body slowly being covered over by a shroud of encroaching wilderness.

  It was a sad sight, an oppressive sight, reminding us all too clearly that man’s works, no matter how glorious, are but temporary, that there must come a time when the workman’s hand falls, forever stilled, and then Nature will do her best to erase all trace of him.

  “Did Merlyn’s tornb even survive, Father?” Mosiah asked.

  “Why, yes, don’t you remember? No, of course, you wouldn’t.” Saryon answered his own question. “I forgot how grievously you were injured in the attack on the city. The grove burned to the ground, but the tomb remained untouched. The firestorms swept right over it. Some have later claimed that the grass around the tomb was not even scorched, but that is not true.” Saryon shook his head and sighed, his memories sad ones.

  Another flash revealed Eliza’s face. She was very pale, her expression one of awe, mingled with profound sorrow. She was seeing, as I myself saw it, Merilon rebuilt, in that other lifetime, and contrasting that image with the bleak, bitter reality.

  I closed my eyes and I saw, in that other tim
e, Merilon. The floating platform was gone; no one was able to summon up the powerful magicks needed to perform such a feat. The buildings— made of ordinary stone, not crystal—stood on the ground. The palace was a fortress, solid and thick-walled, made to withstand attacks, not play host to glittering parties. The Grove of Merlyn had been replanted. A stand of young oak trees, small but sturdy, kept guard over Merlyn’s tomb.

  I looked into that time and saw the end. I saw the young oaks wither and die in the laser fire of the Hch’nyv. I turned my gaze away and looked into that time no more.

  The dragon began to spiral downward. We could see nothing of where we were headed, because another of those fierce, sudden storms closed in on us. Rain slashed my face, forced me to shut my eyes. Lightning flared much too close, thunder cracked and boomed. I saw the ground only when we were almost upon it, a flash of lightning illuminating wet grass and the burned-out stumps of dead trees. The dragon was descending much too fast it seemed to me, and I wondered if the beast might be going to kill itself, and us along with it, thereby relieving itself of the geis and a foe at the same time.

  At the last possible moment, when I was certain that we were going to crash headlong, the dragon lifted its wings, gracefully swooped upward, and reached out for the ground with its powerful hind legs. The landing was rough for us, though not for the dragon. We were thrown forward by the force of the impact. I hit my head on the bony mane and scraped my hands on the scales.

  “I have brought you to the tomb,” said the dragon. “Now leave and trouble me no more.”

  We were only too happy to obey. I slid down the dragon’s rain-wet back and landed heavily on the ground. I helped Eliza, who was still clutching the sword. She was shivering with the cold, her skirt hung in sodden folds around her, her blouse clung to her breasts. Her hair was a mass of wet, tangled ringlets, straggling over her face. She was grim, composed, resolute, prepared to do whatever might be asked of her.

  Saryon and Mosiah joined us. The dragon reared up, its wings spread, the starlike deadly darts shining through the lashing rain. The pale eyes flared.

  “I have obeyed your command,” the dragon declared. “Release me of the spell.”

  “I do not release you,” Saryon said, seeing the trick the dragon was attempting to play upon him. “Once you return to your lair, the spell will be lifted.”

  The Dragon of the Night gave us a parting snarl and a frustrated snap in the air with its jaws, then it leapt into the storm, wings beating, and soared upward to disappear into the clouds.

  Saryon slumped when the dragon was gone, relieved of a terrible burden.

  “Perhaps we should have ordered the dragon to remain,” Mosiah said, “or at least return if we called. We might need to make a swift retreat.”

  Saryon shook his head. “My strength was giving out. The dragon fought me every second. I could not have held the spell much longer. Besides”—he looked around at where we stood in the wind and the rain—”for good or for ill, our journey ends here.”

  “Where is the tomb?” Eliza asked, the first words she had spoken since we left the dragon’s lair.

  “I’m not sure,” said Saryon. “It’s all so different… .”

  The storm was beginning to subside. Thunder still rumbled, but now from a distance. The clouds remained overhead, however, blotting out the starlight and the lights of the starships. Without the flaring lightning, we were all but blind.

  “We could stumble around for hours searching for the tomb,” Saryon said, frustrated. “And we don’t have hours. It’s nearly midnight.”

  Mosiah spoke a word, lifted his hand. A globe of soft yellow light appeared in his palm. I don’t know when the sight of something has been more comforting. It was as if he had reached back to Earth and snatched a bit of sunshine from a summer day, brought it here to cheer us and light our path. The light seemed even to ease the chill. I stopped shivering. Eliza managed a sad smile.

  “There is the tomb,” said Saryon, pointing.

  The light shone on the ruins of the oak trees that had once been the tomb’s guardians. It was a dismal sight until, moving forward, I saw where several thin, supple saplings, growing from the seeds of their parents, were preparing to take over the guardianship duties.

  The tomb, made of pure white marble, stood in the center of the circle of trees. The rest of the grove was overgrown with plant life run amok, but no plants had come near the tomb. Vines creeping that direction twined away, went around it. The grass had grown tall, but the blades bent away, as if they would not, from respect, touch it.

