Forging the Darksword
Page 38
“I say, do move to one side or the other,” Simkin said, the silk to his nose. “I can’t go through you. Well, I suppose I could, but you wouldn’t like it much ….”
“You’re not going anywhere. Orders. I came to tell you. Not till—”
“Oh, no. Really, this won’t do at all,” Simkin said. Coolly stepping past the guard, he gave the man a wide berth, his nose wrinkling. “I’m certain you’re mistaken. Those orders do not apply to me, now, do they? Only to these three.”
“Well, I—” the henchemen stammered, frowning.
“There, there.” Simkin patted the man on the shoulder as he walked out the door. “Don’t tax your brain so, old chap. You’re liable to go into a fît.” With a final flourish of orange silk, he glanced back into the prison. “Farewell, dear friends. Delighted to have been able to help. I’m away.”
“Help!” Mosiah muttered as the door shut behind the gaudily clad figure, the henchman pacing back and forth outside.
Going over to the window, Mosiah saw the young man make his mincing way across the street to the house where the guard had died. Two of Blachioch’s men were removing the body, and Simkin fell into step beside them, holding his orange silk over his nose and mouth. At the same time, several more guards took up positions in the window, keeping their eyes upon the prison. Slamming his hand on the window ledge in disgust, Mosiah turned away. “If it hadn’t been for that buffoon and his nightshade, everything would be all right. He might as well have turned us over to Blachioch himself! Maybe you’ll believe me about him, Joram. Now that it’s too late.”
Joram lay back on his bed without answering or even giving any indication he had heard. His hands beneath his head, he stared up at the ceiling.
Wiping the water from his face with the sleeves of his robe, Saryon crossed to the window and looked out to see Simkin marching at the head of what had become an impromptu funeral procession, the guards following behind with their grim burden and grimmer faces. Dabbing at his eyes, Simkin called mournful greetings to the few townspeople who were up and stirring. No one answered; they stared at the body in fearful perplexity, then hurried off, whispering together and shaking their heads.
Stupidity? Saryon’s mind went back to the forest outside the village of Walren, the forest where he had first met Simkin.
“It is a deep game we play, brother,” the young man had said. “Deep and dangerous.”
What was Simkin’s game?
The news of the guard’s murder spread rapidly through the small community. The people flitted from house to house, talking in frightened, subdued voices. Blachloch’s henchmen seemed to be everywhere, roaming the streets with grim, eager looks, as if they knew what was going to happen and were looking forward to it. Eventually, the townspeople went to work at their various labors, but nothing much got done. Most people left their jobs early. Even the smithy shut down the forge before nightfall, glad to be going home.
It had been a long day for the smith, long and unsettling. First Blachloch’s men had arrived, poking around, overturning this, upsetting that, and asking questions.
“Was someone working last night?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know offhand.” This with a shrug of massive shoulders. “One er two of the ’prentices, mayhap. They’re behind in their work. We’re all behind and getting behinder when we’re stopped and made to answer stupid questions.”
Finally, Blachloch’s flunkies left, to be replaced by Blachloch himself. The smith wasn’t surprised. A middle-aged man with grown sons, the smith was shrewd and observant, if somewhat hotheaded. He had the reputation of bearing no love for the warlock; the raid on the village filled him with grief and anger. He heartily approved of Andon’s determination to starve rather than eat bread laced with blood. He advocated taking stronger measures against the warlock, in fact, and would have if the old man, fearing harsh reprisals, had not pleaded with him to remain calm.
The smith had agreed reluctantly, and then only because he was storing up a cache of his own weapons for use when the time came. Just when that time was going to arrive, he wasn’t certain, but he had the feeling it wasn’t far off, judging from Andon’s worried face and certain mysterious occurrences he’d noticed around the forge.
“Did someone work last night?” Blachloch asked.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I already said, I don’t know,” the smith growled.
“Could it have been Joram?”
“Could have. Could have been any of the ’prentices. Ask them.”
All these questions and more the smith answered shortly without stopping his work, the ringing blows of his hammer punctuating his words with such force it seemed he might have the warlock stretched out upon his anvil. But he answered the questions nonetheless, keeping his eyes averted from the black-robed figure. As much as he hated Blachloch, the smith feared him still more.
Watching him out of the corner of his eye, the smith followed the warlock’s movements through the forge as Blachloch searched the premises. He touched little, just sent his penetrating glance into every shadow, every crevice and corner. Finally, he came to a stop. Using a booted foot, he sorted idly through a pile of refuse in a far corner until, bending down, he picked something up.
“What’s this?” he asked, turning the object over in his hand, studying it in a casual manner, his face expressionless as always.
“Crucible,” grunted the smith, continuing his hammering.
“What is its use?”
“Melting ore.”
“Does that residue look at all odd to you?” Blachloch held the crucible out to the smith, holding it in the light of the glowing forge.
“No,” said the smith, glancing at it nonchalantly, then looking back at his work. But his gaze darted to it once again, when he thought the warlock wasn’t watching. Catching Blachloch’s stare, the smith flushed and fixed his eyes once more upon his work, the force of his hammer blows increasing.
