Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  I say death is in the world ….

  Saryon hesitated. Other visions came to his mind—the Bishop carrying the tiny Prince to his death, all the children he himself sent to their deaths “for the sake of the world.”

  Perhaps the world had existed only in each one of those children.

  All around Saryon was stillness and silence. He could hear his own heart beating, like muffled hammer blows, and he knew that for him, the world existed now only in Mosiah, in Andon, in the children of that small farming village who had watched their homes burning. Drawing a deep breath, Saryon summoned the magic.

  The catalyst felt it flow into his body, filling him with the Enchantment and, at the same time, demanding an outlet. Slowly he rose from the chair where he had been sitting and came forward to stand before Joram.

  “Place the weapon on the floor before me,” Saryon tried to say, but the words were inaudible.

  Obeying more by instinct than because he understood, Joram laid the weapon at the catalyst’s feet.

  As he knelt for the Ritual of the Dawn, as he knelt for Evening Prayers, as he knelt before the Almin who was far away, attending services at the Font, Saryon knelt on the stone floor before the sword. Reaching out a trembling hand, he grasped hold of the hilt. His flesh shriveled as he touched it; he feared it might burn him, but the magical alloy had already grown cold and rigid. The bitter chill of the iron shot through his arm, striking a blow to his heart. But Saryon held the sword fast, exalted by a strength of spirit that overcame the weakness of the flesh.

  With a soft sigh, Saryon repeated the prayer that accompanied the granting of Life and felt the magic flow from the world, through his body, into the dead hunk of man-begotten metal.

  In his hand, the sword began to glow again, this time with the white radiance of the molten darkstone. Brighter and brighter it shone, appearing hot enough to melt through the very rock upon which the blade rested, but it was still cool to the touch; the catalyst still held the hilt in his hand.

  He couldn’t let go! He couldn’t close the conduit he had opened to the weapon! Like a Living being, the sword sucked the magic from him, drained him dry, then used him to continue to absorb magic from all around it. Gasping for breath, feeling himself growing weaker and weaker, Saryon tried to wrench his hand free from the weapon, but he couldn’t move it.

  “Joram!” he whispered, “help me!”

  But Joram was staring at the sword, its cold, white glow was so bright it seemed the moon had escaped the storm clouds and come here to rule.

  Fainting, Saryon sank onto the floor, his mind in a stupor as the magic surged into him, through him, and out of him with a force that was carrying his own Life force with it. Darkness closed around him even as the light grew brighter and brighter.

  And then strong arms lifted him and strong hands were dragging him across the cold floor, propping him up against something he was too sick and dizzy to recognize. He could not see, a brilliant white light blinded him. Where was the a sword? The white light was far from him, halfway across the cavern it seemed, yet it also seemed to him that he still held the cold metal in his hand and would always hold it, forever and ever.

  Outside, Saryon could hear the wind again, and feel its cool breath upon his cheek. He must be lying near the cavern entrance, he thought dimly, and then the sound of the wind was swallowed by a hissing noise. Opening his eyes in horror, he saw Joram plunge the cold, burning sword into the water trough. A cloud of white, foul-smelling steam rose up around him, like a ghost fleeing its lifeless body.

  Saryon closed his eyes again, his brain too weary to absorb any more. The light, the fog, Joram’s white face, everything merged together into a swirling, suffocating vortex. Nausea swept over him, his stomach clenched. He was going to be sick. Slumping down, he pressed his fevered cheek against the cold stone, longing for a breath of fresh air.

  Above the hissing of the boiling, bubbling water, he heard Joram’s voice whispering an almost reverent invocation.

  “The Darksword …”

  9

  Simkin’s Deal

  The journey back from the forge through the gray of early morning was one of furtive stumbling, bone-chilling cold, and mind-numbing exhaustion. The gale had blown itself out. The wind died, the rain ceased. The only sounds in the still-sleeping town were the dripping rainwater from the eaves of the houses and the half-awake bark of some unusually dedicated house dog. But the cold was bitter. Even the prison began to seem a haven of peace and warmth to Saryon as he staggered through the strange, dark streets, supported by Joram’s arm. With him as well, the young man carried the Darksword, pressed close against his body, hidden beneath his cloak.

