Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “See here,” said Simkin cheerfully, cutting the deck and stacking it back with a swift gesture of his hand. “We won’t play if Joram’s going to go off into one of his sulking (fits. Look, I’ll tell your fortunes. Sit back down, Catalyst. I think you will find this interesting. You first, Joram.”

  Anciently, the Diviners had used the tarot deck to enable them to see into the future. Brought from the Dark World, the cards were originally cherished as a sacred artifact. The Diviners alone, it was said, knew how to translate the complex images painted on the cards. But the Diviners were no more, having perished in the Iron Wars. The cards still existed, preserved for their quaint beauty, and after a time someone recalled that they had once been used in an ancient game known as tarok. The game caught on, particularly among the members of the noble houses. The art of fortune-telling did not die out either, but dwindled (with the encouragement of the catalysts) into a harmless pastime suitable for entertainment at parties.

  “Come, Joram. I’m quite skilled at this, you know,” said Simkin persuasively, tugging at Joram’s sleeve until the young man sat down. Even Saryon hesitated, regarding the cards with the fascination all feel when they try to lift the veil that hides the future. “The Empress simply dotes on me. Now, Joram, using your left hand—the hand closest to your heart—choose three cards. Past, present, future. This is your past.”

  Simkin turned up the first card. A figure robed in black riding a pale horse stared out at them with the grinning face of a skull.

  “Death,” said Simkin softly.

  Despite himself, Saryon could not repress a shiver. He glanced quickly at the young man, but Joram was staring at the cards with nothing but a half-smile upon his lips, a smile that might have been a sneer.

  The second card pictured a man in royal robes, seated on a throne.

  “The King of Swords. Oh, ho!” Simkin said, laughing. “Maybe you’re destined to wrest control from Blachloch, Joram. Emperor of the Sorcerers!”

  “Hush! Don’t even joke about that!” Mosiah said with a nervous glance into the corner of the cavern where Blachloch and his men played their own game.

  “I’m not joking,” Simkin said in aggrieved tones. “I’m really quite good at this. The Duke of Osborne said—”

  “Turn over the third card,” Joram muttered. “So we can get to bed.”

  Obediently, Simkin turned over the card. At the sight of it, Joram’s eyes dickered with amusement.

  “Two cards exactly alike! I might have known you’d have a crooked deck,” Mosiah said in disgust, though Saryon noted the relief in the young man’s voice as he saw the wild look fade from Joram’s face. “Fortune-telling! Turn over the Fool card for yourself, Simkin, and I’d believe it. Come on, Joram. Good night, Father.” The two left, heading for their bedrolls.

  “Good night,” Saryon said absently. His attention was caught by Simkin, who was staring at the cards in bewilderment.

  “That’s impossible,” Simkin said, frowning. “I’m certain that the last time I looked at this deck, it was perfectly normal. I recall it quite well. I told the Marquis de Lucien that he was going to meet a tall, dark stranger. He did, too. The Duuk-tsarith picked him up the next day. Mmm, very odd. Oh, well.” Shrugging again, he draped his bit of orange silk over the cards and, tapping them once on top, caused them to disappear. “I say, are you going to eat your stew, Bald One?”

  “What? Oh … no,” Saryon answered, shaking his head. “Go ahead.”

  “I hate to see it go to waste, though I do wish Mosiah had more respect for the aged.” Simkin said, picking up the bowl and spooning in a mouthful of squirrel. Lying back on the velvet cushion, he began to chew resignedly.

  Saryon did not reply. Walking away, the catalyst went to a corner of the cavern that was in relative shadow. Wrapping himself in his robes and his blanket, he lay down on the cold stone and tried to get as comfortable as possible. But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the cards spread out on the stone floor.

  The third card had been Death again; this time, though, the grinning figure had been reversed.

  2

  Grant Me Life …

  The rain and the journey continued, as did Saryon’s misery. Only now, it was misery tempered with growing fear as they drew nearer and nearer their goal—the small Field Magi settlement of Dunam north of the border of the Outland, about one hundred miles from the sea coast. At least once a day Blachloch called upon the catalyst to grant him Life; never much, just sufficient for defensive purposes or to give his men the magical power to rise above the tops of the trees on the wings of the air to scout the trail ahead.

