Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  I must have imagined it, I thought, despair closing in on me.

  “It is almost midnight, sir,” said one of the Technomancers, speaking to Smythe.

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me. I will take the sword to the meeting place. Once I hand it over to the Hch’nyv—”

  “You’ll be a fool if you do,” Scylla told him. “They will never keep their bargain with you. They will allow no humans to remain alive.”

  “On the contrary, they appear quite well disposed toward us,” Smythe countered smoothly. “Perhaps because we have shown them how we can be of use to them.”

  “What are your orders while you’re away, sir?” the Technomancer asked. “What do we do with these?” The silver-gloved hand gestured, included all of us. “Kill them?”

  “Not all of them,” Smythe replied after a moment’s thought. “Hand the Enforcer over to the Interrogators. He’ll soon be glad to die. Turn the girl and her mother over to the Interrogators as well. Joram must have told them something about how he forged the Darksword, where he discovered the darkstone, and so forth. They may yet be of use to us.”

  I bent every ounce of my strength, my will, into attempting to break free. I focused all my energy upon lifting my hand, to tear the paralyzing disk from my chest. I could not move so much as my little finger.

  “As for the priest and the mute and the CIA agent or whatever she is,” Smythe continued, “we will give them to the Hch’nyv, as a symbol of our good faith. The rest of you, make the arrangements for the first of those refugee ships to land. Go aboard and start the culling process. You know those we want: those who are young, fit, and strong. Pull out the elderly, children below an age where they might be of use, and any who are sick or handicapped. They will be given to the Hch’nyv, as we agreed. Also remove any magi who possess Life and who refuse to join our ranks. Execute them immediately. Once they are back on their homeland, they might be a danger to us.”

  Smythe held up the Darksword, his two hands clasped just beneath the hilt. “Now that the Darksword is mine—”

  “Am I yours?” cried the sword in a mocking voice. “Oh, this is the happiest day of my life! Give us a hug, snookums!”

  The Darksword began to wriggle and writhe. The bulbous head atop the hilt nodded back and forth, the crosspiece—that was like two arms—waved up and down. The blade twitched this way and that. Smythe stared wildly at the undulating sword, clutching it as he might have clutched a snake which he fears will bite him if he lets it fall.

  The crosspiece arms elongated. The bulbous head expanded, the hilt became a neck, the blade transformed into the body of a man not old, not young, with a face like a fox wearing a silky beard. He was dressed all in orange, from his feathered hat to his velvet doublet to his shapely legs and glittering shoes.

  The astonished Smythe still held on to Simkin—a solid, flesh-and-blood Simkin—who laughed and, flinging his arms around Smythe, gave him a smacking kiss on the lips.

  “Did you mean it? Did you truly mean it? Am I yours?” Simkin asked, holding Smythe at arm’s length and regarding him with grave solemnity.

  “Seize him!” Smythe shouted in rage, and struck at Simkin with his hands.

  “Wrong answer,” said Simkin softly.

  A Technomancer ran forward, fixed one of the silver paralyzing disks onto the orange velvet doublet.

  “Why, how kind!” Simkin regarded the disk with an appraising frown, then looked up at the Technomancer. “But I don’t think it goes with my outfit.” Casually, he plucked off the silver disk and placed it neatly on the breast of the startled Technomancer.

  The man’s body jerked, went rigid.

  “Tell me what you have done with the Darksword,” Smythe demanded, almost choked with rage, “or I’ll order them to shoot! You’ll be dead before you can draw your next breath.”

  “Fire away,” said Simkin with a yawn. He leaned against the tomb and stared very hard at his fingernails. “What was that, Smythe? The Darksword? I’ll tell you exactly where it is. It is being guarded by a dragon, a Dragon of the Night. You might be able to recover it, but not before midnight. Poor Cinderella. I’m afraid you’re going to turn into a pumpkin.”

  Smythe gnashed his teeth in fury. “Shoot him!”

  Silver robes shimmered and coalesced. Each Technomancer held a sleek, shining silver handgun.

