Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Calm….

  Peaceful….

  Stepping from the Corridor onto the sand, Mosiah was knocked off his feet by a tremendous gust of wind.

  He couldn’t see. Sand stung his face and made it nearly impossible to open his eyes. The force of the wind was unbelievable, like nothing he had ever seen before in his life and he had once experienced a thunderstorm conjured up by two warring groups of Sif-Hanar. He struggled to stand, but it was a losing battle and he would have been tossed along the beach like the uprooted plants that were flying past, entangling themselves in his legs, had not a strong hand reached out and grasped his own.

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to endure much more of this, Mosiah quickly activated a magical bubble that surrounded him and the person who had saved him. Instantly, the protective shell enveloped both of them, shutting out the wind, encasing them in quiet and calm.

  Rubbing the sand out of his eyes, Mosiah blinked, trying to see who had come to his rescue, wondering what anyone else would be doing on the Border. Catching sight of a flutter of orange silk, his heart sank.

  “I say, old chap,” came an all too familiar voice, “thanks awfully. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that shield myself, except I was having a rollicking good time getting tumbled about like those jolly plant things that never take root but go bounding along the sand. And I’ve got a new style. I call it Cyclone. Do you like it?”

  4

  I Call It Cyclone

  Mosiah glared in displeased astonishment at the figure standing next to him in the magical bubble.

  “Simkin,” he mumbled, spitting sand out of his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, it’s Almin’s Day. I always come here on Almin’s Day. What did you say? This is Thursday? Well”—he shrugged—“what’s a day or so between friends.” Raising his arms, he exhibited his clothes. “What do you think?”

  Mosiah glanced at the bearded young man in disgust. Everything Simkin wore—from his blue brocade coat to his purple silk vest to his shimmering green trousers—was inside out. Not only that, but he was wearing his undergarments on top of his clothes. His hair stood straight up on his head and his normally smooth beard stuck out in all directions.

  “I think you look a fool, as always,” Mosiah muttered. “And if I’d known it was you I would have let you sail off until you smashed headfirst into the mountains!”

  “It was I who saved you from sailing off, remember?” Simkin said languidly. “What a foul humor you’re in. Your face will freeze like that, I’ve warned you before. Puts me in mind of the corpse of the Duke of Tulkinghorn who didn’t die but just nastied away. I can’t think what you have against me, dear boy.” Conjuring a mirror, Simkin gazed at himself with pleasure, ruffling up his beard to heighten the effect.

  “Oh, can’t you!” Mosiah snapped viciously. “There were only a few people who knew we were to meet in the Grove that night—myself, Joram, Saryon, you, and, as it turns out, the Duuk-tsarith! I suppose that’s just the sheerest coincidence?”

  Lowering the mirror, Simkin stared at Mosiah incredulously. “I can’t believe it!” he cried in tragic tones. “All this time you have suspected me of betrayal? Me?” Dashing the mirror to the sand, Simkin clutched at his heart. “Break! Break!” He moaned “Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would wilt.”

  “Stop it, Simkin,” Mosiah said coldly, barely able to control an urge to grab the young man around the neck and choke him. “Your games aren’t funny anymore.”

  Glancing at Mosiah from beneath his fluttering eyelids, Simkin suddenly straightened, smoothed his hair, and changed his clothes to a very proper and conservative ensemble of gray silk with white lace, pearl buttons, and a tasteful mauve cravat. Adjusting the lace at his wrist, he said casually, “I had no idea you were harboring this resentment. You should have spoken out earlier. Saryon was the traitor, as I’ve told you before. Surely Prince Garald has his sources for discovering the truth? Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

  “I don’t and I have,” Mosiah said, scowling. “And no one knows anything if there’s anything to know—”

  “Oh, there is,” inserted Simkin.

