Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Arriving back at the front Gate of the city, Prince Garald brought his chariot to a halt. Raising his hand, he caused the trumpet to sound again. Suddenly, savage centaur—their half-human, half-bestial faces twisted in rage, their hooves striking the ground—poured out from the Corridors. They rushed straight for the domed city, death burning in their eyes. In their hands they held spears—weapons of the Dark Arts.

  Above them flew dragons, tearing the air with their talons, poisoning it with their foul breath. Giants appeared next, their huge heads on a level with City Above, leering at the tiny people below them with dumbfounded grins. Griffons, chimeras, satyrs, sphinxes—all manners and types of magical beasts—burst out of the Corridors, howling in rage, eager to taste human blood.

  No one in Merilon applauded now. Children wailed in terror. Mothers grabbed their shrieking babes, men leaped to guard their families. The noblemen, furious at this effrontery, shouted out oaths, their lady wives rose to the occasion by decorously fainting dead away.

  When the centaurs were within spears throw of the walls, when the giants were reaching down their huge hands, when it appeared that the dragons were prepared to crash through the magical dome, Prince Garald ordered the trumpet call to sound a final time.

  One by one, with brilliant, multicolored starbursts and roaring explosions that shook the ground, the illusions vanished. Left behind, the exhausted warlocks and their equally weary catalysts who had created the illusions had just strength enough to bow proudly to the stunned people of Merilon.

  Lifting his banner above his head, Prince Garald shouted in a voice that could be heard throughout the city.

  “I call upon you people of Merilon to overthrow your evil leader and his toad of a Bishop. You live in a dream as tragically dead as your late Empress, a dream as sadly insane as your late Emperor. Destroy the dome that hides you from the real world. We, in Sharakan, offer you life. Return to the land of the living.

  “If you refuse to rid yourself of these parasites that feed on your blood, then we will do so ourselves, in order that they do not infect the rest of the world. There will be war between our kingdoms.

  “What is your answer?”

  “War! War!” shouted the people of Merilon in a high state of excitement. “War! War!” the nobles chanted. The fainted ladies roused themselves in time to cry, “War!” Mothers coaxed their babies to crow the word, “War!” which they did with mimicking, uncomprehending delight. Children shrieked, “War!” and conjured up pointed sticks on the spot, imitating the spears they had seen the centaurs holding. University students yelled, “War!” and vowed to a man to enlist in the army as soon as possible. Several young catalysts chanting “War! War!” were rebuked by a passing Deaconess, who reminded them sternly that the Almin was opposed to bloodshed. But since the Deaconess was in a hurry—on the way to offer her aid to the warlocks—she did not have time to watch over the culprits, and the catalysts resumed their cries the moment she was gone.

  “So be it!” Prince Garald shouted grimly, but his words went unheard in the tumult. With one final, coldly formal bow, the Prince drove his chariot back into the Corridor and vanished from sight, his warlocks and their catalysts disappearing as well.

  It was noon. Bells pealed out in Merilon, the Sif-Hanar—in a fit of patriotic frenzy—colored the clouds to match Merilon’s own banners, making it appear as if the sky were draped with flags. The nobles flew to their parties, hymns of battle and Merilon’s national anthem on their lips. The people of City Below held an impromptu street dance and lit bon fires. The city was ablaze with light, the parties and gaiety would last far into the night.

  Standing silent in his crystal-walled study high above the tumult and the merriment, the Emperor of Merilon looked down upon it unseeing, unhearing. For him, the Challenge had come and gone and he had missed it, though it had spread out before his eyes. In his vision, there walked only a single figure and in its hand it held a weapon of darkness.

  The parties in Merilon were just reaching their height, the sunlight was fading sulkily to twilight, the first of the evening stars could be seen flickering dimly overhead before The DKarn-Duuk stirred or spoke. Behind him, the Bishop sat, breathing heavily. Occasionally mopping his forehead with a cloth, he was thinking it was well past time for his dinner and he started nervously when Xavier broke the long silence.