  A beam of blinding light slashed through the darkness. It did not hit Simkin, but struck the tomb right next to him. The marble exploded, fragments of rock flew through the air. A second beam of laser flared. Simkin caught the light in his hands. Molding the laser light as if it were clay, he made it into a shining ball, and flung it up in the air. The ball transformed into a raven, which took wing, flew once around Simkin’s head, then fluttered down to perch on the tomb. The raven began to clean its beak with a claw.

  Kevon Smythe’s face was mottled red and white. Saliva flecked his lips. “Shoot him!” he tried to command again, but he was so hoarse with fury and fear that his lips formed the words but no sound came out.

  “Oh, I say. I find this quite fatiguing,” said Simkin languidly. He waved an orange silk handkerchief and the Technomancers’ handguns changed into bouquets of tulips. The silver disk fell from my breast onto the ground, where it turned into a mouse and scampered off into the grass. I could move again, breathe again.

  Scylla reached down, plucked off the ankle manacles, as she might have plucked off a pair of shoes. She assisted Mosiah to stand. He was very pale, but fully conscious and alert. He regarded Simkin with narrowed eyes, not trusting him. Saryon was freed as well. His expression was troubled. Simkin was having a good time, playing with us all, not just the Technomancers. Certainly, it appeared that he was on our side, but we had no way of knowing how long that might last, especially if he grew bored. Right now, though, he was simply having fun. The Technomancers produced other weapons: stasis grenades, morph guns, reaper scythes, only to have them transformed into objects strange, useless, and grotesque—anything from saltshak-ers to bananas, clock radios, and pink gin fizzes adorned with tiny umbrellas. The magic burst around us in a dazzling array like a fireworks show gone berserk.

  I began to fear I was losing my mind and I was not surprised to see some of the Technomancers bolt and run.

  In the midst of all his foolery, Simkin caught sight of Eliza. She stood near her mother, staring at him in bewildered astonishment.

  He ceased his magic show. Doffing his feathered hat, he extended his leg, and made a graceful bow. “Your Majesty.” Rising, he replaced the hat at a jaunty angle on his head and asked, “Do you like my outfit? I call it Apocalypse Apricot.”

  Eliza looked dazed. The sight of Simkin emerging from the Darksword had shocked her from her grief. But she didn’t know what to make of this. Like the rest of us, she wondered if he brought victory or if he was fixing the lock and seal on our doom.

  “Who are you?” Kevon Smythe demanded.

  “A pocket of residual magic,” said Simkin with a sly smile. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t know me. You and your kind never did. Oh, you tried to manipulate me. You tried to use me. But it never truly worked, because you never really believed in me.”

  Simkin turned on his fancy orange heel. He gave the raven a pat on the head and smoothed its feathers, to which affectionate gesture the bird answered with a rude croak. Grinning, Simkin walked around the marble tomb to stand at Joram’s head.

  We watched him in silence. None of us moved, not Eliza nor Saryon, not Mosiah, Smythe, nor the Technomancers who still had nerve enough to remain. Simkin held us all in thrall.

  He gazed down at Joram’s ashen face that was still and cold as the marble on which he lay. Simkin ran his fingers through Joram’s black curls, carefully arranged them on the dead man’s shoulders.

  “He believed,” Simkin said. “He could make no use of me whatsoever. I betrayed him, I mocked him, I used him. He shattered a world to free me, he gave his life to protect me. What I do now, I d
o for him.”

  Again, Simkin transformed, shriveling and shrinking, withering in upon himself. He was, once again, the black and unlovely Darksword. Except that this time I noted the sword had a flashing orange jewel embedded in the hilt.

  The Darksword placed itself across Joram’s chest.

  A wind rose from the west, strong and biting cold. Above us, in the night sky, the storm clouds blew away, torn to shreds by the wind. The light of star and starship glittered white against the darkness. And then the wind died. The air was still.

  All waited, stars and wind and ourselves.

  Scylla stretched out her hand. “You can wake up now, Joram. Hurry. It’s nearly midnight.”

  Joram slowly opened his eyes. He looked first at Scylla.

  She nodded. “All is well.”