  Both Joram and Saryon were worn out, drained by excitement and terror. But now rose up to haunt them the sudden fear—all but forgotten in the turmoil of the swords creation—that something might have gone wrong. Had the guard awakened and decided to investigate? Had Mosiah been caught? Was Blachloch sitting, waiting for them as a cat waits patiently for the mouse? These fears grew as the two drew nearer and nearer the prison. When they reached the street where the building stood, both stopped, shrinking into the shadows, staring at it intently before they dared go further.

  All seemed quiet. No light burned in the guard’s window as must have been the case had he been aroused. No light shone in the prison window.

  “Everything’s all right,” said Saryon with a sigh of relief, starting forward.

  “It could be a trap,” cautioned Joram, his hand on his sword.

  “At this point, I don’t care,” said the catalyst wearily, but he stayed with Joram.

  Gripping his sword clumsily, not at all certain what he would do with it if attacked, Joram continued down the street. For him, too, the exhilaration was fading, leaving him feeling unusually tired and drained. The old dark despondency was rapidly claiming him.

  Nothing had turned out as he had hoped. The sword was heavy and awkward. He felt no surge of power when he held it, only an aching in his wrist and arm from the unaccustomed weight. He had tried to grind an edge to it, but the hands that could be so delicate performing his “magic” had proved clumsy and unskilled in this. He had botched the job, he feared. The blade was uneven and marred, not curved and sharp as those he had seen in the ancient texts. He was a fool to think this crude, ugly weapon could ever overcome Blachloch’s wizardry, and so on and on his mind turned, spiraling downward. The blackness was coming over him; he recognized the symptoms. Well, what did it matter, he thought darkly. Let it come. He had achieved his goal, such as it was.

  With a last, furtive glance at the guard’s window across the way, and seeing no sign of movement, Joram pressed softly on the door. Opening it, he motioned Saryon to come inside.

  Mosiah slept sitting at the table, his head buried in his arms. Hearing movement, he started up, partially rising out of the chair in sleepy alarm.

  “What—Father!” The young man came forward to catch the catalyst, whose knees were giving way beneath him. “My god, you look awful! What happened? Where’s Joram? Is everything all right?”

  Saryon could only nod wearily as Mosiah led him to his bed. “I’ll get you some wine …”

  “No,” Saryon murmured. “I couldn’t keep it down. I just need rest ….”

  Helping the spent catalyst lie down, Mosiah covered the man’s shivering body with a worn blanket, then turned as Joram shut the door behind him.

  “Saryon looks terrible. Is he hurt? You don’t look much better. What happened?”

  “Nothing. We’re fine, both of us. Just tired. Did everything go all right here?” Joram spoke with obvious effort. Seeing Mosiah nod, he walked to his bed and, lifting the straw mattress, pulled something from beneath his cloak and slid it underneath.

  The words were on Mosiah’s lips to ask what it was, but, recognizing the symptoms of the impending melancholia on Joram’s grim face, he thought better of it. He wasn’t certain he wanted to see it anyway.

  �
�Everything was quiet here,” he answered instead. “No one even walked down the street that I saw. The storm was fierce. It didn’t end until early this morning. I—I must have dozed off when the wind quit howling …”

  Mosiah quit talking when it became apparent Joram wasn’t listening. Casting himself on the bed, the young man stared at nothing with unseeing eyes. Saryon had already fallen into a restless sleep. His body twitched and jerked. Once he moaned and muttered something incoherent. Feeling alone and disquieted, a strange, unreasoning fear growing within him, Mosiah was walking softly across the room when a whispering voice from outside made every nerve tingle.

  “I say, open the door!”

  A cold, shivering sensation flashed down Mosiah’s spine at the sound of an unusual tenseness in the usually carefree voice. Glancing swiftly at Joram, Mosiah flung the door open and Simkin darted inside.

  “Shut it quickly there’s a good boy. I trust I wasn’t seen.” Slipping to the window, keeping in the shadows, Simkin peered outside. The foolish, negligent look was gone, the skin beneath the beard was pale, the lips white.

