Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Milord!” One of the Duuk-tsarith touched his arm, something that Garald could not ever remember occurring, and a certain sign that these trained and disciplined warlocks were shaken. Garald looked back down and ahead several miles distant, to where the warlock indicated.

  A natural formation of rock had been hurriedly shaped into a crude fortress of stone. Within that fortress, the Prince could see figures moving, their red robes and black marking them as warlocks and witches. The varying shades of red denoted the side of the war they had been on before the new threat made all things equal. As Garald watched, he saw a figure dressed in crimson stride across the compound of the hastily conjured fortress, waving his arm, obviously giving orders, though he could not be heard from this distance.

  “Xavier,” Garald murmured.

  “Milord, they are directly in the path of those things!” the Duuk-tsarith said, the tightness of his voice indicating his struggle to maintain control.

  Did Xavier know that? Did he know the creatures were coming and intend to make a stand here? Or had he simply retreated to this place, unaware of the forces massing against him?

  And what were these creatures of iron? These men of iron? Garald wondered, his gaze returning to them in terrible fascination. Where had they come from? Was it possible that another city-state in Thimhallan had somehow gained knowledge and power enough to create these things? No. Garald rejected the idea. Nothing like this could have been kept secret. Besides, the creation of these things must have been undertaken by Sorcerers whose knowledge and power were beyond anything even the ancients had dreamed.

  Yet another question. Why hadn’t they shown up on the Gameboard? Why hadn’t he been able to see them…?

  The answer was there, so obvious he realized he’d known all along, surmised it from the very beginning.

  They were Dead. Every one of them—the creatures of iron, the strange humans with the metal skin. Dead.

  The Duuk-tsarith was touching him again. “Milord, Cardinal Radisovik, the giant…. What are your orders?”

  Garald tore his gaze from the monsters. Glancing one final time at the stone fortress of Emperor Xavier, he turned away. As he did so he saw one of the creatures pause before a gigantic boulder that blocked its path. A beam of light shot from its eye and the boulder shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

  So much for the stone fortress.

  Garald moved quickly now. His mind, no longer tormented by shadowy fears, was active.

  “We’re going to warn Xavier,” he said, “and get him to pull back. He can’t face these things with that small contingent of people. And I’ll need messages carried back to our lines.”

  Talking to himself, he sped through the air, returning to the giant, having forgotten about it, the Cardinal, and nearly everything else in his first paralyzing glimpse of the creatures.

  Cardinal Radisovik waited for him on the ground, having been carried down by the Duuk-tsarith. The enraged giant was barely being held in check by the warlock, and Garald felt a twinge of remorse when he realized that Radisovik had undoubtedly been in some peril and that his Prince had left him—a weak catalyst—to fend for himself. The feeling passed quickly, however, trampled underfoot by the need for action.

  “You saw?” Garald asked his Cardinal grimly as he neared the stretch of scorched grass on which he and the giant stood.

  “I saw,” Radisovik replied, pale and shaken. “May the Almin have mercy on us!”

  “May He indeed!” Garald muttered, his sarcastic tone drawing a look of concern from the Priest. But there was no time for worrying about faith or the lack of it. Gesturing to the Duuk-tsarith who had accompanied him—the other warlock was keeping the giant in hand—Garald began issuing his orders.

  “You and Cardinal Radisovik enter the Corridors—”

  “My lord? I believe I should stay—” interposed the Cardinal.

  “—and return to my headquarters,” Garald continued coolly, overriding the Priests objections. “Use whatever means you must, but get the civilians out of the area Take them all.” He hesitated, then continued with a twisted smile, “even our people, to Merilon. It’s the closest city and the magical dome protects it best. I wonder who Xavier left in control?” he muttered. “Probably sent Bishop Vanya back. Well, it can’t be helped. Cardinal Radisovik, you must go to the Bishop. Explain what is happening and—”

  “Garald!” Radisovik said sternly, his brows coming together in a manner that the Prince had not seen since he was a young boy caught in some misdeed. “I insist that you listen to me!”

