Saryon was staring at him in amazement. “Abandoned children? But—”
“Me either,” Simkin continued with his tight, little laugh. “They just … disappear … I saw it happen. Friends of mine. Vanished. Never seen nor heard from again. One day, the Enforcers suddenly materialized in the street right before me. I couldn’t escape. I can still hear”—Simkin’s eyes grew dreamy—“the rustle of their black robes, so near me, so near … I was terrified. You can’t imagine … My one thought was that they mustn’t see me and I concentrated on that thought with my whole being.” He smiled suddenly. “And, you know what? They didn’t see me. The Duuk-tsarith walked right past me … as they would have walked past any other water pail on the street.”
Saryon rubbed his head. “You’re saying that out of sheer terror, you were able to—”
“Perform a remarkable transformation? Yes,” Simkin replied with a touch of modest pride. “Later, I learned to control it. Thus, I survived many, many years.”
Saryon was silent a moment, then he said grimly, “What about your sister?”
“Sister?” Simkin glanced at him in bemusement. “What sister? I’m an orphan.”
“The sister the Coven is holding captive, remember? And then there’s your father? The one the Enforcers dragged off. The one I remind you of ….”
“I say, old fellow”—Simkin looked at him in deep concern—“you must have received a smart blow to the head when we jumped off the cliff. Whatever are you talking about?”
“We didn’t jump,” Saryon said through clenched teeth. “We fell because you were rotten—”
“Rotting!” Simkin stopped dead in the street, his face stricken. “I am wounded, wounded deeply. Here, take my dagger”—one materialized in his hand—“and stab me in the heart!” Yanking aside his brocade coat, he revealed a broad expanse of green shirt. “I can live no longer with the stain of this dishonor!”
“Oh, come on!” Saryon said, aware that everyone in the vicinity was staring at them.
“Not until you have apologized!” Simkin said dramatically.
“Very well, I apologize!” Saryon muttered, staring at the young man in confusion so vast he couldn’t even begin to frame questions.
“I accept,” Saryon said graciously, and the dagger disappeared, replaced by a flutter of orange silk.
Looking into Joram’s eyes, Saryon had seen a soul—tormented, dark, burning with anger—but a soul nonetheless, its very passions giving it life. Looking into the eyes of the warlock, Saryon saw nothing. Flat, opaque, the eyes regarded him fixedly for several moments, then, with a flicker of the thin lids, Blachloch bade him be seated.
Saryon obeyed, his will drained from him by those eyes quite as effectively as by any spell.
Duuk-tsarith. A privileged class. Their black-robed presence in Thimhallan granted security and peace. This did not come cheaply, but the people, remembering the old days, were willing to pay the price.
Though vastly different, in many ways the warlock class mirrored that of their opposites, the catalysts. As powerful in magic as the catalysts are weak, the children born to the Mystery of Fire are a rarity in the world. They, too, are taken from their homes at an early age and placed in a school whose very location is secret. Here the powerful magic skills of the young witches and warlocks are developed and channeled. Here they are taught the strict, severe discipline that will henceforth govern their lives. The training is harsh and demanding, for it is necessary to leash this power and keep it under control. That was what started the trouble long ago in the old Dark World, so legend tells. Witches and warlocks, not content with keeping their magic art hidden, went abroad into the land to try to claim it as their own. They brought down the wrath of the populace upon their race. The persecutions began that would eventually force many of their people to flee the land and seek a new home among the stars.
Most of those born with the Mystery of Fire become Duuk-tsarith, the Enforcers, the lawkeepers of Thimhallan. A few, the most powerful, become DKarn-Duuk, the War Masters. There are, of course, those who fail. Nothing is said of these. They do not return to their homes. They simply vanish. It is widely believed that they are sent Beyond.