  “All quiet,” he murmured. “Well, that won’t last long.”

  “What’s the matter? What’s gone wrong?”

  “Rather bad news, I’m afraid,” Simkin said, turning to Mosiah with a strained imitation of his playful smile. “I’ve just been to check on the guard—see if he spent a restful night. He did. Very restful, if you take my meaning.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Mosiah said irritably. “What’s the matter?”

  “You see,” began Simkin, biting his lip. “It’s like this. The great lout has actually been inconsiderate enough to go and die on us.”

  “Die!” Mosiah’s mouth sagged open. For an instant he was struck dumb, and could do nothing but stare at Simkin. Then, he stumbled across the room. “Joram!” he whispered urgently, shaking him. “Joram! Please! It’s urgent, I—we need you! Joram!”

  Slowly Joram tore his gaze from the ceiling. Mosiah could almost see him struggling to the surface of the blackness that washed over him. “What?”

  “The guard, Simkin’s killed him!”

  Joram’s brown eyes opened wide. Sitting up, he stared coldly at Simkin. “You were supposed to just drug him.”

  “That’s precisely what I did,” said Simkin, hurt.

  “What did you give him?”

  “Henbane,” Simkin muttered.

  “Henbane?” repeated Mosiah in horror. “But that’s nightshade! It’s poisonous.”

  “To chickens,” Simkin remarked with a sniff. “I had no idea it would affect louts, though he was a foul sort of fellow now that I think of it.”

  Mosiah sat down at the end of Joram’s bed, trying to think. “Are you sure he’s uh—uh—dead? Maybe he’s just a heavy sleeper …”

  “Not unless he goes cold and limp as a mackerel and sleeps with his eyes wide open. No, no, he’s quite dead, I assure you. The skin of ale was still full, lying beside him. Probably keeled over after the first mouthful. I wonder, come to think of it, if I didn’t get that potion mixed up with one from the Duchess de Longeville? As I recall, they found her second husband in much the same state—”

  “Shut up!” Moisah cried tersely. “What can we do? Joram? We’ve got to think.” He wiped chill sweat from his face. “I know! Well hide the body. Take it into the woods …”

  Joram said nothing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his head sank into his hand, the black shadows gathering about him.

  “That’s an excellent plan, dear boy,” said Simkin, looking at Mosiah with admiration. “Truly. I’m quite impressed. But”—he raised a hand as Mosiah leaped to his feet—“it won’t work. I wasn’t … um … alone, you see, when I made my little discovery. One of Blachioch’s henchmen, Drumlor by name, was keeping me company along with this skin of remarkably fine wine.” Simkin heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid he took the demise of his compatriot rather hard. Hotfooted it back to the warlock’s. Quite amazing how fast he could run considering how drunk—”

  “You mean Blachioch knows about this?”

  “If he doesn’t now, I should say he will in a matter of moments.”

  “Damn you!” Jumping up, Mosiah leaped at Simkin, catching hold of him by his lace-covered lapels and hurling him back against the wall. “Damn you for a fool! What do we do now?”

  “Well, to me it would seem advantageous to wake up the slumbering bald party there,” replied Simkin, smoothing out his crumpled lace with injured dignity. “Though how he can sleep through your screaming is beyond me. Then we have to rouse our dark friend from his fit of sulks ….”

  “I’m all right. Wake up Saryon,” said Joram. Seeing Mosiah take another step toward Simkin, he stood up. “Stop it! Both of you, calm down. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “We haven’t?” Simkin appeared dubious.

  “No. Go on, Mosiah! Wake up the catalyst. We’ve got to get our stories straight ….”

  Shaking his head, Mosiah hurried over to the bed where the catalyst was sleeping fitfully. “Father!” Bending over him, he shook him by the shoulder. “Father!”

  “Now,” said Joram coolly, “The catalyst and I—”

  His voice died.

  Turning around, his hand still on the catalyst’s shoulder, Mosiah saw the black-cloaked warlock materialize in the center of the room, his hands clasped before him as was customary, his eyes hidden by the overhanging black cowl.

