Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Are humans subject to such frailties?” Elspeth asked, frowning.

  “Yes, oh yes!” Saryon said breathlessly, seeing a ray of hope drift down among the moonbeams. “It happens to me constantly!”

  Looking at him, Elspeth smiled. “Then it is well that we mingle the blood of your child with mine. In time, perhaps we will wipe out this weak, human trait. Take him to his chambers, then. You four”—she detailed four of the tallest of the tall faeries—“accompany them. When Simkin is settled, bring my beloved to my bed.”

  Moving closer, she brushed her lips against Saryon’s cheek. Her warm flesh, soft and curving, pressed against his and for an instant the catalyst was as weak as Simkin. Then she was gone, her cloud of golden hair shimmering around her.

  “Let the merriment continue!” she shouted and the darkness came alive.

  Saryon turned, his despair complete, and proceeded to half-walk, half-drag the drunken Simkin through the hall, followed by four dancing faerie guards.

  “Well, it was a good try,” Saryon whispered to Simkin with a sigh. “But it didn’t work.”

  “It didn’t?” asked Simkin, looking about in amazement. “Did they catch us? I don’t remember running!”

  “Running!” Saryon said, puzzled. “What do you mean—running? I thought we were trying to convince them to let us go because you were sick?”

  “I shay, that’sh a good idea!” said Simkin, regarding Saryon with misty-eyed admiration. “Letsh try it.”

  “I did,” snapped Saryon tensely, his arms and back aching with the strain, his hands pricked by the leaves Simkin was wearing. He was growing increasingly nauseated from the smell of forest, wine, and vomit. “It didn’t work.”

  “Oh.” Simkin appeared downcast, then almost immediately cheered up. “I guessh we’ll have to … to make … makearunforit.”

  “Shhh!” cautioned Saryon, glancing back at the guards. “That’s nonsense! You can’t walk, let alone run.”

  “You forget,” said Simkin with a lofty air, “I am a skilled wizard. Class Alionara. Open a con … duit to me, Catalysht, and I … will walk the wings of air.”

  “You really know the way out?” Saryon asked dubiously.

  “Coursh.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Much better … since I was shick.”

  “Very well,” Saryon muttered nervously, glancing back at the guards, who weren’t paying the least attention to them. “Which way?”

  Simkin stared around, swiveling his head like an owl. “That way,” he indicated, nodding at a dark, unused corridor branching off to their right. Glancing behind him, Saryon saw the four guards lagging behind, staring back wistfully at the revelry they were missing.

  “Now!” Simkin cried.

  Saryon started to whisper a prayer to the Almin. Remembering bitterly that he was on his own now, he opened a conduit to the magic around him. Drawing it into his body, he hastily made the mathematical calculations necessary to give the young man Life, but not enough to completely drain himself. Filled with the magic he could never use, he extended the conduit to Simkin and felt the surge as the young wizard drew it from him.

  Suffused with magical energy, Simkin took to the air with the grace of a drunken loon.

  Seeing the young man safely on his way, Saryon broke into a run, the pent-up fear and nervousness surging in his blood giving him an unusual burst of strength as he dashed down the cavern corridor. He heard their guards cry out, but he dared not risk looking behind him to see what was happening. He was having enough trouble staying on his feet as it was. Though here and there a torch sputtered on the wall, the cavern corridor was shadowy, the floor was strewn with rocks and rubble. He had no idea where they were headed. Corridors branched off in all directions, but Simkin flew past them without pausing, his leaves fluttering around him like those of a tree in a high wind.

  The shouting behind them grew louder, echoing down the cavern walls in an alarming fashion. Saryon thought he could hear Elspeth’s furious voice rising shrill and harsh above them all. The torches winked out, plunging them into a darkness so complete that Saryon instantly lost all sense of what was ahead of him, above him, or below him.

  “Ouch! Drat!”

  “Simkin?” Saryon cried fearfully, coming to a halt, not daring to take another step in the darkness, though he could hear the shouts of the faeries exulting loudly.

  “More Life, Catalyst!” Simkin called out.

  His breath coming in gasps, his heart lurching in his chest, Saryon opened the conduit once again. Immediately the corridor was lit with a faint light, shining from Simkin’s hands. The young magus hovered before him, rubbing his nose.

