Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “That can’t be the creatures! They’re too far away!”

  “Besides they’re blind….”

  “No, they’re not! Why I saw one….”

  It was all noise and confusion. The watch was gone; Mosiah had no idea where, but he thought he caught a glimpse of her, flying up over the wall to investigate. Standing in the center of the compound, feeling frightened and alone, Mosiah cursed Simkin for getting him here, then leaving him. But the curse was halfhearted.

  “I might still be out there,” he muttered, shuddering. Another explosion rocked the stone work. People cried out in pain and terror, the confusion within the compound became general “Trapped!” He felt suffocated. Suddenly, he wanted to be out there, anywhere but trapped inside these walls, waiting to die.

  Looking around wildly, searching for a way out, Mosiah’s gaze chanced on Xavier, who stood nearby with his War Masters Mosiah stopped, staring. A change had come over the warlock Having been in a state of near frenzy when demanding to know the whereabouts of Joram, now Xavier stood calmly, his face pale but composed. He was listening to his ministers who, as nearly as Mosiah could figure out from the snatches of heated conversation he overheard, were arguing about the most effective means of destroying the creatures.

  “It kills with its eyes, like the basilisk, Your Highness,” argued one. “So we attack it the same way. One distracts it from the front and the other attacks the creature from the rear. A Sleeping Death spell—”

  “Begging your pardon, Highness, but it is the light beam cast from the eyes of the creature that kills. A simple Darkness spell and—”

  “Reptile. The creature is obviously a reptile, Your Highness. It has scales like a dragon. Freeze its blood with an Ice spell.”

  It is hopeless, Mosiah told them silently. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen the head that can turn in all directions. I’ve seen the scales and they are made of iron. I’ve seen the Dead men with silver skin who serve these monsters, men who can kill with the palms of their hands.

  Watching the Emperor, Mosiah realized suddenly that Xavier thought the same thing. The DKarn-Duuk was listening to the arguments but with a singular air of detachment, his mouth twisted in a wry, bitter smile, as though he found the warlocks entertaining but nothing more. His eyes were flat, empty, uncaring. He did not react to anything around him. A nearby explosion that caused everyone standing around him to fling up their arms, shielding their faces, did not affect him at all. Xavier didn’t even blink.

  There came another explosion, then another. Beams of light from the monsters eyes shot into the compound, striking their victims with unerring accuracy. There seemed to be no escape from death, no way to avoid it. Those who flung themselves on the ground died. Those who sprang into the air died. No one knew where the deadly light would strike next. The beams never missed. A druid standing near the wall crumpled over without a sound, a hole burned through his head. An Ariel who had been watching from the skies crashed to the ground almost at the young man’s feet, his feathery wings on fire.

  Those watching from the walls cried that the creatures were in sight, others shouted that a giant could be seen walking among them. Judging from sporadic bursts of lightning and flame, a few warlocks had rallied together, attempting to halt the monster’s approach.

  “I should be doing something,” Mosiah said to himself, but he had no idea what. He had no weapon, he’d lost the crossbow. Not that it would have been much use anyway. Mosiah felt despair envelop him in its winding sheets, wrapping him up tightly, depriving him even of the will to live.

  “Go!” said Xavier suddenly, and Mosiah heard his despair echoed in the Emperor’s voice.

  “Go,” Xavier ordered his War Masters, accompanying the command with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Cast your worthless spells. Die in whatever manner amuses you.”

  Stunned—he had caught most of them in midargument—the War Masters swallowed their words, staring at their Emperor in disbelief. Xavier gestured again, a frown of irritation creasing his brow.

  The War Masters turned to gaze at each other in helpless confusion and growing fear when a clear baritone voice rang out, shouting over the wails of the dying, the cracking of rock, and the low hum of the approaching monsters.

  “Emperor Xavier!”

  The Emperor turned, so did Mosiah, so did everyone in the compound. Prince Garald, Cardinal Radisovik, and a warlock in black robes appeared, stepping out of a Corridor. The appearance of the Prince—their enemy—sent a ripple of confusion and interest through the crowd, momentarily quelling the panic. A tiny flicker of light glimmered through Mosiah’s dark despair and he hurried forward with the rest, anxious to hear. The Duuk-tsarith acted immediately to keep an area around the Emperor clear. Xavier and Garald faced each other, surrounded by an ever growing circle of tense, strained faces.