  But, although minor in nature, Saryon knew these for what they were—conditioning, the conditioning of a slave to obey his master’s voice. Each command was always a little more difficult, each required more expenditure of energy on the catalyst’s part, each drained him a little more every day. And always the cold, impassionate eyes of the warlock stared at him from the shadows of the black hood, watching him for the least sign of weakness, of hesitation or resistance.

  What Blachloch would have done had his slave rebelled, Saryon did not know. Not once during the entire month-long journey through the Outland did the catalyst ever see the warlock mistreat, threaten, or even speak harshly to anyone. The Duuk-tsarith had no need to resort to such measures. The warlock’s presence alone commanded respect, his eyes turned toward anyone filled them with a vague feeling of terror. To be included as one of the threesome of Blachloch’s nightly tarok games—the warlock’s only indulgence and one to which he was passionately addicted—took either great fortitude or large quantities of fiery spirits. Some simply could not take playing cards for hours in the gaze of those blue, expressionless eyes. Saryon saw men slink into the shadows when evening came and Blachloch drew forth his pack of cards.

  Saryon’s guilt and misery deepened. Day after day, the catalyst rode through the rain, his head bowed almost as low as his horse’s. Nothing occurred to mar the drudgery of the ride. Though the bandits saw centaur tracks, they were not attacked. Centaur prefer catching one or two lone humans and will think twice about striking such a large, well-equipped group. Once Saryon thought he caught a glimpse of a giant peering at them from above the treetops, the huge shaggy-haired head seemingly at variance with the popping, childlike eyes and the gaping mouth that grinned in the delight at this tiny parade through his homeland. Before the catalyst could speak or shout an alarm, the figure was gone. Saryon might have doubted his senses, but he felt the ground tremble beneath the thuds of gigantic feet. Later, he was glad he had not mentioned it, listening to some of Blachloch’s men tell stories about the sport they had when they caught one of these big, gentle, dim-witted creatures.

  The only sips of pleasure in the catalyst’s bitter cup were the few moments he spent each day with Mosiah. The young man took to riding with Saryon for short spells, most of the time by himself, occasionally (when Mosiah couldn’t get rid of him) with Simkin. Joram, of course, never joined them, although Saryon always noticed the young man riding a short distance behind them, within hearing range. But when the catalyst started to mention this to Mosiah, he only received a quick shake of the head, a swift backward glance, and the whispered words “Don’t pay any attention to him” in return.

  The two were an unlikely pair—the tall, stoop-shouldered, middle-aged priest and the fair-haired, handsome youth. Their talk ranged over a wide variety of subjects, nearly always starting with the small doings of the people in Mosiah’s village, which the homesick youth never tired of discussing. After that, however, it ranged far afield, Saryon finding himself talking about his studies, about life in court and the city of Merilon. It was during these times, particularly when he talked about Merilon or when he was discoursing on mathematics (his favorite topic), that he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Joram edging his horse nearer.

  “Tell me, Father”—Mosiah’s voice carried clearly over the thudding of the horses’ hooves and the dripping of the
water from the trees beneath which they rode—“when Simkin talks about the court at Merilon … You know, when he mentions those Dukes and Duchesses and Earls and all that, is he … well … making these people up? Or do they really exist?”

  “Is he lying?” Joram muttered to himself as he rode behind them, that strange inner smile lighting his eyes. “Of course he’s lying. Still trying to catch the wily Simkin, are you, Mosiah? Well, give up. Better people than you have tried, my friend.”

  “I really can’t say,” Joram heard the catalyst reply in a perplexed tone. “You see, I wasn’t at court much myself and … I’m terrible at names. Some of them he mentions do sound familiar, yet I can’t ever seem to call them to mind. I suppose it’s entirely possible …”

  “See there?” Joram said to Mosiah’s back. He often made such comments during the course of the conversation. But they were always made to himself, always unheard by the principals involved. For Joram never joined them, and if either glanced back, he always feigned looking at his surroundings to the exclusion of all else.