Crucible in hand, the warlock gazed at the smith intently. The eyes within the folds of the black hood gleamed red in the fire of the forge. “No more night work in the forge, Master Smith,” he said coolly as he slowly disappeared into the air as effortlessly as the smoke rising up the chimney.
Recalling both the words and the look, the smith shivered again now, just as he had shivered this morning. Possesesed of a certain amount of magic himself, though not as much as others, he was overawed by the power of the warlock and even more by his intelligence. It was a dangerous combination, he thought, and his hidden cache of weapons suddenly appeared to him puny and useless.
“Warlock could turn them to a heap o’ molten iron, just as they started out,” he was saying to himself gloomily, preparing to leave for the night, when he heard a noise.
“What’s that?” he called out hesitantly, thinking that it might be Blachloch returning. “Who’s there?”
There came a tremendous crash, followed by an oath. Then a plaintive voice rose up from the depths of the shadows in the back of the cavern. “I say, I’m in rather a fix here. Could you give me a hand? Not literally, mind you,” the voice added hastily. “Disgusting trick of the Marquis d’Winter. Same old joke, year after year. Yanks it off at the wrist. I’ve told the Emperor he’d stop doing it if nobody laughed, but—”
“Simkin?” said the smith in astonishment, hurrying through the forge to the back of the cavern where he found the young man attempting unsuccessfully to extricate himself from beneath a mound of tools and implements. “What are you doing, lad?”
“Shhh,” whispered Simkin. “No one’s to know I’m here ….”
“A bit late for that, ain’t it?” asked the smith grimly. “You’ve just waked up half the town by now—”
“It wasn’t my fault,” said Simkin peevishly, casting a scathing glance at the pile of tools. “I was—Oh, never mind,” He lowered his voice. “Was Blachloch here today?”
“Yes,” growled the smith, glancing about nervously.
“Did he find anything, take anything? It’s quite urgent that I know.” Simkin looked at the smith anxiously.
The smith hesitated, frowning. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you. He didn’t keep it a secret. He found a crucible.”
“Crucible?” Simkin raised an eyebrow. “That’s all? I mean, I suppose you have lots of them, lying about.”
“Yeah, we do. That’s what ’e found, though, and ’e took it with ’im. Now, you best come out the front with me. How’d you get in, without my seein’ you?” the smith asked as an afterthought, staring at Simkin suspiciously.
“Oh, I’m easily overlooked.” The young man waved his hand negligently, his bright clothes glistening brilliantly in the light of the banked forge fire. “About this crucible. There wasn’t something odd with it, was there?”
The smith’s frown deepened. Snapping his lips shut, he marshaled Simkin toward the front of the cavern.
“Some sort of strange something in it, for example,” the young man continued nonchalantly, tripping over a mold.
“I wouldn’t know,” said the smith coldly when they finally reached the front of the cavern. “An’ you kin tell whoever’s interested that there’s to be no more night work. Not for a long time. Maybe never.” The smith shook his head gloomily.
“Night work?” repeated Simkin with a shrug and a strange smile. “Ah, I think you’re wrong about that. There’ll be one more piece of night work—but it needn’t concern you,” he said reassuringly to the startled smith, who—glancing at him grimly—shut the door to the forge and sealed it with a magical spell.
10
The Fall of the Cards
The Chamber of Discretion was a one-way-only communication device. Bishop Vanya could contact his minions. They could not contact him. Thus the early designers made certain that the minion remained under the power of his master. It did have a drawback, however, and this was that the master could not be contacted on matters of urgency or those that required immediate instruction. This drawback did not bother Vanya overmuch, the Bishop being in such complete control that he deemed it unlikely any such situation should arise.
He was somewhat disagreeably startled, therefore, to enter the Chamber of Discretion on this late fall evening and feel the very darkness around him humming and vibrating with energy. Though minions could not contact him, the Chamber was so sensitive to the minds of those it touched that any of them, concentrating their thoughts upon their master, could make him aware of their need.
Annoyed, Vanya sat in the chair. Closing his eyes, he calmly and deliberately cleansed his mind of any obtrusive or obstructing thoughts, leaving it clear and open to impressions. One formed almost immediately. An ominous feeling of foreboding oppressed the Bishop. He had been expecting—no, dreading—this for some time now, he realized.
“I am here,” Vanya said to the impression in his mind. “What do you want? We have not spoken in some time. I assumed everything was going well.”
“Everything is not going well,” the voice replied, responding with such immediacy that Vanya knew it had been waiting for him. “Joram has discovered darkstone.”
It was well the minion could not see the change that came over the master at this point, or his confidence might have been shaken. Vanya’s heavy-jowled face sagged; the hand that had been crawling spiderlike upon the arm of the chair in irritable restlessness suddenly twitched, the fingers curling in upon themselves, forming a tight ball. How cold this place was. He had never noticed it before. His heavy robes were inadequate ….
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” Vanya replied, licking his dry lips. “I thought perhaps you had made a mistake in what you said. I was waiting for you to correct yourself.”