  I knew then that my vague understandings had been right. She was the one who had sent us hopscotching through time. She was the one who had brought all this about. She was an agent, as she had claimed, but she did not work for the CIA or the FBI. She was an agent of God.

  Joram turned his head, looked over at Gwen and Eliza.

  Gwen smiled, as if she had been a party to the charade. I saw then, gathered around her, shadowy figures, hundreds of them. The dead. She had once spoken for them and they had not forsaken her. She had escaped capture by the Technomancers. The dead had rescued her. The vision we had seen in the dragon’s lair was true.

  Eliza gasped, wanting to believe, yet not daring to believe.

  “No!” Kevon Smythe cried, half-strangled. “It can’t be! You were dead!”

  “ There will be born to the royal house one who is dead but will live, who will die again and live again,’ “ Joram quoted. He sat up, hearty and vigorous, and jumped down from the tomb.

  “Quidquid deliqusti. Amen,” said the Darksword.

  Joram laid the Darksword on Merlyn’s tomb.

  A man appeared beside the tomb. He was tall, with shortcut white hair and a gray, grizzled beard. He wore armor of an ancient design over chain mail. He bore no weapon, other than a staff of oak twined with holly.

  Reaching down, he clasped his hand around the Darksword and picked it up.

  “You’re no Excalibur,” he said, “but you’ll do.”

  “Thank you,” the sword said coldly.

  The old man held the sword high in the air and spoke words long forgotten. Light began to shine from the sword, a light that was blinding to some, for Smythe cried out in pain and flung his arms over his head. His followers clapped their hands over their eyes, lowered their heads, unable to look.

  I could not take my eyes away.

  The light expanded, spreading outward, banishing the darkness. A globe of light surrounded the tomb, and then a globe of light surrounded those of us standing near the tomb. The light flowed outward, to the grove, the broken city of Merilon , the shattered world of Thimhallan.

  The light lit the heavens, encompassed the starships.

  The light lifted us up.

  I stood in a radiant globe that was bearing me upward. Looking down, I saw the dark rain-wet grass below my feet. I saw Smythe gazing up in wonder and horror; seeing his own doom swarming out of the skies to claim him. Thimhallan, a world founded by exiles, fell away from me.

  We would be exiles ourselves, refugees fleeing to some new world, lit by some far distant star.

  But we bore the magic with us.

  EPILOGUE

  Having read and reviewed my manuscript, Saryon suggests that I include a detailed explanation of our time “hopscotching,” for fear that many of my readers may be confused. Certainly, as he said, it was confusing enough just living through it. When Scylla explained it to me later, after we had settled ourselves in our new world, it made much more sense. I have therefore included her descriptions of the alternate time lines in an appendix, which follows.

  I have written before about the various Mysteries of Life that existed on Thimhallan. There were nine of them, seven of them which existed in the world during Joram’s lifetime. Two of the Mysteries—that of Time and that of Spirit—were lost during the Iron Wars. It was believed that all the practitioners of these Mysteries died. That was not the case. Scylla herself was of the Seventh Mystery, that of Time. She was a Diviner.

  Possessing the ability to look into the future, as well as into the past, the Diviners were said to be closest to seeing the Mind of God.

  “We do not view the future as one long path,” Scylla told me. “Rather, we see it as several paths branching off a main road. Mortals can walk but one path at a time, the paths of their choice. The rest are alternate futures, what might have been.”

  The Diviners looked into the future and saw the Hch’nyv. They saw the ultimate defeat of Earth Forces, the eradication of human life from the universe.

  “That existed in all paths,” said Scylla. “All except one and that in only one of his many paths. If Joram could come to the tomb of Merlyn on the very last night at the very last second of the very last minute of the very last hour and in that second present the Darksword to Merlyn, the greatest of all magi would be able to cast a spell that would save humankind from destruction, transport them to a new world.

  “Unfortunately, every path we took to reach that second ended in disaster.

  “We generally do not meddle in time, but this was critical. There was a chance, a slim one, but that chance could be obtained only by a manipulation of times—of jumping between times. It would be tricky, for the participants must be rescued from one time before they died and transported to another. The four of you had to be dropped down in the middle of alternate lives you never knew you had been leading.