What is their reward for this strict, dark life? Limitless power. The knowledge that even the Emperors themselves, though they do their best to hide it, look with fear upon those black-robed figures that glide silently about the Royal Palaces. For the Duuk-tsarith possess a magical spell that is theirs and theirs alone. As the catalyst has the power to grant Life, the Enforcer has the power to take that Life away. Rarely seen, rarely speaking, the Duuk-tsarith walk the streets or halls or fields, cloaked in invisibility, armed with the Null-magic that can drain the Life from mage or wizard, leaving him as helpless and powerless as a babe.
Blachloch was one of the failures. Not content with power, the story had it that he sought richer, more material reward. No one knew how he had managed to escape. It must have been no easy task, and proved the man’s extraordinary skill and cool courage, for the Duuk-tsarith live together, isolated in their own small community, keeping themselves under a surveillance as strict as the surveillance of the populace.
Saryon considered all of this as he sat, chilled and nervous, in the presence of the black-robed warlock. Blachloch had been working in his ledgers again and had, indeed, only laid such work aside once the catalyst and Simkin had been introduced by one of the henchmen.
Wrapped in the accustomed silence of his kind, Blachloch stared at Saryon, learning more from the way the man sat, from the lines on the face, from the position of the hands and arms, than he could have learned in an hour of interrogation.
Though he fought to remain calm and unmoved, Saryon fidgeted under the scrutiny. Terrifying memories of his own brief encounter with the Enforcers in the Font at the time of his crime made his throat dry and the palms of his hands sweat. Part of their effectiveness lay in their ability to intimidate by their presence alone. The black robes, the folded hands, the enforced silence, the expressionless face—all this was carefully taught. Taught to engender one emotion—fear.
“Your name, Father,” was Blachloch’s first spoken words, not so much a question as a verification.
“Saryon,” the catalyst replied after a first unsuccessful attempt to speak.
The warlock’s hands rested on his desk, the fingers interlacing. Silence as thick and heavy as the black robes he wore blanketed the room. Blachloch stared at the catalyst impassively.
Gradually becoming more and more unnerved, feeling those penetrating eyes plunging deep into his soul, Saryon was not comforted by the fact that even Simkin appeared subdued, the gaudy colors of his attire seeming to fade in the dark shadow of the warlock’s presence.
“Father,” said Blachloch at last, “it is a custom in this village that no one questions a man’s past. I allow this custom to continue, generally because a man’s past doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. But there is something in your face I don’t like, Catalyst. In the lines around your eyes I see scholar, not renegade. In the sunburned skin I see one who is accustomed to spending long hours in libraries, not fields. In the mouth, the set of the shoulders, the expression of the eyes, I see weakness. Yet you are a man, so I am told, who rebelled against your Order and ran into the most dangerous, deadly place in this world—the Outland. Therefore, tell me your story, Father Saryon.”
Saryon glanced at Simkin, who was toying with the bit of orange silk, affecting playfully to tie it around the feather in his cap that sat on his lap. The young man neither looked at him nor appeared the least bit interested in the proceedings. There was no help for it but to play this bitter game to its conclusion.
“You are right, Duuk-tsarith—”
Blachloch did not appear disturbed at this use of a title he had no claim to. Saryon had adopted it, hearing one of his henchmen address him as such.
“—I am a scholar. My special field of study is mathematics. Seventeen years ago,” continued Saryon in a l
ow voice that surprised himself with its steadiness, “I committed a crime brought about by my thirst for knowledge. I was caught reading forbidden books—”
“Which forbidden books?” interrupted Blachloch. As Duuk-tsarith he would, of course, be familiar with most banned texts.
“Those dealing with the Ninth Mystery,” Saryon replied.
Blachloch’s eyelids flickered, but otherwise he made no sign. Pausing to see if the warlock had any further questions, Saryon felt rather than saw that Simkin was listening attentively, with unusual interest. The catalyst drew a breath. “I was discovered. Due to my youth, but due more to the fact, I believe, that my mother was cousin to the Empress, my crime was hushed up. I was sent to Merilon, in hopes that I would soon forget my interest in the Dark Arts.”
“Yes, so much I know to be true. Catalyst,” said Blachloch, his hands unmoving, still folded together, still resting on his desk. “Continue.”