  “Cardinal, it is not for your own safety that I am sending you back! I need you to talk to His Holiness—” Garald began impatiently.

  “My lord,” interrupted Radisovik, “there are no bodies of catalysts!”

  Garald stared at the Priest, uncomprehending “What?”

  “On the field near the Gameboard, on the Field of Glory we have passed over—” Radisovik waved his hand—“there are no bodies of catalysts, milord! You know as well as I that they would never abandon their masters to death, or leave their bodies without the final rites. Yet none of the dead back there near the Board had been given the rites. Where are the bodies if the catalysts are dead? What has happened to them?”

  Garald had no answer. Of all the strange things he had seen, this seemed the strangest. It was inexplicable, it made no sense. Yet, what did make sense? Creatures of iron, destroying everything in their path, killing for no reason. Killing everything except catalysts.

  “I therefore must insist, milord,” continued Radisovik coldly and formally, “that—as a high-ranking member of the Church—I be allowed to stay and do what I can to resolve this mystery and find out what has become of my brethren.”

  “Very well,” Garald said confusedly, trying to grasp the tail-end of his thoughts that had hurried on ahead of him. He turned to the Duuk-tsarith. “You … explain to Vanya. Merilon needs to be fortified. Send messengers, the Ariels, to the farm settlements and begin transporting the people into the safety of the city’s dome. Contact members of your Order in other cities and find out if they are being attacked.”

  The Duuk-tsarith nodded silently, his hands clasped in front of him as was proper, disciplined and under control once more. Perhaps, like Garald, the warlock felt better now that he had something to do.

  “The War Masters are to remain until the last possible moment. I’m going to try to convince Xavier to withdraw, to retreat to our lines. You must get word to my father. Tell him what is happening and that Sharakan must be prepared to withstand an assault as well. Although how they will defend themselves against these things …” His voice broke. Garald coughed, clearing his throat, angrily shaking his head.

  “You have your orders? You understand?” he said gruffly.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Then go. But first, instruct your companion to lose the giant.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Was it Garald’s imagination, or did he actually see the flicker of a smile on the pale face that was barely visible within the depths of the hood. “That should buy me the time I need,” the Prince muttered, watching the warlock fly up to his comrade, who was holding the giant in thrall. He saw the black hood nod. “You’d better open a Corridor, Radisovik. When the spell over the giant is broken, we’ll need to get out of here quickly.”

  A Corridor gaped open. The first Duuk-tsarith had already disappeared, carrying out the Prince’s orders. The second, with a word, released his hold on the giant. Shrieking a deafening cry of rage, the giant stomped around in uncontrolled, undirected fury, his thudding, kicking feet felling trees and shaking the ground. Ducking into the Corridor, the Prince and the Cardinal waited only for the Duuk-tsarith to join them before closing the magical gate and beginning their journey.

  “It may take some time, but the creatures of iron will kill the wretched thing. You know that, of course, Garald,” Radisovik said gently.

  “Yes,” said Garald, thinking
of the boulder he had seen literally disintegrate before his eyes. The thought hurt him and made him angry, and he didn’t quite know why. Though he had never hunted giants for sport, as did some of the nobility, he had never—before now—cared whether they lived or died.

  Now he cared, he cared a great deal. He cared for the giant, for the mother, and her dead baby. He cared for the Sif-Hanar, lying beneath the Gameboard, he cared for the uprooted trees and the burned grass. He cared for Xavier, for his enemy, standing in the path of these things.

  Unbidden, unwillingly, he recalled the words of the Prophecy.

  There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world—

  The giant’s world, that small baby’s world.

  His world.

  15

  No Escape

  Sharper than the thorns of the murderous Kij vine, the witch’s fingernails dug into Mosiah’s flesh. Thrusting him out of the Corridor, she followed immediately after him, never once letting loose her grip on his arm. Simkin appeared inclined to remain in the Corridor, but a piercing glance from the witch—a glance as sharp as her nails—brought the young man tumbling out, still chewing nervously on the orange silk.