  Mosiah shook his head in exasperation. “As for the catalyst betraying us, I’ve heard that wild story you concocted about Saryon and Joram and I don’t believe it. Father Saryon would never have betrayed us and—”

  “—I would?” Simkin finished calmly, smoothing his hair. With a wave of his hand, he pulled a bit of orange silk from the air and dabbed at his nose. “You’re right, of course,” he continued imperturbably. “I might have betrayed you, but only if things got dull. As it turned out, I didn’t need to. You must admit, we had rather an exciting time of it back there in good old Merilon.”

  “Bah!” Angrily turning his gaze from the primping Simkin, Mosiah peered out from the shelter of the shield into the flying sand and howling wind. “I didn’t know storms like this struck the Borderland. How long will it last?” he asked coldly, making it clear he was talking to Simkin only because he needed information. “And keep your answer brief!” he added bitterly.

  “They don’t, and a long, long time,” replied Simkin.

  “What?” Mosiah demanded irritably. “Say what you mean.”

  “I did,” retorted Simkin, offended. “You told me to make it brief.”

  “Well, maybe not that brief,” Mosiah amended, feeling more and more uneasy the longer he stayed here. Although it was nearly midday, it was almost dark as night and growing increasingly darker. Though protected by the shield, he could tell that the force of the wind was rising, not abating. It was costing him more and more of his Life energy to keep the magical bubble around them. He could feel his strength beginning to drain and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it in position much longer.

  “Are you going to insult me anymore?” Simkin demanded loftily. “Because if you are, I won’t say a word.”

  “No,” muttered Mosiah.

  “And you’re sorry you accused me of treachery?”

  Mosiah didn’t answer.

  Simkin, placing his hands behind his back, gazed out into the raging wind. “I wonder how far one would get out there before being hurled into something large and solid like an oak….”

  “All right, I’m sorry!” Mosiah said sullenly. “Now tell me what’s going on!”

  “Very well.” Simkin sniffed. “They never have storms on the Borderland. Has to do with the magical boundaries or some such thing. And therefore as to how long this particular storm will last, I have a presentiment that it will last a long, long time. Much longer, I imagine, than any of us would care to consider.”

  This last was spoken in low tones, Simkin’s face growing increasingly more solemn as he stared out the magical shield into the wind-driven sand.

  “Can we walk in this thing?” Simkin asked suddenly. “Can you move it and us with it?”

  “I suppose so,” Mosiah said reluctantly “Although it will take a lot of energy and I’m feeling pretty weak as it is—”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t be here long,” Simkin interrupted “Head over in that direction.” He pointed.

  “You know, you could help me keep this shield in place.” Mosiah said as they floundered through the sand. He had absolutely no idea where they were going, being completely unable to see anything.

  “Couldn’t possibly,” Simkin said “Far too fatigued. Having your clothes blown off, then blown back on inside out and upside down takes a great deal out of one. It’s not far.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The statue of the catalyst, of course. I thought that was what you came to see?”

  “How did you know—? Oh, skip it,” Mosiah said tiredly, stumbling as the sand shifted out from beneath his feet. “You said you come here a lot Why? What do you do?”

  “I keep the catalyst company, of course,” Simkin said, regarding Mosiah with a self-righteous air. “Something you are too busy to do. Just because the poor man’s been turned
to stone doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings. Must get frightfully boring, standing there all day, staring out into nothing. Pigeons landing on your head, that sort of thing. Might be different if the pigeons were interesting. But they’re such wretched conversationalists. Then I should think their feet must tickle, don’t you?”

  Mosiah slipped and fell. Reaching down, Simkin hauled him upright. “Not far,” the young man said reassuringly. “Almost there.”

  “So, what do you … uh … talk about?” Mosiah asked, feeling unaccountably guilty. He knew that those sentenced to the Turning were, in actuality, still living, but he had never considered that it might be possible to talk to them or to provide them with some measure of human involvement.

  “What do we talk about?” Simkin asked, pausing a moment as if to get his bearings, though how he could tell where he was in the blinding storm was more than Mosiah could figure. “Ah, yes. We’re headed in the right direction. Just a few more steps. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, I regale our statuesque friend with the latest gossip from court. I exhibit my newest fashions, though I do find it depressing that his responses to them are definitely what one might call stony. And I read to him.”