  But he was listening, listening carefully and with intense interest. A change had come over Joram in the months he had spent living among the Sorcerers of Technology. Sick and exhausted upon his arrival, it had been easy for the young man to fall into his old, accustomed ways of leaving people severely alone and expecting them to leave him alone. But he discovered after long weeks of this that being left alone was … lonely. Worse than that, he realized that if his self-imposed solitude continued, he would soon end up as insane as poor Anja.

  Fortunately, Simkin had returned at this time from one of his frequent and mysterious disappearances. Acting some say upon a suggestion of Blachloch’s, Simkin appeared on Joram’s doorstep, introduced himself, and moved in before the morose young man could utter a word. Joram, intrigued and amused by the older youth’s conversation, allowed Simkin to stay. Simkin, in turn, introduced Joram to the world.

  “You have a gift, dear boy,” said Simkin banteringly to Joram one night. “Don’t scowl. Your face will freeze like that someday and you’ll spend all of your life frightening dogs and small children. Now, about this gift, I’m serious. I’ve seen it at court. Your mother was Albanara, right? They’re born with this ability, charisma, charm, whatever you want to call it. Now, of course, you have all the charm of a pile of rocks, but stay with me and you’ll learn. Why should you bother? you ask. The best reason in the world. Because, dear boy, you can make people do anything you want ….”

  Venturing out into his small world, Joram found, to his surprise and pleasure, that what Simkin said was true. Perhaps it was the “noble blood,” the hereditary abilities of the Albanara that ran in his veins, perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that he was educated. Whatever the reason, Joram discovered the ability to manipulate people, to use them and still keep them at a comfortable distance from himself.

  The one person this failed to work upon was Mosiah. Although he had been extremely glad to see his longtime friend when the young man came into camp, Joram resented Mosiah’s continued attempts to break apart the carefully crafted stone exterior of his being. Simkin entertained Joram. Mosiah demanded something in return for his friendship.

  Back off, Joram often thought in exasperation. Back off and let me breathe!

  Despite this, Joram was more truly content among these people than he had once thought possible. Although he still had to keep up the pretext of possessing a certain amount of magic, he was able to do this easily with his sleight-of-hand illusions. There were others in this camp who had failed the Testing, and he wasn’t made to feel like a freak or an outcast.

  Through hard, physical labor, he had grown strong and muscular. Some of the bitterness and anger that scarred his face was eased, though the slashing black brows and the dark, brooding eyes made many uncomfortable in his presence. The beautiful black, shining hair was generally unkempt and tangled, there being no Anja to comb it for Joram every night. But he refused to cut it, wearing it in a long thick braid that extended down his broad back, almost to his waist.

  He enjoyed his work in the iron forge, as well. Shaping the shapeless ore into useful tools and weapons gave him the satisfaction he imagined other men must feel when they summoned the magic. In fact, Joram became fascinated by Technology. He spent hours listening to Andon tell of the legends of the ancient days when the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery had ruled the world with their terrible and wonderful engines and machines. Through some mysterious means, the young man was able to discover the location of the hidden texts that had been written after the Iron Wars by those who fled the persecution. Intrigued with the wonders described, Joram fumed that so much had been lost.

  “We could rule the world again if we had such things!” he told Mosiah more than once, his thoughts always turning to this direction in the feverish, talkative state that followed his black periods of melancholia. “A powder, fine as sand, that could blast down walls; engines that hurled balls of molten fire—”

  “Death!” cried Mosiah, aghast. “That’s what you are talking about, Joram. Engines of Death. That is why the Technologists were banished.”

  “Banished by whom? The catalysts! Because they feared us!” Joram retorted. “As for death, people die at the hands of the War Masters, the DKarn-Duuk, or, worse, they’re mutated, changed beyond recognition. But just think, Mosiah, think what we could do if we combined magic and technology …”

  “Blachloch’s thinking of it,” Mosiah muttered. “There’s your ruler, Joram. A renegade warlock.”