  “Bashed into a wall,” he said ruefully.

  Glancing back, Saryon saw lights leaping down the corridor, gaining on them rapidly. “Lets go!” he gasped and ran forward, only to stumble very quickly backward with a cry.

  A huge black spider, nearly as large as the corridor itself, hung in a gigantic web spun across their path. A sudden vision of having plummeted into that web in the darkness, of hairy legs crawling over his body, of stinging poison paralyzing him crowded into Saryon’s mind, leaving him so weak and drained that he could barely stand.

  Leaning back against the wall, he stared at the hideous spider that was watching them with fiery red eyes. “It’s useless,” he said quietly. “We can’t fight them!”

  “Non … sense!” Simkin remarked. Flying over to Saryon, he grabbed the catalyst by the arm and tugged him down the corridor, heading for the web.

  “Are you mad?” Saryon gasped.

  “Come on!” Simkin insisted. Dragging the terrified catalyst along after him, he lunged straight for the body of the huge spider.

  Frantically, Saryon tried to break free of Simkin’s hold, but the young man, now filled with magical energy, was too strong. The spider’s red eyes loomed larger than twin suns, its hairy legs reached out, the web was wrapping round, suffocating him ….

  Saryon closed his eyes.

  “I say, old friend, I can’t keep this up for ever,” came an aggrieved voice.

  Opening his eyes, Saryon saw, to his amazement, nothing.

  The dark corridor stretched ahead of them, empty except for Simkin, who hovered in the air near him.

  “What? The spider—” Saryon glanced around wildly.

  “Illusion,” Simkin said scornfully. “I was … fairly certain … it wasn’t real. Elspeth’s good … not that good. Real spider in the wink of a … finger? Hah!” He snorted. “Coursh,” he added, struck by a sudden thought, his eyes widening. “Always possibility, I’spose … real spider … posted to guard corridor. Never occurred to me. Almin’s blood, we dashed right into the middle of the web!” Seeing Saryon’s horrified expression, the young magus shrugged and clapped Saryon on the shoulder. “Could have been a bit sticky for us, couldn’t it, old fellow?”

  Too exhausted to speak, Saryon could only draw in painful breaths and try to push the terror out of his mind. Shouts behind him helped considerably.

  “How far do we have to go?” he managed to ask, stumbling forward.

  “Round … bend.” Simkin pointed. “I think ….” Glancing at the catalyst staggering wearily along the ground beside him, the young man asked, “You going to make it?”

  Saryon nodded his head grimly, though his legs had long ago lost any sensation of feeling and seemed to be just so much dead weight for him to carry around. The shouts were getting closer. Glancing behind again, he could see the dancing lights, or perhaps it was spots bursting before his eyes. He wasn’t certain and, at that moment, he didn’t care. “They’re gaining,” he croaked, his voice catching in his throat as a sharp, swift pain tore through his side.

  “I’ll stop that!” Simkin said. Whirling about in midair, he raised his hand. Lightning shot from his fingers, exploded on the cavern ceiling, and immediately the air around them was filled with booming thunder, falling rock, and the choking smell of sulfur.

&nbs
p; Blinded, deafened, and in dire peril of being struck on the head by the collapsing cavern roof, Saryon hurled himself forward, assisted by Simkin. “That ought to keep them busy,” the young man muttered in pleased tones as they dashed down the corridor.

  The catalyst had no idea what happened after that. He ran and stumbled and fell, and had the vague impression of Simkin hauling him to his feet, and ran some more. He had the hazy remembrance of pleading with Simkin to let him lie down and die in the darkness and end the burning pain that was tearing through his body. He heard shouts behind him and then the shouts stopped and he wanted to stop, but Simkin wouldn’t let him and then there were shouts again and finally … sunlight.

  Sunlight. It was the only thing that could have penetrated the darkness of fear and pain that was closing over Saryon. They had escaped! Fresh air blew on his face, giving him added strength. With a final burst of energy that came from somewhere unknown inside him, the catalyst made a lunge for the opening he could see now, shining brightly at the end of the tunnel.