  “Use it to gag yourself, traitor!” Mosiah snarled.

  Gazing at him with wounded eyes, Simkin started to reply, choked, and coughed. Spitting out the orange silk, he gazed ruefully at the sodden mass, then consigned it to the air.

  “I say, that hurts,” he remarked moodily. “State of national emergency, that sort of thing. What could I do?” he asked with a helpless glance at the witch. “She appealed to my better nature.”

  “This way?” said the witch, shoving Mosiah forward.

  The Corridor had brought them to a large fortress. Made of stone, the fortress had obviously been hastily formed from a natural rock formation standing in the center of the Field of Glory. About ten feet high, the walls straggled over the irregular landscape in a roughly circular shape. It was crowded with people—warlocks, witches, healers, and catalysts. “Windows” shaped into the rock allowed the warlocks to cast spells at their enermy, or they could float up into the air and drop back down, using the wails to shield them instead of wasting their own magic. The walls also protected them from being overrun by centaurs. During the “battle,” this fortress would have served the same purpose that a child’s sand castle serves in games on the beach. Whichever side held the fortress against the enemy won this particular area of the Gameboard.

  Looking at the pale faces, the tight lips, and the clenched jaws of the magi crowded into the fortress, Mosiah knew that now the stakes were much greater: life itself.

  There was no need to tell Mosiah what enemy the people waited so grimly to face. He could see curls of smoke rising up into the air. The ground trembled beneath his feet, he could hear in the distance the low humming sound.

  “They’re coming, aren’t they?” he said, the image of the sand castle lingering in his mind washed away beneath relentless waves. “The creatures. What are you going to do?” he demanded of the witch. “Just stay here and die?”

  For the first time since she had taken him into the Corridor, the witch looked directly at him. “Stay here and die, go somewhere else and die. What does it matter?” she asked softly, turning from Mosiah to address a warlock in crimson robes who stood with his back toward them. “Your Highness,” she said crisply, “I have found the young man, Mosiah.”

  The warlock was speaking to several other War Masters. At the witch’s call, however, he wheeled instantly, his crimson robes with their golden emblems flashing in the bright sun.

  At the sight of the man’s face, Mosiah felt a swift stab of painful recognition. It was not that the man resembled Joram, for he did not. The face was thinner, older, sharper. But he had the black, glistening hair, the clear, brown eyes, the proud and elegant grace; the same arrogant tilt to the head.

  Joram—the Emperor’s son?

  If Mosiah had not believed Simkin before, he believed him now. The family resemblance was too strong to deny. Mosiah was looking at the former Prince Xavier, now Emperor of Merilon. Joram’s uncle.

  Xavier smiled, or rather the thin lips expanded into the mockery of a smile.

  “I see you recognize me, young man,” he said. “You recognize me because of him, don’t you?”

  Mosiah could not answer.

  “He’s returned! I know it!” Xavier nodded wisely, the cold eyes probing Mosiah. “He has come back and brought with him the end of the world! Where is he?” the Emperor demanded suddenly. Stretching out his hand, his clawlike fingers clutched at Mosiah’s neck. “Where is he! Answer me or by the gods I’ll tear the words out of your heart!”

  Shocked, Mosiah could not move. If Simkin had not accidentally blundered into the Emperor, nearly knocking him over, Xavier might well have succeeded in his threat.

  “Egad! Is that you, Highness? Allow me to assist…. I say! What a beastly expression! Your face will freeze like that someday, you know. Unhand me, you lout!” This to a Duuk-tsarith, who had firmly grasped hold of the bearded young man. “It wasn’t my fault! Chap over there”—he gestured vaguely—“made the most startling remark. Said we were all going to die horribly. A sudden desire to leave came over me, and I mistook His Highness for a Corridor.”