Saryon blanched, a tightening sensation gripping his stomach. He had assumed correctly that Blachloch would already know something about him. The man undoubtedly still had contacts among the Enforcers, and such information would not be hard to acquire. Then, of course, there was always Simkin. Who knew what game of his own he was playing?
“I—I discovered that I could not help myself, however. I am … fascinated by the Dark Arts. I was … an embarrassment to my Order at Court. It was a simple thing to have myself transferred back to the Font where I hoped to continue—in secret, of course—my studies. That was not to be, however. My mother had just recently died. I had formed no strong ties nor attachments at court. I was, therefore, considered a threat and so I was sent to the settlement of Walren.”
“A wretched life—Field Catalyst, but a secure one,” Blachloch remarked. “Certainly better than life in the Outland.” Moving slowly and deliberately, the two index fingers of the warlock’s hands unfolded and extended themselves. It was the first sign of movement the man had made since they entered, and both Simkin and Saryon could not help but watch, fascinated, as the fingers came together, a flesh-and-bone dagger, pointing at the catalyst. “Why did you leave?”
“I heard about the Coven,” Saryon answered, maintaining his steady tone. “I was rotting in that village. My mind was turning to mush. I came here to study and learn … the Dark Arts.”
Blachloch did not move or speak. The fingers remained pointed at Saryon and, if they had been a dagger held to his throat, he could have felt no greater pain or fear than he experienced staring at them as they rested upon the desk.
“Very well,” Blachloch said suddenly, the sound of his voice making the near-hypnotized catalyst start. “You will study. Only you must learn not to faint at the sight of the iron forge.”
Blood rushed to Saryon’s face. Lowering his head before the gaze of those flat eyes, he hoped it would be taken for confusion, not for guilt. It hadn’t been the sight of the forge itself that upset him—not nearly as much as the sight of Joram.
“You will be given a house in the village and share in our food. But, like everyone else here, you will be expected to work for us in return …”
“I will be more than happy to provide my services to the people of the settlement,” Saryon said. “The Healer tells me that the mortality rate among the children is very great. I hope—”
“We will be leaving within the week,” pursued Blachloch, completely ignoring the catalyst’s words, “to lay in stores for the winter. Our work in the forge and the mines takes up so much manpower that, as you might imagine, we are unable to devote ourselves to raising food. The Field Magi settlements provide us with what we need, therefore.”
“I will accompany you, if that is what you want,” said Saryon, somewhat mystified, “but I think I could be of much more use here—”
“No, Father. You will be of much more use to me,” said Blachloch expressionlessly. “You see, the villages do not know that they are going to be helping us through the long winter. In the past, we were forced to depend on raids, stealing food by night. Demeaning work that generally acquires very little. But”—he shrugged and moved his fingers up to rest upon his lips—“we had no magic. Now, we have you. We have Life. What is more important, we have Death. This winter should be a good one for us, will it not, Simkin?”
If this sudden question was intended to startle the young man, it did not succeed. Apparently absorbed in now trying to untie the orange silk from around the feather, Simkin discovered that the knot was too tight. After tugging at it without result, he irritably consigned both hat and silk to the ethers.
“I really don’t care what kind of winter you have, Blachloch,” he said with a bored air, “since I’ll be spending most of it in court. Robbing the natives does sound a bit of a lark, though …”
“I—I cannot help you do that!” Saryon stammered. “Robbing—Those people have barely enough to live on as it is—”
“The penalty for running away, Catalyst, is the Turning. Have you ever seen it done? I have.” The fingers on the lips moved, descending slowly to point once more at Saryon. “I can see your mind working, scholar. Yes, as you surmised, I have contacts still among my Order. Telling them where to find you would be simplicity itself. I would even receive money. Not as much as I can earn using you, but enough to make the thought one that I can consider with equanimity. I suggest you spend the remaining days learning how to ride a horse.”