  What would he do once he was outside? Would the faeries follow them into the forest? Pursue them, hunt them down, drag them back? Saryon didn’t know and he didn’t care. If he could just feel the sun on his face, grass beneath his feet, see sheltering trees spread their boughs above him—everything would be all right. He knew it.

  Victory and exultation flooding through him, Saryon reached the end of the tunnel, burst out into the sunlight …

  … and nearly fell off the edge of a sheer cliff.

  Grabbing hold of the catalyst, Simkin dragged Saryon away from the end of the ledge, stumbling backward into a rock wall. Saryon sank to his knees, at first too exhausted and confused to comprehend what had happened. When the dizziness cleared and he was able to look around, he saw that he and Simkin were perched on a small ledge of rock that extended out from the tunnel about ten feet before it ended in a drop of a hundred feet or more straight down into a heavily wooded river canyon.

  His body aching, his hope dashed as effectively as if it had leaped off the rock edge and tumbled to the ground below, Saryon could do nothing but look at Simkin, too exhausted even to speak.

  “This is rather unexpected,” the young man admitted, stroking his beard as he stared down into the tops of the trees below. “I know!” he said suddenly. “Damn! I should have taken a right at the second fork instead of a left. I always make that mistake.”

  Saryon closed his eyes. “Go ahead and save yourself,” he said. “You have Life enough to float down on the wind currents.”

  “And leave you behind? No, no, old fellow,” Simkin said. He floated over to stand before the catalyst, still weaving slightly from the effects of the wine. “Couldn’t think of abandon … doning you. Like a … a father to me ….”

  “Don’t start crying!” Saryon snapped.

  “No, sorry.” Simkin choked and wiped his nose. “We’re not done for yet, if you have a bit more strength left?” He peered at the catalyst hopefully.

  “I don’t know.” Saryon shook his head. He wasn’t certain he had strength enough to even keep breathing.

  “It’s this sort of talent I’ve got,” Simkin said persuasively. “I can change myself into inanimate objects.”

  Saryon stared at him, uncomprehending. “That’s crazy,” he said finally. “I know the mathematical calculations involved. It’d take six catalysts, with full strength, to give you enough Life—”

  He heard the shouts behind him then, mingled with harsh, raucous laughter as the faeries realized their prey was trapped.

  “No!” Simkin said eagerly. “I said, it’s my talent. I can do it at will, with just my own force generally. Now, I’m a bit flagged and somewhat muddled from the wine, so if you could help …”

  “I don’t—”

  “Quickly, man!” Simkin cried, grabbing hold of Saryon and pulling him to his feet.

  Too spent to argue, not caring anyway, Saryon opened the conduit and expended his last energy. Magic flowed through him like blood from an open vein and then he was empty, drained. He had no more to give, not having the strength required to draw in any more from the world around him. The shouts grew louder and louder. They’d be here soon. Perhaps he should just jump, he thought, and stared dreamily out over the ledge.

  He pictured himself falling through the air, the ground leaping up to meet him, his body crashing onto sharp rocks, smashing, breaking ….

  Feeling his stomach clench, Saryon backed up precipitously … and walked right into a tree. Whirling, he looked at the tree in amazement. It hadn’t been there before. The ledge had been bare ….

  “Up! Climb up!” the tree said in a muffled voice.

  Staring in wonder, Saryon reached out a trembling hand to touch the tree’s rough bark. “Simkin?”

  “There’s no time to waste! Hide in the boughs! Quickly!”

  Too tired to think clearly or even to marvel at this strange occurrence, Saryon hitched his robes up around his waist and, catching hold of a low-hanging bough, pulled himself up into the tree that was standing on the edge of the rock ledge.

  “Higher! You’ve got to climb higher!”

  Clinging to the trunk, Saryon managed to scrabble his way up a little farther. Then he came to a stop. Pressing his cheek against the limb, he shook his head. “I … can’t … go … any further ….”he murmured brokenly.

  “All right!” The tree sounded irritated. “Hold still. Thank goodness you’re wearing green.”