  “It was imperative that two of you—you, Reuven, and Mosiah—recalled the alternate time, even though it would confuse you, for you had to be able to take what you learned in one and transfer it to another.

  “As for Eliza and Father Saryon, the tasks each had to perform were so dangerous that I deemed it best, for their own peace of mind, if neither knew of the alternate time. Such knowledge might cause them to hesitate at a critical moment. Also, the fact that they were so comfortable in their own times helped you and Mosiah to adapt more quickly.”

  Scylla grinned at me. “Better to have two of you confused than all of you.”

  That depends on how you look at it, I suppose.

  And this, I believe, wraps up my story. I must put my manuscript aside now, for it is my wedding day. It has been a year to the day that we have spent on this wonderful new world and Eliza and I are marking the anniversary with our wedding.

  Her father, Joram, has accepted our union, though of course he does not consider me at all good enough for his daughter. He will never love me, but I think he is at least beginning to like me a little. He says that he sees much of Father Saryon in me and he smiles his dark smile when he says this, so that I believe it to be a compliment. Most of it, anyway.

  In Gwendolyn, I have found the mother I never knew. She has learned sign language for my sake and we spend a part of each day in study, for she is teaching me much I need to know about how she uses Life. Magic is abundant on this new world of ours. Even we catalysts can use it.

  All but Father Saryon. And Joram.

  He will not even try, though both Gwen and Eliza tease him to do so. He is content with himself as he is, which must be the greatest blessing to come to him in this lifetime.

  As for Scylla and Mosiah, they were married almost as soon as we arrived in our new part of the universe. Theirs is an interesting and exciting life, if dangerous. For, just as there are dark and shadowed parts to the human heart, so there are dark and shadowed parts to the world of our creation.

  Father Saryon is, at last, truly happy and content. He is spending his time formulating a new theory of relativity, having figured out where Einstein went wrong on the last one.

  As for Simkin, we have not seen him since we left Thimhallan.

  But I always look twice at anything orange… .

 
APPENDIX

  This was taken from Scylla’s description of our “time hopscotching,” as Mosiah so inelegantly put it. I have written out each of the three time lines involved. You can see where they have been cut and spliced in my story.

  THE FIRST TIME LINE

  The Darksword is forged. Joram goes Beyond and is gone for ten years. He comes back to Thimhallan to warn of Menju the Sorcerer, a Dark Cultist (one of the blood-doom knights) who has plans to attack Thimhallan. Earth Forces attack. Joram goes to the Temple of the Necromancers, seeking help for his wife, Gwendolyn, who does not communicate with the living but talks only to the dead. Here, due to Simkin’s betrayal, Joram is killed by an assassin’s bullet.

  The Darksword is recovered by the grieving Father Saryon, who rescues Gwen and flees with her to the Font. Earth soldiers attack the Font, and some of the catalysts are killed. Many more are able to hide in the numerous catacombs and tunnels. Here Saryon finds a five-year-old boy whom he names Reuven, crouched near the bodies of his dead parents. Saryon rescues the child and takes him along with Gwen to safety.

  Gwen continues in her madness, only now she is happy for she can talk to Joram, who has become one of the dead. She longs to join him and remains among the living only to give birth to their daughter, Eliza. Gwen dies soon after. Saryon is left to raise Eliza and Reuven. Keeping Eliza’s identity a secret, Saryon flees with the children to Zith-el.

  The armies of Earth win. Menju the Sorcerer plans to take over Thimhallan. Fearful of attack from the magi, he orders that the Well of Life be sealed. The source of magic is shut off, except from a chosen few—Menju and the other Dark Cultists. Magic dies in Thimhallan. The people are forced to learn to live without it. They must rebuild their cities and they turn to the Sorcerers to help them.

  A schism arises among the Dark Cults. Menju is put on trial before the Sol-t’kan. He is found guilty of innumerable crimes, the main one being that he intended to rule Thimhallan alone, without offering to share any of its resources with his brethren. Menju is put to death. Kevon Smythe takes over rulership of the Dark Cultists.