  “You and the catalyst what, young man?” said the expressionless voice.

  “—have been in all night,” Joram continued coolly. “You could ask your guard, but that might be difficult now unless you are a Necromancer.”

  “Yes, I figured Simkin would tell you of the guard’s death,” Blachloch said, glancing at the bearded young man.

  “Frightful shock to me, I assure you,” remarked Simkin. Snatching the orange silk from the air, he dabbed delicately at his forehead. “I’m quite unstrung, as the Baron of Esock said when he mistakenly transformed himself into a mandolin. What do you suppose he died of?” Simkin asked casually. “The guard, that is. The Baron died in a rather freak accident. The Baroness, a largish sort of woman, sat on his case. Smashed him to splinters, but he went out with a song. As to your guard, he was his usual loutish self when I left him last night. Perhaps he suffocated.” Simkin held the orange silk to his nose. “I know he had that effect on me.”

  “He was poisoned,” said Blachloch, ignoring Simkin, his hooded head turned to Joram. His eyes might well have been fingers, probing the young man’s brain. “So, you were here all night? What were you doing, playing in the firepit?”

  Glancing down at his soot-blackened clothes and skin, Joram shrugged. “I didn’t bother to wash when I got home from the forge yesterday.”

  Without a word, his hands still folded before him, Blachloch turned and walked over to where Mosiah had finally succeeded in rousing the catalyst.

  “You were in all night, too, Father?” the warlock said.

  “Y-yes.” Saryon peered up at the black-robed Enforcer, blinking dazedly. Though half-asleep and completely unable to figure out what was going on, he could feel danger crackling in the air. Trying desperately to shake off his drowsiness, he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  Blachloch reached down and snatched the blanket from Saryon’s body. “The hem of your robe is wet, Catalyst. And covered with soot and mud as well.”

  “The chimney leaks,” said Mosiah sullenly.

  Blachloch smiled. “Grant me Life, Catalyst,” he said softly.

  Saryon shuddered. “I cannot,” he replied in a low voice, staring at the floor. “I have no energy. I … spent a bad night …” Realizing the irony of his words, and having the terrible feeling that the warlock was aware of it too, Saryon paled, waiting in uncaring exhaustion for whatever might come next.

  Nothing came. Turning away from the catalyst, Blachloch cast a final glance at them all and, without saying another word, vanished.

  The four stared at
each other in silence for long moments, afraid to talk, afraid even to move.

  “He’s gone,” Saryon said heavily. His muscles ached with weariness. His numb brain, unable to cope with whatever had occurred, kept urging him to ignore everything and go back to sleep. Shaking his head firmly, the catalyst staggered to his feet, crossed the chill floor, and plunged his head and face into a washbowl of icy water.

  “How long do you suppose he was here before we knew it?” Mosiah asked in a strained, tense voice.

  “What does it matter?” Joram replied with an uncaring shrug. “He knows we’re lying.”

  “Then, why didn’t he do something!” Mosiah cried, his taut nerves snapping. “What kind of game is he playing—”

  “The kind of game you’re losing already if you don’t get hold of yourself,” Simkin said languidly. “Look at me!” He held out his lace-covered hand. “There. Not a flutter. And I discovered the body. Speaking of the body, I wonder what jolly thing they plan to do with it. If they dump it in the river, I, for one, am not taking a bath for a year—”

  “Body!” Saryon’s eyes widened.

  “Explain things to Briar Rose, will you, dear boy? I really couldn’t go through it again. Quite fatiguing. By the way”—Simkin asked in bored tones, glancing across at Joram—“did everything go well last night?”

  Joram did not answer; lapsing into despondency once more, he sank back onto the bed.

  “I say, you might at least tell me what you were doing, after all the trouble I went to—”

  “Murdering guards!” Mosiah snapped viciously.

  “Well, if you want to put it in that crude fashion. Still, I—Almin’s blood, you lout!”

  This exclamation was occasioned by the door to the prison flying open, nearly knocking Simkin over. Casting a sneering glance at the irate young man, one of Blachioch’s henchmen stepped inside as Simkin was trying to go out.