  “What?” At this startling statement, Mosiah stopped floundering through the sand, partly to catch his breath and recover his strength and partly to stare at Simkin in amazement. “You read to him? What? Texts? Scriptures? I can’t imagine you—”

  “—reading anything so boring?” Simkin lifted an eyebrow. “How right you are! Gad! Scriptures!” Growing pale at the thought, he fanned himself with the orange silk. “No, no. I read him jolly things to keep up his spirits. I found a large book of plays written by this frightfully prolific chap back in the old days. Quite entertaining. I get to act out all the characters. Listen, I have some of it memorized.” Simkin assumed a tragic pose. “‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet has fallen through the glass. Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth….’” He frowned. “Is that how it goes? Doesn’t quite scan.” Shrugging, he continued. “Or, if we’re not in a scholarly mood, I read him this.”

  With a wave of his hand, he produced a leather-bound book and handed it to Mosiah. “Open it, any page.”

  Mosiah did so. His eyes widened. “That’s disgusting!” he said, slamming the book shut. He glared at Simkin. “You don’t mean you read that … that filth to … to—”

  “Filth! You peasant! It’s art!” Simkin cried, snatching the book away from Mosiah and consigning it to the ethers. “As I said, it helped keep up his spirits—”

  “Helped? What do you mean ‘helped’?” Mosiah interrupted. “Why past tense?”

  “Because I am afraid our catalyst is now in the past tense,” Simkin said. “Move the shield over a fraction of an inch. There, at your feet.”

  “My god!” Mosiah whispered in horror. He glanced back up at Simkin. “No, it can’t be!”

  “I’m afraid so, dear boy,” Simkin said, shaking his head sadly. “There is no doubt in my mind that these blocks, these stones, these worse than senseless things are all that is left of our poor bald friend.”

  Mosiah knelt down. Protected by the magical shield, he brushed away the sand from what appeared to be the statues head. He blinked back sudden tears. He had been hoping, praying that Simkin had made a mistake, that this was one of the other Watchers, perhaps. But there was no denying that it was Saryon—the mild, scholarly face; the gentle, loving expression he remembered so well. He could even see, as Garald had said, the look of infinite peace carved forever in the stone.

  “How could this happen?” Mosiah demanded angrily. “Who could have done such a thing? I didn’t know it was possible to break the spell—”

  “It isn’t,” said Simkin with a strange smile.

  Mosiah rose to his feet. “It isn’t?” he repeated, regarding Simkin suspiciously. “How do you know? What do you know about this?”

  Simkin shrugged. “Simply that this spell is not reversible. Stop and think. The Watchers have been here hundreds of years. During that time, nothing and no one has been able to alter them or return them to life.” He gestured at the broken pieces on the sand. “I’ve stood here and watched while Xavier and his merry band hacked and hammered at the rock hands of our friend, trying to free the Darksword. All they got for their pains was gravel. I saw the warlock shoot spell after spell at Saryon, and beyond setting fire to a few pigeons—nothing. And yet we find the stone statue now, shattered into pieces when not even the most powerful spells of one of the strongest warlocks in the world could touch it.”

  Mosiah shivered. Despite the magical shield, he could feel the temperature of the air dropping. His mouth was parched and dry and the longer he stayed the stronger his feelings of uneasiness grew. “What else do you—”

  “Over there. I’ll show you,” Simkin said, gesturing insistently.

  “How far away is it?” Mosiah asked hesitantly. “I’m not sure how much longer….”

  “You’re doing fine. The shield’s holding. Just a ways. Keep going, straight ahead.”

  Mosiah walked forward, trying as best he could to avoid the sand-covered mounds that he assumed were parts of the broken stone statue. That Saryon was dead, he had no doubt. He supposed he should feel grief or relief, but right now all he felt was a numbness and a growing fear that something was terribly wrong.

  “There,” Simkin said, coming to a halt, his hands on his hips.

  Mosiah followed his gaze, staring straight ahead of him and his blood congealed in his veins, the chill causing him to shudder from head to toe.

