Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Glancing at the young man, Saryon’s face grew grave and he did not immediately reply.

  Mosiah saw the look and understood. “That’s it, isn’t it,” he said bitterly. “I’m in for a lecture.”

  “Not a lecture,” Saryon answered, smiling. “He said only that he’d heard some things about these people that he didn’t like to hear. He hoped the rumors weren’t true but, if they were, that you would remember what you were brought up to believe, and that he and your mother loved you, and that you were in their thoughts.”

  Looking at the young man, Saryon saw crimson stain the smooth cheeks, where there was just the faintest growth of beard. But the shame—if that’s what it had been—was gone almost immediately, replaced by anger. “What he’s heard is wrong.”

  “What about this raid?”

  “These people are good people.” Mosiah glared at Saryon defiantly. “All they want is to have the same chance at life others have. All right,” he said quickly when it seemed Saryon would speak, “maybe I don’t like some of what they do, maybe I don’t think it’s right. But we have a right to survive.”

  “By doing this? By robbing others? Andon tells me—”

  Mosiah made an impatient gesture. “Andon is an old man—”

  “He tells me that before the coming of Blachloch, the Technologists were able to provide for themselves,” Saryon continued. “They farmed the land, using tools instead of magic.”

  “We don’t have time now. We’re working too hard. We have to eat this winter!” Mosiah retorted angrily.

  “So do the people we’re robbing.”

  “We don’t take much. Joram said so. We leave them plenty—”

  “Not this year. This year you have me, a catalyst. This year Blachloch can use me to enhance his powers. Have you ever seen the magic a warlock can summon?”

  “Then, why are you here?” Mosiah asked abruptly, turning to look at Saryon, his face grim. “Why did you run to the Outland if you’re full of such righteous notions?”

  “You know,” replied the catalyst in a low voice. “I heard Simkin tell you.”

  Mosiah shook his head. “Simkin can’t tell you the time of day without lying,” he said scornfully. “If you mean that nonsense about you coming for Joram—”

  “It isn’t nonsense.”

  Mosiah blinked, staring. Saryon’s face, though pale and haggard with weariness, was composed. “What?” he repeated, not certain he had heard correctly.

  “It isn’t nonsense,” the catalyst said. “I was sent here to take Joram back for justice.”

  “But … Why? Why are you telling me this?” Mosiah demanded in confusion. “Do you want something from me, is that it? Do you want me to help you? Because I won’t! Not Joram! He’s my—”

  “No, of course not,” Saryon interrupted, shaking his head with a sad smile. “I don’t want anything from you. What I do about Joram, I must do alone.” Sighing, he rubbed his eyes wearily. “I told you because I promised your father I would speak to you if I found you involved in this …” He waved his hand.

  The two rode together in silence through the dreary rain. Faintly, behind them, above the jingle of the harness and plodding hoofbeats, Mosiah heard Simkin’s raucous laughter.

  “You could have preached me your sermon without telling me the truth about yourself, Father. I didn’t believe Simkin anyway. No one ever does,” Mosiah muttered, his hand twisting the reins, his eyes on the horse’s tangled mane. “I don’t know what you mean about taking Joram in for justice. I don’t see how you could,” he added, glancing at the catalyst with contempt. “I’ll warn Joram, of course. I still don’t understand why you told me. “You must have realized this would make us enemies, you and me.”

  “Yes, and I am sorry,” Saryon answered, hunching deeper into his soggy cloak. “But I was afraid you wouldn’t have paid attention to me otherwise. My ‘sermon’ wouldn’t have had much impact if you thought I was talking out one side of my mouth as the saying goes. Now, at least, I hope you will think about what I have told you.”

  Mosiah did not answer, but continued to stare down at the horse’s mane. His expression hardened; the hand twisting the reins gripped them firmly. “Your conscience can feel eased now,” he said, raising his head. “You’ve done your duty to my father. But, speaking of conscience, I don’t see you hesitate to obey Blachloch when he tells you to grant him Life. Or perhaps you’re thinking of disobeying,” Mosiah said with a sneer, recalling the punishment at which Joram had hinted. Expecting the weak-appearing catalyst to cower and cringe, the young man was startled to see him meet his gaze with quiet dignity.

  “That is my shame,” Saryon answered steadily, “and I must deal with it as you must deal with yours.”