  “Get rid of this fool!” Flecks of saliva speckled Xavier’s lips.

  “I’m going. You needn’t spit!” Simkin said loftily, plucking the orange silk from the air and dabbing at his face. “But first, don’t waste your time with this peasant.” He cast a scathing glance at Mosiah. “Why don’t you ask me? I can tell you where Joram is. I’ve seen him.”

  Xavier stared at Simkin, the wild light in The DKarn-Duuk’s eyes flaring with such intensity that it seemed he might burn the young man to the ground. An explosion shook the compound, causing nearly everyone else to start and glance fearfully to the north. The Emperor did not move.

  “What do you mean, you have seen him?” Xavier demanded. “Where is he?”

  “He is here,” said Simkin imperturbably.

  “Fool! I have had enough of your—” The DKarn-Duuk made a furious gesture, and Mosiah froze, expecting to see Simkin burst into flames.

  Apparently, Simkin expected much the same thing.

  “Not here here,” he amended hastily. “Near here. Somewhere I—uh—Pick a card?” he said suddenly, producing a deck of tarok cards out of nowhere. “Any card.” He held them to the Emperor, whose eyes narrowed alarmingly. “Here, I’ll do it. Don’t trouble yourself.” Simkin held up a card. “Death.” He drew another. “Death again.” A third. “Death three times. That’s Joram, you see. A Dead man. His wife talks with the dead and he walks with the dead Priest.

  Xavier clenched his fist.

  “You’re right. S-stupid game,” stammered Simkin, tossing all the cards into the air. They fell to the ground, fluttering around him like gaudy, multicolored leaves. Looking at them, Mosiah saw that every single card in the deck was Death.

  The air was hazy with smoke, the smell of burning strong. The humming noise grew louder.

  “Your Highness!” called out several voices War Masters began crowding around, shouldering forward, vying for The DKarn-Duuk’s attention.

  “I will deal with these young men, Your Highness,” offered the witch.

  “Swiftly!” said Xavier, fist clenched. His dark-eyed gaze going once again to Mosiah, it stayed with him to the last, when the Emperor finally turned his attention to his ministers.

  “I don’t know anything about Joram!” Mosiah cried desperately. “You can do what you like to me,” he continued, the witch’s penetrating gaze staring through his eyes, searching his brain. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “But you know he has returned.”

  Another explosion shook the ground Mosiah glanced around fearfully.

  “I—I don’t know!”

&
nbsp; “Of course he’s returned!” Simkin stated, exasperated. “I’ve seen him, I tell you! No one believes me,” he continued, sniffing in wounded dignity. “And if you think I’m going to hang around here and die in the company of people who consider me a liar, you have another think coming. No, don’t apologize. I find this deadly dull. You will, I’m afraid, simply find it deadly. And therefore I am away.”

  Gazing at Mosiah, Simkin suddenly burst into tears.

  “Farewell, friend of my childhood!” He flung his arms around Mosiah, hugging him close, nearly choking him. “We who are about to flee to a place of safety salute you. Go forth bravely, my son! Come back with your shield or on it!” Simkin raised his hand, the orange silk fluttered wildly in the air. “Once more into our breeches, dear friends, once more!” he cried gallantly.

  There was a flurry of orange silk, and Simkin was gone.

  “So he’s telling the truth.” It was not a question. The witch, staring thoughtfully and absently at the place where the young man had been standing, was obviously pondering Simkin’s words.

  “The truth? Simkin?” Mosiah started to laugh, but it caught in his throat.

  A shattering explosion hit the fortress wall, sending sharp fragments of rock skimming through the air. People cried out in fear or pain or both.

  “They’re coming! We’re trapped!” someone yelled, and the crowd began to rush about aimlessly, like mice in a box. Those near the site of the explosion fled to the rear of the fortress. Those who had been standing near the rear wall surged forward to see what was going on. The few Theldara in the compound hastened to aid the injured. The War Masters were all yelling at once, Emperor Xavier shouting back at them.