  “Joram has returned from the realm of the dead,” The DKarn-Duuk said in a soft voice. “If we do not stop him, the Prophecy will be fulfilled. Alert the Duuk-tsarith. If they find Joram, he is to be killed on sight. This time he can—and must—be destroyed!”

  9

  To Victory!

  A week following the Challenge, on a day determined by negotiation between representatives of the warring nations, the battle between Merilon and Sharakan began.

  Early in the morning, long before dawn, Prince Garald and his entourage arrived on the Field of Glory to set up the Gameboard. His enemy, Emperor Xavier and his entourage, arrived at nearly the same time, doing the same thing several miles distant.

  The Field of Glory was located in the approximate center of the world of Thimhallan. A large tract of land, relatively flat, dotted here and there with clumps of trees and covered overall with thick, smooth, green grass, the Field of Glory had been set aside in ancient days for the purpose of settling disputes between nations. No one ever came here for any other reason. The Field was consecrated, both by prayers and by blood—the latter being the unintentional result of the Iron Wars.

  Before and after that time, warfare in Thimhallan was fought in a civilized manner as befit the higher order of magically gifted humans who fought it (as opposed to the lower order of Dead humans left behind in the old world). The primary feature of the Field of Glory was the Gameboards. Made of the holy stone of the mountain fortress of the Font—granite taken from around the Well of Life, the source of magic in the world—the Gameboards were located at opposite ends of the Field. Each Board was shaped into a perfect square, nine feet long by nine feet wide. When the Field was not in use, the flat and featureless Boards lay upon the ground. The druids saw to it that the Boards were carefully tended; the grass around them was shaped trimly and neatly, spells of shielding kept animals and birds from desecrating the Boards’ surfaces.

  On the day of battle, as was happening this day, the leaders of the combatants, accompanying nobles, War Masters, and high-ranking catalysts arrived at the site of the Gameboards and performed the Ceremony of Activation and Blessing just as the first rays of dawn lit the Field.

  Prince Garald took his place with Cardinal Radisovik at the head of the Board, which faced north. His companions—the noblest of the nobility of Sharakan—gathered around the Board, nine on each side. Each nobleman’s catalyst stood by his side. At a signal from Prince Garald, the Cardinal began the prayer.

  “Almighty Almin,” he prayed, acutely aware that several miles away his words were being echoed by Bishop Vanya, “look down upon our contest this day and bless it. May we who fight this battle be judged worthy by You and granted victory, for we fight to find glory in Your eyes and to chastise a foe who has broken Your Commandments and brought turmoil and strife to our peaceful land.”

  There followed a redress of the grievances of Sharakan against Merilon (vice versa at the opposite end of the Field), in case the Almin had forgotten the acts of aggression, attempts at enslavery, and other heinous crimes committed by the foe.

  “Grant us victory this day, Almin,” continued Radisovik earnestly, “and we of Sharakan promise that we will improve the conditions of the peasants living beneath the iron yoke of the greedy nobles of Merilon.”

  (“We of Merilon promise that we will destroy the evil Sorcerers who now hold the people of Sharakan in thrall.)

  “We of Sharakan will destroy the magical dome that surrounds Merilon, opening it to your blessed light and air.”

  (“We of Merilon will bring enlightenment and culture to the people of Sharakan, encasing their city
in a magical dome.”)

  “We of Sharakan will depose the evil man who rules Merilon.”

  (“We of Merilon will depose the evil man who rules Sharakan.”)

  “—overthrow his Bishop, proclaimed a heretic by the Church.”

  (“—overthrow his Cardinal, proclaimed a heretic by the Church.”)

  “… and bring peace to the world of Thimhallan in Your Name. Amen.”

  (“… and bring peace to the world of Thimhallan in Your Name. Amen.”)