  “So you have come crawling to me at last, Prince of Sorcerers!” Xavier said “Is this surrender?”

  This unexpected question took Garald completely by surprise. He stared at the Emperor, perplexed. “Do you have any idea what is heading your way, Xavier?” the Prince asked in a low voice. Glancing at the crowd, he drew nearer to the Emperor. “We must speak privately.”

  Xavier stepped back, haughtily drawing his robes out of the way of Garald’s touch. “Say what you have to say, Demon Prince, then be gone.”

  Mosiah, pressing close with the rest of the crowd, saw Garald’s face flush in anger and the Cardinal lay a restraining hand on the Prince’s arm.

  “Very well,” Garald said, his lips tightening grimly, and a hush fell over those standing near, a hush broken by blasts of exploding rock or the screams of the injured. “I asked to talk to you alone, Xavier, because I did not want to start a stampede.”

  Glancing at those standing near, the Prince continued gravely, “But your people are too well trained for that. You’ve got to evacuate this position, Emperor, and you must do so now!”

  Xavier shook his head. “This is your fault, you know,” he said softly. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at the Prince with flat, cold eyes. “You had him, and you let him go.”

  “Let who go? What are you talking about?” Garald demanded in apparent confusion, though it was obvious to Mosiah that the Prince knew exactly what Xavier meant.

  “Joram, of course. Now you pay the piper.”

  “Joram! Have you gone mad? Joram is dead!”

  Mosiah heard the slight tremor in Garald’s voice as he spoke those last words, and undoubtedly The DKarn-Duuk did too, for he smiled bitterly and, shrugging, turned away.

  Exasperated by the man’s coolness, Garald glared at the warlock’s back in anger and frustration. The ground shook. Every few minutes, someone else died in the compound as the deadly eyes of the monsters pierced another victim. The Prince pointed toward the north.

  “Xavier, listen! There are twenty or thirty of those monsters coming straight for this place! You don’t stand a chance! You’ve got to get your people out of here!”

  The magi stared at each other. Mosiah sucked in his breath, trying to visualize thirty of the iron creatures.

  “You can’t fight them!” Garald shouted, and his cry echoed among the crowd.

  “We can’t fight them! We must flee!”

  “Open the Corridors!”

  The panic Garald had feared burst into flame, its fires fed by the flashing beams of killing light. Mosiah, like everyone around him, had one clear, coherent thought in his mind: “Escape!” When a Corridor opened near him, he dove for it, fighting anyone who stood in his way. The magi turned on each other, fear driving them mad as they struggled to reach the safety of the Corridors, which only a few could enter at one time.

  An enraged shriek rose above the clamor.

  “Stop!” Xavier screamed in fury. “Seal the Corridors, you Thon-li! Do you hear me? Seal the Corridors by my command! No one is to leave!”

  Mosiah caught a quick glimpse of several pale catalysts, peering out from the magical Co
rridors. Their eyes wide and frightened, the Thon-li obeyed the Emperor instantly. The gaping Corridors slammed shut, leaving people stranded in the compound, wailing frantically, some even scrabbling at the empty air with their fingers, endeavoring to force the Corridors back open. Others stood as Mosiah stood—numb, appalled.

  “You’re insane, Xavier!” Garald cried. Breaking free of the restraining hands of the Cardinal, the Prince lunged at the Emperor—whether with the intention of shaking sense into him or choking the life out of him, no one knew, perhaps not even the Prince himself.

  Xavier, watching him with a sneer, raised his hand, and Garald slammed up against a wall of ice. Dazed, the Prince staggered backward, the Cardinal hurrying to help him.

  “Why do you run, fools?” Xavier shouted and his voice—amplified by magic—rose above the chaos “Why put it off. Die quickly, here and now. This is the end of the world!” Extending his crimson robed arms, he slowly turned a full circle within his cold, glistening barrier. His eyes stared up into the heavens. “The Prophecy is fulfilled!”