  Garald had described the Border as gently shifting, swirling patches of mist. Mosiah saw a whirling mass of ugly greenish black cloud. Lightning flickered on the fringes, the wind sucked the sand up in twisting funnels, then spewed it out of its boiling maw, alternating inhaling and exhaling like a living thing. Mosiah felt his magical shield begin to give way.

  “My Life’s drained!” He gasped. “I can’t hold the shield much longer!”

  “Corridor!” Simkin said coolly. “Run for it!”

  Turning, they stumbled back through the sand; Simkin leading the way or Mosiah would have been instantly lost in the storm.

  “We’re nearly there!” Simkin cried, grasping hold of Mosiah as the young man collapsed onto the beach. With Simkin’s help, Mosiah staggered to his feet, but the shield vanished. Sand blasted them. The wind roared and shrieked around their ears, beating at them with gigantic fists, tugging them backward into the maw, then pitching them forward onto their knees.

  Mosiah couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. All was noise and tumult, darkness and stinging sand.

  And then there was blessed quiet.

  Opening his eyes, Mosiah looked around him in astonishment. He hadn’t even experienced the sensation of being in the Corridor and here he was, back in Radisovik’s study along with Simkin, looking particularly ludicrous with the orange silk tied around his nose and mouth.

  Rising from his seat, Cardinal Radisovik stared at the two in amazement.

  “What is the matter?” he asked, hurrying forward to help Mosiah, pale and trembling, to a chair. “Calm yourself Where have you been? I’ll send for some wine …”

  “The Border Borderlands?” Mosiah stammered, trying unsuccessfully to stop shaking. He jumped to his feet, rebuffing the Cardinals attempts to soothe him. “I must see Prince Garald? Where is he?”

  “In the War Room, I believe,” said Radisovik. “But why? What’s wrong?”

  “This cravat,” said Simkin, regarding himself critically in a mirror on the Cardinal’s wall. “The mauve absolutely wretched with gray…”

  5

  Sharakan Prepares For War

  The War Room was, in actuality, a large ballroom located in one wing of the king’s palace in the city-state of Sharakan. Unlike the magnificent floating Crystal Palace of Merilon, the palace at Sharakan stood on firm ground. Constructed of granite, it was as unpretentious
, stalwart, and matter-of-fact as its citizens and their rulers.

  The castle had once been a mountain—a small mountain but a mountain nonetheless—that had been magically altered by stone shapers of the Pron-alban class of wizards into a sturdy, exceedingly grim fortress. Later rulers of Sharakan had added their own touches to the palace, softening the harsh lines of the battlements, adding a garden in the center courtyard that was considered one of the loveliest in all of Thimhallan, and generally making it a more pleasant place in which to dwell.

  But the palace was a fortress still; its one major distinction in the world being that it had never fallen in battle, not even during the terrible and destructive fights of the Iron Wars, which had leveled the palaces of Zith-el and Merilon, among others. Thus it had been an easy matter for Prince Garald to convert the palace of Sharakan into an armed camp, bringing in warlocks and catalysts from the city and its surrounding environs to tram them in the art of warfare. Into the city of Sharakan itself he brought the Sorcerers from their exile in the Outland, setting them to work manufacturing weapons, siege machines, and other dark, technological implements of destruction.

  The inhabitants of Sharakan were gearing up for war as well. The Illusionists ceased wasting their energies creating living paintings or enhancing the colors of the setting sun and turned their attention to creating illusions more terrifying and horrible, illusions that would penetrate the mind of the enemy, causing as much or more destruction than an arrow tip penetrating the body.

  The Guilds of the Pron-alban, including Stone Shapers, Wood Shapers, Fabric Shapers, and so forth, turned their attention from mundane domestic duties to war. The Stone Shapers strengthened the walls of the city in case the unthinkable happened—that Xavier should break his sworn word and refuse to accept the decision determined on the Field of Glory, in which case he would undoubtedly attack the city itself. The Wood Shapers joined forces with the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts to create spears, arrows, and the siege engines.