  “Maybe …” Joram murmured thoughtfully with that strange half-smile in his eyes. “Maybe not ….”

  Joram had made a discovery in one of the ancient books. It was this discovery that led him to work late nights in the forge with such frustrating results. He lacked the key yet to complete understanding. That was why his experiment had failed. But now he thought he might have found it in an unlikely place—the catalyst. At last he had an idea what those strange symbols were in the text. They were numbers. The key was mathematics.

  But now Joram was torn. He hated the catalyst. With Saryon came the bitter memories—Anja’s stories, the stone statue, the knowledge that he was Dead, the knowledge that he had murdered. His peaceful life was shattered. Old dreams returned to plague him, the black moods threatened once more to engulf him in their madness. When the catalyst first arrived, he had thought more than once of ending the man’s life as he had so easily ended another’s. Often he found himself standing, a large, smooth stone in his hand, remembering how easy it had been. He recalled clearly how it had felt to hurl the stone, how it had sounded when it struck the man’s head.

  But he did not kill the catalyst. The reason being, he told himself, that he discovered the man knew mathematics. A plan began to take shape within Joram, becoming as sharp and strong as the iron blades he hammered.

  The catalyst would be of use to him. Joram smiled inwardly. The catalyst would grant him Life—of a sort. I’ll have to wait and see what type of man he is, Joram said to himself. Weak and ignorant, like Tolban, or does he have something more in him? One thing was in the catalyst’s favor—the man had, surprisingly, been honest with him. Not that Joram trusted him. The young man almost laughed at the absurdity. No, he did not trust the catalyst, but he allowed him a grudging respect.

  The true test would come soon. Joram was waiting, along with nearly everyone else in the group of bandits, to see how Saryon would react when Blachloch ordered him to help rob the villagers.

  “Do you think what we’re doing is right?” Mosiah asked one night as they lay on a pile of dead, wet leaves beneath a tree. Even wrapped in their blankets, it seemed impossible to keep warm.

  “What’s right?” muttered Joram, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

  “Taking food … from these people.”

  “So you’ve been talking to that pious old man again?” Joram asked, sneering.

  “It’s not that,” Mosiah returned. Proppin
g himself up on one elbow, he turned to face his friend, who was nothing more than a black shapeless form in the starless, moonless darkness. “I’ve been thinking about it myself. These people are like us, Joram. They’re like my father and mother and your mother.” He ignored a sudden angry, rustling sound. “You remember how hard winters were. What if bandits had stolen from us?”

  “It would have been our tough luck, just like it’ll be theirs,” Joram said coldly. “It’s us or them. We have to have food.”

  “We could trade for it …”

  “What? Arrowtips? Daggers? Spearheads? The tools of the Ninth Mystery? Do you think those farmers would barter with Sorcerers who have sold their souls to the Powers of Darkness? Hah! They’d sooner die than feed us.”

  The conversation ended, Joram rolling over and refusing to talk, Mosiah hearing those last, disturbing words echo in his head.

  They’d sooner die ….

  3

  The Raid

  A strong, chill wind blowing from the ocean swept apart the storm clouds, blowing them back southward into the Outland. The rain stopped and the sun appeared, its meager autumn warmth doing little, however, to counter the cutting cold of the wind through wet clothing. The men’s spirits did not rise. With the cessation of the rain, Blachloch pushed them forward rapidly, sometimes riding into the evening hours if the night was clear. The thick stands of oak and walnut trees of the Outland gave way to pines. The riders grew more cautious, for they were nearing the borders of civilized lands. Stopping at last on the banks of the river, they made camp and then spent three days cutting trees and lashing logs together to form crude flat boats.

  The catalyst was kept busy giving Life to the men to enable them to complete the work swiftly. He did as he was told, though he watched the building of the boats with increasing despondency, In his mind, he could already see them loaded with booty, ready to be transported upriver, back to the settlement.