  At this point in the ceremony, many of the spectators began to arrive, their fantastic flying carriages glittering in the air overhead. Cardinal Radisovik, concluding his prayer, had the strangest, fleeting impression of the Almin arriving, too, sitting somewhere up above them, drinking a glass of wine and munching on a chicken leg. The vision was startling, and Radisovik hurriedly banished it, inwardly begging the Almin’s forgiveness for the sacrilege.

  Prince Garald nudged his catalyst, engrossed apparently in watching the arrival of the guests and forgetting that the Ceremony was not complete. Flushing, Cardinal Radisovik granted Life to his liege lord. Each of the catalysts in attendance did the same to their own lords. Most of the magi assembled were Albanara. There were, however, two members of the Sif-Hanar, one member of the Kan-Hanar, and a Sorcerer—the blacksmith, who was now leader of his people. Bowing their heads, each man reverently accepted Life from his catalyst and, at another signal from Prince Garald, the magi in turn used their Life to activate the Gameboard.

  The gigantic slab of granite began to glow with a blue light. Slowly, the magi raised their hands and the Gameboard began to rise from the ground. Higher and higher it rose under the guidance of the magi until it hovered four feet above the earth. Prince Garald made a commanding gesture, and the magi ceased their spells. The Board remained floating in the air at a level convenient for play; its plain, featureless surface sparkling in the sunlight.

  Then Prince Garald, who up until this time had not participated in the magic, laid his hands upon the Board and began to chant a ritual ancient as the rock itself. This was the Activation. At his command, tiny magical figures—scaled-down miniatures of the real people and animals participating in the battle—took their places upon the Gameboard at the same time as their real life counterparts were taking their places upon the Field of Glory.

  First appeared the War Masters and their catalysts, taking up positions on the Gameboard that now began to divide itself into hexes to render the movement of pieces easier. Occasionally asking for advice from those near him but more often acting on his own, Prince Garald arranged the tiny, living pieces on his Board—instructing a War Master to move several hexes to the north, for example, or calling back one who had inadvertently drifted over into enemy territory.

  Once the War Masters were arranged to Garald’s satisfaction, he next brought in the Sif-Hanar—the wizards who controlled the weather—and placed them at various intervals (determined by long-standing tradition) around the Board. Finally, when all was in readiness, he began to move in his troops; those people or beings who would be under the command of the War Masters.

  Bands of savage centaurs—captured in the Outland and held in thrall by the Duuk-tsarith—surged onto the Field of Glory. Kept in check by the warlocks, the centaur units were each under control of a War Master, who would unleash them either at his own discretion or upon a direct command from the Prince. The winged Ariels stood at Garald’s side, ready to carry his orders to anyone on the Field.

  Along with the centaurs came the giants—mutated humans who, like the centaurs, dwelt in the Outland. Unlike the centaurs, however, who lived to kill, the giants were actually gentle creatures with the intellect of small children. Ordinarily peaceful, the giants were goaded into fighting by such stratagems as bolts of lightning shot into their flesh or other pain-inducing measures, such being the one thing that could drive the overlarge humans into a rage.

  Next appeared the dragons, griffons, and a host of magical beasts, including some created by magic specifically for the battle: giant rats that stood six feet tall on their hind feet, giant cats to fight the rats, and so on depending on the magus’s creativity and level of skill. Particularly dangerous were the werebeasts—men and women transformed by the War Masters into savage animals while retaining the intelligence and skills of humans.

  Finally, taking their places at the edges of the Board were the Theldara, the druid healers, who would immediately go to the aid of any human of either side injured in the fighting.

  As Prince Garald worked, he could see the armies of Emperor Xavier materializing on the opposite side of the Gameboard. Keenly Garald studied the disposition of the forces of his enemy, knowing his opponent was doing the same. Occasionally he made changes, shifting a piece here or there depending on how Xavier was setting up his men. But Garald did not allow what he saw to influence him overmuch. He had his strategy planned out. He was confident in it, in his War Masters, and in his people.