“If a mistake has been made, I haven’t been the one to make it,” the voice in the Bishop’s head retorted. “I told you the ancient texts existed here.”
“Impossible. According to the records, they were all accounted for and destroyed.”
“The records are wrong. Not that it matters now. The damage has been done. He knows of the darkstone, and not only that, but with the help of your catalyst, he has learned to forge it!”
Vanya closed his eyes. The darkness whirled around him. For a startling moment, he actually felt his chair begin to slide, tilting him backward. Grasping hold of the armrests in desperation, he forced himself to relax and consider the matter calmly. No good would come of panic. There was no need for panic. This was an unexpected development, but one that could be handled.
“Waiting for me to correct a mistake again?”
“No,” said Vanya coldly, “I am merely considering all the ramifications of this terrible occurrence.”
“Well, here’s one you may not have considered. Now that we have the darkstone, Sharakan and the Technologists could win this war. No need to maintain the balance of power. Balance becomes meaningless if we hold the scales in our hands.”
“An interesting thought, my friend, and one worthy of you,” remarked Vanya dryly, the slow fire of anger burning away his fear. “But I remind you that there are matters working here of which you have no conception. You are just one card in the deck, so to speak. No, this alters our plans, but only slightly. It is imperative, of course, that I have the boy immediately now, plus whatever it is he has created out of the darkstone. You must send me that fool catalyst, as well, I suppose. What on earth did you do to the man?” Vanya found vent for his frustration. “He had the spine of a brittle twig when he left here. You were supposed to break him, not strengthen it!”
“Twig! You have mistaken him as you have mistaken other things. As for sending the boy to you, that is risky. Let me kill him and the catalyst—”
“No!” The word exploded from Vanya. His pudgy hands clenched over the armrest, white dents appearing in the region where a thinner man’s knuckles might have been. “No,” Vanya repeated, swallowing. “The boy must not be killed. Is that completely understood? Disobey me in this and you will think mutation a beneficent fate compared to yours!”
“You have to catch me first, Bishop, and I remind you that you are very far away …”
Vanya drew a deep, quivering breath. “The boy is the Prince of Merilon,” he said through clenched teeth.
There was a moment’s silence, then a mental shrug. “All the better. The Prince is supposed to be dead. I will simply correct what I assume was another of your mistakes—”
“Not a mistake,” Vanya said, his mouth parched. “I tell you again, the boy must not die! If you insist on knowing the reason, I ask you to remember this—the Prophecy.”
The silence was longer, more profound this time. Vanya could almost hear its thoughts, whispering about him like the wings of bats.
“Very well,” the voice said finally, coldly. “But it will be more difficult and dangerous, especially now that he has darks tone. This was not in our original bargain. My price goes up.”
“You will be compensated according to your deserts,” Vanya remarked. “Act quickly before he becomes fully aware how to use the stone. And bring him personally” the Bishop added as an afterthought. “There are certain matters I wish to discuss with you, your reward among them.”
“Of course I’ll have to bring him personally,” the voice returned. “What else am I to do? Rely on your spineless catalyst? I will come through the usual channels. Look for me when you see me.”
“It must be soon!” Vanya said, endeavoring with all his power to keep his thoughts calm. “I will contact you tomorrow night.”
“I may or may not answer,” replied the voice. “This matter must be handled delicately.”
The communication ended. The Chamber was silent.
A trickle of sweat ran down the Bishop’s tonsured head and trickled into the collar of his robe. Pale, quivering with anger and fear, he sat in the Chamber for many hours, staring unseeing into the darkness.
11
Saryon’s Turn
“Listen, Saryon,” said Joram in low, persuasive tones, “it will be simple.” Sitting beside the catalyst, he slid closer still, resting his hand upon his arm. “You go to Blachloch. You tell him that you cannot rest, you cannot sleep. You are so horrified by what I have done and what I made you do that you think you might go mad.”
“I am not a good liar,” Saryon murmured, shaking his head.
“Would it really be a lie?” Joram asked, a bitter half-smile lighting his dark eyes. “On the contrary, I think you could be quite convincing.”
The catalyst did not answer, nor did he raise his gaze from the table where the two of them sat. A fat, almost obscene autumn moon grinned down from the clear black sky. Shining through the window, it sucked all color and life into its bulging cheeks, leaving everything a stark, bloodless gray. Bathed in the moonlight, the two sat close together at the table beneath the window, talking in hushed voices, Joram’s watchful gaze divided between the guards in the house across the street and Mosiah, sleeping restlessly on a cot in a dark corner.
At the sound of voices, Mosiah stirred and muttered in his sleep, causing Joram to grip the catalyst’s arm in silent warning. Neither said a word until Mosiah had drifted off again, throwing his arm over his eyes in his sleep as the moonlight crept stealthily across the floor and up the cot to examine and gloat over his pale face.
“And then what must I do?” asked Saryon.
“Tell him you will take him to me. You will help him apprehend me and”—Joram’s voice lowered—“the Dark sword. You will lead him to the forge, where I will be working, and there, we will have him.”