  Mosiah held the light high, for us to see. “I remember when I first came here,” he said quietly. “I felt very peaceful. This was the only part of Merilon where I was truly at home. I am glad to know that, though much has changed around it, the feel of the place remains the same.”

  “It is a blessed place,” said Saryon. “Merlyn’s spirit remains.”

  “Now that we are here, what should I do?” Eliza asked. “Should I lay the Darksword on the tomb or—”

  She caught her breath. I did the same, both of us having seen the same thing at the same time.

  Something already lay on the tomb, a dark form against the tomb’s whiteness.

  “I knew it!” Mosiah muttered, with a bitter oath. “This was a trap. We—don’t! Eliza! Stop!”

  He reached out to grasp hold of her but he was too late. Her loving eyes had seen clearly what was only a vague shadow to the rest of us. With a wild, stricken, hollow cry, Eliza ran toward the tomb. Reaching the marble sarcophagus, she flung the Darksword down onto the wet grass. Hands outstretched, sobbing, she threw herself on the body that lay on the tomb’s cold white surface.

  The body was Joram’s.

  Mosiah paid no attention to the body on the tomb. His responsibility was the Darksword and he hastened to retrieve it, where it lay in the grass, a thing of ugly darkness, not illuminated by his magical light. He had his hand almost on it when he halted.

  “Scylla!” Mosiah shone his light upon her.

  It was not surprising we had not noticed her earlier. She was a huddled mass, leaning against the tomb. Blood covered one side of her face. She opened her eyes and looked up at Mosiah.

  “Flee!” she warned, with a gasping breath. “Take the Darksword and—”

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

  A man clad in white robes emerged from the shadows of the charred oaks. Mosiah made a dive for the Darksword. A beam of light flared out from the darkness, struck Mosiah in the chest, slammed him back against the tomb. He slid down it, collapsed onto the wet grass.

  Bending down, Kevon Smythe picked up the Darksword.

  “A pity you came too late, my dear,” he said, speaking to Eliza. He did not even glance at the two wounded people at his feet. “We had the antidote all prepared, but as you can see, it will do your poor father little good now. His last words were to you. He said he forgave you.”

  I lunged at the smug, triumphant man. I had no weapon, but I think—I know—I could have strangled him.

  I did not go far. Strong hands caught hold of me, hands covered in silver gloves. They affixed a silver disk on my breast. Pain tingled through my body and I found myself unable to move. Just to breathe was a struggle. My limbs were paralyzed.

  They attached silver disks to Saryon, who stood near me, and to Mosiah. I was glad to see that they feared him, for it meant that he was not dead. Scylla’s hands remained free. Her feet were bound by some type of metal restraints that clamped over her combat boots. Weakly, she pushed herself into a sitting position, and I realized that she could not move the lower portion of her body. She looked up at Eliza.

  “Forgive me … Your Majesty,” Scylla said softly. “I … failed you. I failed him.”

  Eliza said nothing. I don’t believe she even heard. She was lost in her grief. Her head lay on her father’s still breast, her arms cradled him. She urged him to come back to her by every term of endearment, but he could no
t respond, not even to her loved voice.

  “Bring the mother,” Smythe called. “We might as well have the entire family.”

  A Technomancer emerged from the shadows of the burned trees, dragging Gwendolyn by the arm. She was disheveled, her clothes stained and torn, but she did not appear to have been harmed.

  The image we had seen in the dragon’s lair must have been a trick, I thought. Yet even now, with proof at hand, I doubted. I had seen the love in her eyes. No disguise, however clever, could have feigned that. Her first concern was for her grieving daughter.

  Gwendolyn put her arms around Eliza, who sobbed against her mother’s breast.

  “Oh, Mother, it is all my fault!”

  “Hush, child!” Gwen smoothed Eliza’s black curls, the curls that were so like her father’s. “It would not have mattered. If you had not taken the Darksword, your father would have used it and they would have killed him. Your father loved you, Eliza, and he was very proud of you.”

  Eliza shook her head, unable to talk. Gwen continued to soothe her.

  “Your father is well, now, child. At long last, he is well and he is happy.”

  Silence fell, a silence broken only by Eliza’s lessening sobs. I glanced worriedly at Saryon. His body trembled with the enormity of his own emotion. Tears slid unchecked down his cheeks. He could not lift his hand to wipe them away.

  Kevon Smythe stood before us, holding the Darksword. His lip curled slightly. “An ugly thing, isn’t it?”

  “You’re no beauty yourself.”

  I knew that voice. Simkin!

  I looked about expectantly, hopefully, my eyes searching the darkness.

  Nothing appeared, not a teapot, not a stuffed bear, not a washed-out, watercolor transparency of the foppish young man.

  I began to doubt myself. Had I really heard the voice? Had anyone else heard it? Smythe was still gazing triumphantly at the sword. The Technomancers, who outnumbered us at least three to one, were at ease, relaxed. Why not? Their captives were completely immobilized. Scylla was concerned with Mosiah, who was starting to regain consciousness. Gwen and Eliza comforted each other. Saryon wept for the man that had been dearer than a son.