  “I have no need to deal—” began Mosiah angrily, but was interrupted by Simkin’s lilting voice, rising above the sound of rain and hooves.

  “Mosiah, Mosiah! Where are you?”

  Irritably, the young man turned around in the saddle, looking behind him and waving his hand. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he shouted. Then he turned back to the catalyst. “One last thing I don’t understand, Father. Why did you tell Simkin about Joram? Preaching him a sermon, too?”

  “I didn’t tell Simkin,” Saryon said. Awkwardly kicking at his horse with his big, ungainly feet, the weary catalyst urged the animal forward. “You better go, they’re calling for you. Good-bye, Mosiah. I hope we can talk again.”

  “Didn’t tell him! Then how—”

  But Saryon shook his head. Pulling his hood low over his eyes, he rode on, leaving Mosiah to stare after him in confusion.

  “You’re too gullible.”

  “You weren’t there,” Mosiah muttered. “You didn’t see him, the look on his face. He’s telling the truth. Oh, I know how you feel about that”—seeing the bitter half-smile in Joram’s dark eyes—“but you have to admit that Simkin did tell us the catalyst was here for you. And if the catalyst claims he didn’t tell Simkin, then how—”

  “What does it matter?” Joram snapped impatiently, staring moodily into the small fire they had built to dry their clothes. The group had found shelter for the night in a huge cave they’d discovered in the hillside near the river. Since it was rare to find a cave in the Outland unoccupied, Blachloch had entered it cautiously, keeping his catalyst with him. Upon investigation, it proved empty, however, and the warlock decided it was a safe place in which to stay. The only drawback was an atrocious smell coming from a pile of refuse in a dark corner; refuse no one wanted to examine too closely. Though they had burned it, the smell lingered on. Blachloch said the cave had probably been inhabited by trolls.

  “Of course it doesn’t matter to you about the catalyst,” Mosiah said bitterly, starting to get to his feet. “Nothing ever matters to you ….”

  Reaching out, Joram gripped his friend’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said in a tight voice, the words coming with difficulty. “I thank you … for the warning.” The half-smile twisted his lips. “I don’t consider one middle-aged catalyst much of a threat, but I’ll be on my guard. As for Simkin”—he shrugged—“ask him how he found out.”

  “But you can’t believe that fool!” Mosiah said in exasperation, sitting back down.

  “Fool? Did I hear someone taking my name in vain?” came a dulcet-toned voice from the darkness.

  Sighing in disgust, Mosiah winced and shaded his eyes as the gaudily clad figure stepped into the firelight.

  “What, dear boy, don’t you like this?” Simkin inquired, raising his arms to show off his new robes to their most garish advantage. “I was so bored, wearing that drab ranger garb, that I decided a change was in order, as the Duchess D’Longeville said when she married her fourth husband. Or was it her fifth? Not that it matters. He’ll be dead like the others before long. Never take tea with the Duchess D’Longeville. Or, if you do, make certain she doesn’t serve you from the same pot that she serves her husband. Don’t you like this shade of red? I call it Smashed Vermil
ion. What’s the matter, Mosiah? You look in a worse humor than our friend the Dark One today.”

  “Nothing,” Mosiah mumbled, twisting to his feet to peer into a crude iron pot perched precariously in a bed of hot coals.

  “Smells like it’s burning on the bottom,” said Simkin, bending down and sniffing. “I say, why don’t you ask that jolly old catalyst for some Life? Use our magic, like everyone else now that he’s here. Am I invited for dinner?”

  “No.” Lifting a stick, and ignoring the suggestion about the catalyst, Mosiah began to stir the bubbling contents of the pot.

  “Ah,” said Simkin sitting down, “thanks. Now, what are we in such a pet over? I know! You rode with Father Skinhead today. He have anything interesting to say?”

  “Shhh,” Mosiah cautioned, gesturing to where Saryon was seated alone, trying without much success to build a fire. “Why ask? You probably know more about what we discussed than either of us.”

  “Probably I do,” Simkin said gaily. “Look at the poor chap, he’s freezing to death. Old fellow like that shouldn’t be roaming about in the wilderness. I’ll invite him over to share our stew.” The young man looked around at his friends. “Shall I? I believe I will. Don’t scowl, Joram. You really should meet him. After all, he’s here to apprehend you. I say, Catalyst!”