  “No, uncle,” came a voice in answer. “The Prophecy is not fulfilled. I have come to stop it.”

  16

  The Destruction Of __

  The World

  Once, when Garald was young, he had been caught in an open field during a weather fight between rival groups of Sif-Hanar: A lightning bolt struck near him; so close that Garald smelled it sizzle on the air. He could still remember quite clearly the dazzling, paralyzing thrill surging through him, the concussion of thunder that slammed into him a split second after, knocking the very breath from his body.

  “The Prophecy is not fulfilled. I have come to stop it.”

  The voice that spoke those words had the effect of that lightning bolt on him. Its rich timbre—familiar, yet different—sent a thrill through him that tingled in his blood; his entire being seemed to glow with a dreadful, powerful aura.

  “Joram!” he cried, turning.

  As the voice was familiar—yet wasn’t—so Garald recognized the man who stood before him—yet didn’t.

  Thick, luxuriant black hair glistened in the sunlight. Garald remembered that hair, falling in long, tangled curls around the face of an eighteen-year-old youth. But now the black curls were cut short, worn shoulder-length, combed smooth and sleek. A shock of pure white hair sprang from the brow, framing the left side of the man’s face.

  The face itself was familiar in its dark, finely carved beauty. But here and there the Master Hand wielding the chisel had slipped, marring the visage with lines of grief, age, and a strange, undefinable sorrow. The man’s face was so changed, in fact, that if it hadn’t been for the eyes, Garald would have doubted his first impression. But he knew those eyes. The eyes were Joram’s. Garald could see the fire of the forge smolder in them still—glowing coals of pride, bitterness, and anger.

  Prince Garald recognized something else as well—the scabbard the man wore strapped about his body; the scabbard that had been a present, his present to Joram. Carried in that scabbard, Garald knew, was the Darksword.

  “Joram?” the Prince repeated softly, staring at the man dressed in plain, white robes who stood in the center of the compound.

  Cardinal Radisovik fell to his knees.

  “Yes, Cardinal,” Xavier sneered “Pray to the Almin for His mercy. The Prophecy is fulfilled The end of the world is come.” With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the ice shield around him, then, striding ahead, he pointed his finger at the man. “And this demon brings it? Kill him? Kill—”

  A flash of blinding light, and the Emperor’s words broke off in a horrible, gurgling sound. Through an afterimage of red streaking across his vision, Garald saw The DKarn-Duuk pitch forward onto his face, felled like a lightning-struck tree.

  Stunned, shocked, no one dared move or speak.

  One of the Duuk-tsarith, coming to her senses, knelt swiftly beside her Emperor. Turning over the body, she started to call for the Theldara. The words died on her lips.

  A charred and blackened hole—a horrible mockery of what had once been the man’s mouth—was burned completely through the skull. Hurriedly the witch covered the gruesome wound, drawing the red hood of Xavier’s robe over what was left of the face.

  But it was too late. Those who had seen the ghastly sight began to mill around in a frenzy of terror, some dropping to the ground, others flying up into the air, still others shrieking for the Corridors to open. The Emperor’s last words—“the end of the world”—were being cried out in an anthem of hopelessness and despair.

  Xavier’s bodyguards sprang toward the white-robed man. Reaching behind his back, he drew the Darksword and held it before him. The weapon began to glow with a blue light.

  “Stop!” Garald cried out. The warlocks reluctantly halted. The Prince stared at the corpse, then looked back at the man holding the blue-flaming sword.

  “Listen to me!” the man said, his eyes intent upon the menacing Duuk-tsarith. “You will all be dead, just like my uncle, unless you act at once.” Holding the sword poised between himself and the Duuk-tsarith, he took a step nearer the Prince.

  “Don’t come any closer!” Garald cried out, raising his hand as though to ward off a spirit from the grave. “Was Xavier right? Are you a demon? Did you bring this destruction down upon us?”

  “You brought it on yourselves,” the man answered grimly.

  Reaching out suddenly with his left hand, he grasped hold of Garald’s arm. The Prince gasped, flinching at the touch, and the Duuk-tsarith instantly closed on the man. His sword flared, and they halted again uncertainly. They could feel the magic-absorbing Darksword draining the Life, their magical powers seeping out of them.