  Finally, all was in readiness. Looking down at the Gameboard—now populated with wizards, warlocks, catalysts, howling centaurs, grinning giants, flying dragons, snarling werewolves, and a host of other combatants—Prince Garald smiled in pride and satisfaction. Raising his hand in which appeared, suddenly, a glass of wine, Garald called for a toast.

  His guests immediately followed suit, raising their own glasses in the air. The toast was shared by the spectators, many of whom were gathered in the sky above the Gameboard, waiting eagerly for the battle to begin.

  “To victory!” Prince Garald shouted. “This day, it is ours!”

  The toast was heartily drunk, the noblemen regarding each other and particularly their Prince with pride. Garald had never looked so handsome or regal as he did this day, dressed in his pure white robes trimmed with red and gold—the robes of the commander. His face flushed with excitement, his clear eyes gleamed with the sincere belief in the righteousness of his cause and his eagerness to engage his enemy in conflict. Once again, he lifted his glass, the red wine flowing into it through his magic. Radisovik, watching, was reminded vividly of blood flowing from a wound and, shuddering, made a hasty sign against evil, wondering as he did so why he was being plagued with these disturbing and unwelcome thoughts.

  “To our secret weapon,” Garald said, turning to the Sorcerer and toasting him.

  “To our secret weapon,” the others replied, all eyes on the blacksmith, who was so flustered with pride and confusion that he swallowed his wine at a gulp, choked, and had to be pounded on the back by the Baron standing next to him.

  All eyes went to a section of the Board shrouded in a magic cloud. Prince Xavier had a similar, cloud-hidden section on his side of the Board as well. Although the laws of warfare demanded that the majority of the combatants’ forces be in plain sight, players were allowed to keep certain forces hidden, waiting in reserve.

  It was these reserves that could tip the scales of battle for either side, and the eyes of both commanders—Garald and Xavier—were on those cloud-shrouded hexes, trying to deduce from the position on the Board, the reports of spies, and a hundred other factors what menace lay concealed within the fog.

  Xavier knew this must be the army of Sorcerers, but what weapons did they carry? What was their plan of attack? Most urgent question of all, did they carry the Darkstone?

  Prince Garald little doubted what lay beneath Xavier’s cloud. A warlock, armed with the Darksword. The Prince had given his most powerful War Master a regiment of men armed with special weapons and one single instruction—at all costs, capture the Darksword.

  Garald would have been astonished to know that Emperor Xavier had provided his own most powerful War Master with a regiment and the same instruction.

  Capture the Darksword.

  One other Order was searching for it as well. Prompted by fear of the Prophecy, the Order of Duuk-tsarith had come together in a rare, secret conclave the night prior to the battle, meeting in caverns far below the world, caverns whose
whereabouts were unknown to kings and emperors.

  The black-robed figures, faceless in the eternal night of the caverns, gathered in silence deeper than the darkness around a nine-pointed star embedded in the stone floor. One of their Order rose into the air above them, unseen by the eye, visible in their minds. She asked a question.

  “Does the Darksword fight with the armies of Sharakan?”

  “No.” The answer came from many voices on one side of the cavern chamber.

  “Does the Darksword fight with the armies of Merilon?”

  “No.” Again, many voices answered, this time from the other side.

  “Has the Dead man, Joram, or the catalyst, Saryon, been seen in this world?”

  “Yes.” This time, only one voice replied, coming from the back of the circle.

  Instantly, the witch dissolved the Conclave. The black shadows slipped into the night, returning to their duties. All except one. The witch summoned him.

  “Where is Joram?”

  “I do not know. The Darksword shields him well.”

  “But he has been seen. By whom? What is your source?”

  A name formed in the man’s thoughts. He did not speak it, afraid, perhaps, to let even the night share the secret.

  The witch, perceiving his thought, nodded in satisfaction.

  The man appeared dubious. “Is that source to be trusted?”

  “Absolutely,” said the witch.

  10

  Out Of The Fog