  Simkin’s voice echoed in the cave. Saryon started and turned, as did nearly everyone else in the cavern.

  Mosiah reached out and tugged at Simkin’s sleeve. “Stop it, you fool!”

  But Simkin was calling out once again and waving, his red robes flaming in the firelight. “Over here, Catalyst. Look, we’ve got this nice squirrel stew …”

  Many of the men were glancing at them, snickering and making muttered comments. Even Blachloch raised his hooded head from the game of cards he was playing with some of his men, regarding the group with a cold, impassionate stare. Slowly, Saryon rose to his feet, his face flushed, and walked toward them, obviously hoping to shut Simkin up.

  “Damn!” groaned Mosiah, leaning close to Joram. “Let’s go. I’m not hungry anymore.

  “No, wait. I want to meet him,” Joram said softly, his dark eyes on the catalyst.

  “I’ll escort you, Father,” Simkin cried, leaping to his feet and running over to the catalyst. Bowing gracefully, he grabbed the embarrassed man by the hand and led him to the fire, performing a quadrille on the way. “Shall we dance, Father? One, two, three, hop. One, two, three, hop …”

  There was laughter. Everyone in the cave was watching now, grateful for the diversion. The exception was Blachloch, who returned to his card game.

  “Not a dancer, Father? Probably frowned upon, isn’t it.”

  Saryon was trying, unsuccessfully, to shake Simkin loose.

  But Simkin was having far too good a time. “Undoubtedly His Tubbiness just prohibits it because he’s jealous. I mean, with him, ‘one, two, three, hop’ would be closer to ‘one, two, three, bouncey, bouncey, bouncey.’” Puffing his cheeks and throwing out his stomach, Simkin did a credible impression of the Bishop that brought roars of laughter and scattered applause.

  “Thank you, thank you.” Placing his hand over his heart, Simkin bowed. Then, with a flourish of orange silk, he led the red-faced catalyst to the fire. “Here you are, Father,” he said, bustling about and dragging over a rotted log. “Wait! Don’t sit down yet. I’ll bet you suffer from piles. Curse of the middle-aged. My grandfather died of them, you know. Yes,” he continued mournfully as he tapped the log once with his hand and transformed it into a velvet cushion, “poor old gentleman went for nine years without sitting down. Then he tried it once, and bam—keeled right over. Blood rushed to his—”

  “Please, Father, won’t you be seated?” Mosiah interrupted hurriedly. “I—I don’t believe you have met Joram. Joram, this is F-father—”

  Mosiah stammered himself into confused silence as Joram gazed steadily at the catalyst without speaking.

  Sitting down awkwardly on the cushion, Saryon tried to give some polite greeting to the young man, but the look of cool disdain in Joram’s brown eyes sucked the air out of his body and the words from his mind. Only Simkin was at ease. Hunching down on a rock, he rested his arms on his bent knees, leaned his bearded chin on his hands, and smiled on all three mischievously.

  “I’ll bet the squirrel’s cooked by now,” he said, reaching out suddenly to give the catalyst a playful shove with his hand. “Wouldn’t you say so, Father? Or maybe it’s your goose we’ve cooked?”

  His face flushing so that it appeared fevered, Saryon looked as though he could cheerfully sink through the floor. Casting Simkin a vicious glance, Mosiah moved hastily over to the iron pot. He started to lift it by the handle, when Joram caught hold of his arm.

  “It will be hot,” he said. A stick materialized in Joram’s hand. Sliding it through the handle, he lifted the pot from the blaze. “The heat from the flame heats not only the pot but the handle itself.”

  “You and your damn technology,” muttered Mosiah, sitting back down.

  “I will be happy to open a conduit to you and provide you with Life—” Saryon began, then his eyes met Joram’s.

  “That wouldn’t be of much use to me now, would it, Father?” Joram said evenly, his heavy brows slashing a dark line across his forehead. “I’m Dead. Or didn’t you know?”

  “I knew,” said Saryon quietly. The flush was gone from his face, leaving it pale and composed. No one was watching them now. The rest of the men in the cavern, seeing that the show was apparently over, had gone back to their own concerns. “I will not lie to you. I was sent to bring you to justice. You are a murderer—”

  “And one of the walking Dead,” Joram snapped bitterly, setting the stewpot down on the ground with a thud.