The hands unfolded and separated, one stretching out to grip the catalyst’s arm. “It is a pity there is only one of you,” Blachloch remarked, his eyes holding Saryon in their imprisoning gaze. “Had we more catalysts, I could mutate some of the men and give them wings, allowing them to attack from the air. I studied the skills of the DKarn-Duuk for a time.” The grip tightened painfully. “It was thought I might qualify as a War Master, but I was considered … unstable …. Still, if all goes well in the North Kingdom, who knows. Perhaps I may be War Master yet. And now, Catalyst, before you leave, grant me Life.”
Staring at the man in horror, Saryon was so shaken that he could not, for the moment, remember the words of his ritual prayer.
Blachloch’s grasp tightened still further, fingers of iron closing over the catalyst’s arm. “Grant me Life,” he said softly.
Bowing his head, Saryon complied. Opening his being to the magic, he drew it into him and let a portion of it flow through him into the warlock.
“More,” said Blachloch.
“I can’t—I am weak—”
The grip grew tighter, enhanced by magical energy. Sharp needles of pain darted through the catalyst’s arm. Gasping, he let the magic surge through him, suffusing the warlock with Life. Then he collapsed, drained, back in his chair.
His face expressionless, Blachloch released him. “You are dismissed.”
Though he did not speak and made no gesture, the door to the room opened and one of the henchmen stepped inside. Rising unsteadily to his feet, Saryon turned numbly and walked toward the door with faltering steps. Simkin, yawning, rose too, but subsided into his chair again upon noticing an almost-imperceptible flicker of the warlock’s eyelids.
“If you can’t find your way back, O Bald One,” called Simkin languidly, “wait for me. I’ll just be a moment.”
Saryon did not hear him. The rushing of blood in his ears was too loud, unbalancing him. It was all he could do to walk.
Glancing out the window, into the darkening evening, Simkin saw the catalyst stagger and nearly fall, then lean wearily against a tree.
“I really should go help the poor chap,” Simkin said. “You were rather brutal with him, after all.”
“He’s lying.”
“Egad, my dear Blachloch, according to you Duuk-tsarith, there isn’t a person alive on this planet from the age of six weeks on up who ever breathes a word of truth.”
“You know the real reason why he is here.”
“I told you already, O Merciless Master. Bishop Vanya sent him.”
The warlock stared at the yo
ung man.
Simkin blanched. “It’s the truth. He’s after Joram,” he muttered.
Blachloch raised an eyebrow. “Joram?” he repeated.
Simkin shrugged. “The young man they brought from the settlement half-dead. The dark one with the hair …. Chap who killed the overseer. He works in the forge—”
“I know him,” Blachloch said with a shade of irritation. He continued to stare intently at the young man, who was gazing out the window at Saryon. “Look at me, Simkin,” the warlock said softly.
“Very well, if you insist, although I find you extremely uninteresting,” Simkin replied, attempting to stifle a yawn. Lounging back in his chair, one silk-clad leg thrown over the armrest, he gazed at Blachloch obligingly. “I say, do you use a lemon rinse on your hair? If so, it’s starting to go a bit dark at the roots—” Suddenly, Simkin stiffened, his playful voice grew harsh. “Stop it, Blachloch. I know what … you’re trying to do ….” His words trailed off drowsily. “I’ve been … shrough thish be … bevore …”
Shaking his head, Simkin tried to break free, but the flat blue eyes of the Enforcer held him fast in their unblinking, unwavering stare. Slowly, the eyelids of the young man fluttered, blinked, opened wide, then fluttered, blinked, fluttered, and closed.
Murmuring words of magic, ancient words of power and spellbinding, Blachloch rose slowly and silently to his feet and walked around the desk to stand near Simkin. Chanting the words over and over again in a soothing refrain, he rested his hands upon Simkin’s smooth, shining hair. The warlock closed his eyes and, throwing his head back, exerted all his powers of concentration upon the young man. “Let me see into your mind. The truth, Simkin, tell me everything you know …”
Simkin began to whisper something.
Smiling, Blachloch stooped low to hear.
“I call it … Grape Rose …. Mind the thorns …. I don’t believe … they’re poisonous ….”
Forging the Darksword Page 26