  This won’t fool them, Saryon thought, listening to the voices echoing in the cavern. All it will take is one of them to look up here or fly up here and—

  A gust of wind hit the tree and a limb beneath Saryon’s feet gave way with a sudden snap. Grasping hold of a branch, pulling himself up, the catalyst stared down at the splintered limb and hope vanished completely. Brown and dried up inside, the limb was dead, as dead as he himself was going to be soon. Another gust swirled about the mountain, another dead branch fell to the ledge. Beneath him, Saryon could feel the entire tree shaking and shivering. There was a crack, then a snapping and rending sound. Finally, with a heartrending shudder, the tree toppled over the edge of the cliff.

  Clinging to Simkin’s bark and leaves, Saryon heard the young man murmuring to himself as they fell.

  “Strike me dead! I’m rotten.”

  6

  The Coven of the Wheel

  “So this is the catalyst.”

  “Yes, dear boy. Not a very imposing specimen, is he? Still, there must be more to him than was readily apparent to me after our little outing. He’s been sent here after you, Joram.”

  “Sent? Who sent him?”

  “Bishop Vanya.”

  “Oh, and the catalyst told you that, did he, Simkin?”

  “Of course, Mosiah. I’m in the old chaps complete confidence. He thinks of me as the son he never had. Told me so many times. Not that I trust him. After all, he is a catalyst. But I heard the same thing from Bishop Vanya—about Joram, that is. Not about me being the son he never had.”

  “And I suppose the Emperor sent along his regards …”

  “I’m sure I don’t know why he would. Not to you peasants. Go ahead and laugh. I have merely to await the day of my vindication. This Saryon is after you, Dark One.”

  “He looks in fairly bad shape. What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing! ’Pon my honor. Is it my fault, Mosiah, that it is a cruel and vicious world out there? A world into which, I daresay, our catalyst will not soon dare to venture by himself.”

  Saryon awakened with a sneeze.

  His head was clogged and aching, and he was afflicted with a sore, raw throat. Coughing, the catalyst huddled into his robes, afraid to open his eyes. He was lying in a bed, but where? In my own bed, in my cell in the Font, he told himself. When I open my eyes, that’s what I’ll see. This has all been a dream.

  For several pleasant minutes he lay wrapped in his blankets, pretending. He even pictured all the old familiar objects i
n his room, his books, the tapestries he’d brought from Merlion, all would be there, just as it was.

  Then he heard someone moving about. Sighing, Saryon opened his eyes.

  He was in a small room, the likes of which he had never seen before. Pale sunlight filtering through a cracked window illuminated a scene the catalyst might have pictured existing Beyond. The walls of the room were not shaped of stone or of wood, but were made up of perfectly formed rectangles arranged one on top of the other. It had a most unnatural appearance and, looking at it, the catalyst shuddered. Everything in the room appeared unnatural, in fact, he noticed with growing horror as he propped himself up to look around. A table in the center had not been crafted lovingly from a single piece of wood, but was made up of several different pieces of wood brutally forced together. Several chairs were formed the same way, looking misshapen and fiendish. If Saryon had seen a human being walking about whose body had been made from the bodies of other dead humans, he could not have been more appalled. He imagined he could almost hear the wood screaming in agony.

  But there was the sound again. Saryon peered uncertainly into the shadows of the small room.

  “Hello?” he wheezed.

  There was no reply. Puzzled, he lay back down again. He could have sworn he heard voices. Or had that been a dream? He’d had so many dreams lately, terrible dreams. Faeries and the most beautiful woman and a dreadful tree—

  With another sneeze, he sat up in bed, groping about for something to wipe his streaming nose.

  “I say, O Bruised and Battered Father, will this do?”

  A bit of orange silk materialized out of the air, fluttering to lie on the blanket near Saryon’s hand. The catalyst drew back from it as though it had been a snake.

  “Tis I. In the flesh, so to speak.”

  Looking behind him, toward the sound of the voice, Saryon saw Simkin standing at the head of the bed. At least the catalyst supposed it was the young man who had “rescued” him in the Outland. Gone were the plain brown robes of a woods ranger, gone were the leaves of the faerie. A brocade coat of the most startling blue, combined with a paler blue waistcoat, covered a red silken blouse that glowed brighter than the watery sun. Green skintight breeches were buckled with red jewels at the knees, his legs were wrapped in red silken hose, while green frothy lace peeped out from everywhere—wrists, throat, waistcoat. His brown hair was sleek and shiny, his beard combed smooth.