  The man squeezed the Prince’s arm tightly, painfully. “I am flesh and blood! I have been Beyond and I have returned. I know this enemy and how to fight it! You must listen to me and follow my orders or this will be the end, as my uncle said!”

  Garald stared at the hand clutching his arm, doubting his senses, yet knowing he felt the touch of a living person. “Where have you come from?” he asked in a hollow voice. “Who is this enemy? Who are you?”

  “There is no time for questions!” the man cried impatiently. “The giant has stopped the tanks for the moment, but the wretched thing is dead now and the enemy is moving swiftly. Within minutes, there will be no one left alive in this fortress!” Suddenly, he thrust the Darksword back into its sheath. “Look,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “I am unarmed—your prisoner, if you choose.”

  As the Duuk-tsarith sprang forward, a blast shook the ground.

  “The stone wall is breached!” someone shouted. “We can see them! They are coming.”

  “Death crawls….” Garald murmured.

  Tears of frustration and anger and fear blurred the vision of the corpse lying at his feet. Confused, shaken, horrified, scared, he put his hand to his eyes to hide them, cursing himself for his weakness, knowing he must not give way. Another explosion rocked the fortress. The people cried out to the Prince, begging him to save them. But how could he? He was as lost and desperate as they…

  Near him, he could hear the Cardinal, praying to the Almin. Was this Joram? Was this salvation or destruction?

  Did it matter …

  “Let him go!” he ordered the warlocks finally. Drawing a deep breath, he turned to face the white-robed man. “Very well, I will listen to you, whoever you are,” he said harshly. “What do you say we should do?”

  “Gather the magi and their catalysts together. No, Cardinal, there is no time for that,” the man said to Radisovik, who looked up from where he was kneeling beside the Emperor’s body. “The living need you now, not the dead. It will take you and all of the catalysts to grant the magi Life enough to cast this spell. We must build a wall of ice around this entire complex, and we must do it without expending all of our magical energy.”

  “Ice?” Garald stared at him incredulously “I’ve seen those creatures shatter rock with their light b
eams! Ice—”

  “Do as I say!” the man commanded, his fist clenched, the imperious, arrogant voice ringing like a hammer blow through the chaos around him. Then, suddenly, the stern face relaxed. “Do as I say, Your Grace,” he amended, a dark half-smile twisting his lips.

  A vision came to Garald, a vision from long ago, himself and an arrogant, hot-tempered youth.

  “Fine words!” Joram retorted. “But you’re quick enough to lap up ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Your Highness!’ I don’t see you dressed in the coarse robes of the Field Magi. I don’t see you rising at dawn and spending your days grubbing in the fields until your very soul starts to shrivel like the weeds you touch!” He pointed at the Prince. “You’re a wonderful talker! You and your fancy clothes and bright swords, silk tents and bodyguards! I—” Choking on his anger, Joram turned and began to walk away.

  Garald caught hold of him by the shoulder, spinning him around with his strong hand. Joram shook free, his face distorted by rage, and struck back, swinging his fist wildly. The Prince countered the blow with ease, catching it on his forearm and, with practiced skill, forced the young man to his knees on the ground. Joram struggled to rise.

  “I can keep you here with a spoken word of magic!” Garald hissed, his arms holding the young man in a strong grip.

  “Damn you, you—!” Joram swore, spitting filth. “You and your magic! If I had my sword, I’d—” He looked around for it, feverishly.

  “I’ll give you your sword,” the Prince said grimly. “Then you can do what you will. But first, you will listen to me. More important, you will listen to the voice of your own soul! It is true that in order to do my work in this life, I must dress and act in a manner befitting my station. Yes, I wear fancy clothes and bathe and comb my hair, and I’m going to see to it that you do these things, too, before you go to Merilon. Otherwise you will be laughed out of the city. Why? Because, unfortunately, people judge by appearance. As for my title, people call me ‘milord’ and ‘Your Grace’ as a mark of respect for my station. But I hope it is a remark of respect for me as a person as well. Why do you think I don’t force you to do it? Because it is empty for you. You don’t respect anybody Joram. You don’t care for anybody. Least of all yourself! …”