  “I say, careful there,” Simkin remonstrated, leaning over hastily to rescue the pot. Lifting the spoon, he began to ladle out portions of the grayish, lumpish mixture into rough-hewn wooden bowls. “Forgive the use of the tools, Father, but-”

  “Are you?” asked Saryon, gazing steadily at Joram. “I have been watching you. I have seen you use the magic. That stick you produced from thin air, for example …”

  To Saryon’s amazement, Joram’s dark eyes flashed, but it was not with anger. It was with fear. Puzzled, his words forgotten, the catalyst stared at him. The look was gone in an instant, covered by the hard, stone facade. But it had been there, Saryon was certain.

  Taking a dish from Simkin, Joram sat down upon the stone floor and began to eat, using the tool to shovel food into his mouth, never raising his eyes from his dish. Accepting his dish, Mosiah did the same, manipulating the unfamiliar spoon awkwardly. Simkin offered a dish to the catalyst, who took it and a spoon. But Saryon did not eat, he was still looking at Joram.

  “I have been thinking,” he said to the scowling young man. “Since no records exist of your Testing, it is possible that Father Tolban might have, in the excitement of the moment, made a mistake in your case. Return with me of your own accord and let the case be examined. There were extenuating circumstances involved in the murder, I’ve heard. “Your mother—”

  “Do not speak of my mother. Let us talk of my father, instead. Did you know him, Catalyst?” Joram asked coldly. “Were you there, watching, when they turned his body to stone?”

  Saryon had picked up his bowl, but now he set it down with shaking hands.

  “I say, Mosiah,” remarked Simkin, chewing vigorously, “this squirrel didn’t happen to stagger in here and die of old age in your arms, did it, dear boy? If so, you should have given it a decent burial. I’ve been chewing on this piece for ten minutes—”

  “No, no … I wasn’t present during your father’s execution,” replied Saryon in a low voice, his eyes on the stone floor. “I was a Deacon, then. Only the higher-ranking of my Order—”

  “Got to see the show?” Joram sneered.

  “Water! I need water!” Simkin gestured, and a water-skin, hanging in a cool part of the cavern, floated
over to them. “I must have something to wash down this elderly party.” Taking a drink, he wiped his mouth with the bit of orange silk, then gave a prodigious yawn. “I say, I’m frightfully bored with this conversation. Let’s play tarok.” Reaching into the air, he produced a pack of colorful, gilt-edged cards.

  “Where did you get a deck?” Mosiah demanded, thankful for the interruption. “Wait a minute, those aren’t Blachloch’s, are they?”

  “Of course not.” Simkin looked hurt. “He’s playing over in the corner, didn’t you notice? As for this”—he spread the cards out on the ground with an expert flick of his hand—“I picked it up at court. This is the newest deck. The artisans did a superb job. The court cards are drawn to look like everyone in the Royal House of Merilon. It was quite the rage, I assure you. Overly flattering to the Empress, of course. She doesn’t look nearly this good now, especially up close. But the artisans have no choice in the matter, I suppose. Notice the lovely azure color to the sky around the Sun card? Crushed lapis lazuli. No, truly, I assure you. And see the Kings? Each suit is a different Emperor of one of the realms. King of Swords—Emperor of Merilon. King of Staves is Zith-el. King of Cups is the notorious lover, Emperor of Balzab. A perfect likeness, and the King of Coins is that money-grubber Sharakan—”

  “We’ll play, won’t we, Joram?” Mosiah interrupted hurriedly, seeing Simkin about to proceed to the Queens. “What about you, Father? Or is playing tarok against your vows or something?”

  “Only three players,” Simkin said, shuffling the deck. “The catalyst will have to wait his turn.”

  “Thank you,” said Saryon. Gathering his robes around him, he started to rise, leaving his untouched stew on the floor. “We are permitted to play but I would not break up your game. Perhaps another time …”

  “Go ahead, Catalyst.” Shoving his plate away, Joram stood up, his face dark and sullen, a wild, strange look in his eyes. “I don’t want to play. You can have my place.”

  “Don’t, Joram!” Mosiah said in low tones. A note of anxiety in his voice, he caught hold of Joram’s muscular arm.