Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The other side.

  I can almost see the parchment in your hands tremble as you read this.

  The other side.

  Long I walked. I don’t know how long, for time itself is warped and altered by the field of magic that surrounds this world and keeps it cut off from the rest of the universe. I was conscious of nothing except the fact that I was walking, that there was solid ground beneath my feet, and that I was lost and wandering in a gray nothingness.

  I don’t recall being frightened and I think I must have been in shock. I have heard, however, from others I have met in Beyond, others who passed through the magical boundary, that it was not frightening to me because I was Dead. To those with magic, it is a fearful experience. The ones who survived with their sanity intact (and there are not many) cannot talk of it without difficulty. And I will never, to my dying day, forget the look of terror and horror I saw in Gwendolyn’s eyes when she first opened them.

  I think it probable that, in my despairing and unreasoning state of mind, I might have continued to walk uncaring through the gray and shifting mists until I sank down and died. Then—with a suddenness that literally took my breath away—the mists ended. As one can walk out of a patch of dense fog and find oneself standing in broad sunlight, so I emerged from the realm of death (so I thought) and found myself standing in an open field of grass.

  It was night, a perfectly clear and lovely night. The sky above me—yes, there was sky—was smooth, deep black, and every possible inch of it sparkled with stars. I never knew there were so many stars. The air was crisp and cold, a full, bright moon poured silvery light down upon the land beneath it. I drew in a deep breath, let it out, drew in another, let it out and—for I don’t know how long—I just stood there, breathing. The blackness lifted from my soul. I considered what I had done and knew for the first time in my life that I had done something right, something good.

  My religious training had been neglected in my chaotic childhood. As I grew older, I had no faith in mankind or in myself, consequently I had no faith in the Almin either I had given little thought to a life after death, except possibly to fear it if it existed. After all, for me, life itself was a daily burden. Why should I want to prolong it? At that instant, however, I believed I had found heaven. The beauty of the night, the peace and solitude that surrounded me, the sense of blessed aloneness.

  My soul was content to take flight and slip away into the night. My body, however, stubbornly persisted in living and in reminding me—by its weakness—that I was alive. A chill wind blew through the grass. I had no shirt I was clad in nothing but some cast-off trousers that the Duuk-tsarith had given me in prison. I began to shiver with cold and with, undoubtedly, a reaction to my recent experiences. I was thirsty and hungry, too, having refused all food and drink during my captivity.

  It was at that moment I began to wonder where I was and how I got here. I could see nothing in any direction but broad expanses of empty, moonlit grassland and—strangely—a small red, flashing light about one hundred feet from me. I suppose the light had been flashing all that time, but my spirit had been floating with the stars and had paid no attention to it.

  I began to walk toward the light with some vague idea, I recall, that it might be the coals of a fire, which only goes to show that I was still not thinking clearly or I would have realized no fire would flash on and off in that persistent manner. It was while I was walking toward the light that I discovered Gwen.

  She lay in the grass, unconscious. I knelt beside her, caught her up in my arms, and pressed her close all before it occurred to me to wonder how and why she was here. At that moment I recalled having heard her voice as I stepped into the mists and a confused impression that I saw a fluttering of her white gown. Perhaps we had been within a few feet of each other and never knew it, so thick was the fog. It didn’t matter. It seemed so right, somehow.

  At my touch, she awoke. I could see her face clearly in the moonlight and it was then I saw the madness in her eyes. I knew it for what it was—how could I not? I had lived with it all my childhood. It was many months before I could admit it to myself, however. Certainly, I did not in that instant.

  “Gwendolyn!” I whispered, cradling her in my arms.

  At the sound of my voice, the eerie glint in her eyes faded. She looked up at me with the same look of love I had been so blessed to receive—a blessing I had changed to a curse!

  “Joram,” she said softly reaching up with her hand to touch my face.

  I saw my reflection in her eyes and then it began to waver and grow dim as the horror and madness banished me from her vision. I held onto her tightly, as though she were physically leaving me. Her body remained in my arms, but I could not prevent her spirit from running away.

  The wind was rising. White fire lit the night and there came a thunderous crash. Looking up, I saw darkness swallowing the stars like some great monster crawling across the heavens. Lightning streaked from sky to ground. Even though the storm was some distance from us yet, the force of the wind nearly blew me over. The clouds swept toward us, the moon vanished as I watched, and I could smell the rain and feel its mist blowing against my face.

  I could not believe the swiftness or the power of this storm. I looked around in panic. There was no shelter anywhere. We were stranded out in the open. A bolt of lightning struck near enough that its concussion deafened me. I saw huge chunks of earth fly into the air. The wind increased, screaming shrilly in my ears. The rain began, slanting down out of the sky with the force of lightning itself. In an instant, both Gwen and I were soaked through, though I did what I could to shield her with my body.

  I had to find help! The lightning danced around us, the wind grew stronger. Pellets of ice stung my face, bruising and cutting my flesh. All was total darkness now, except for the brief intervals of terrible day when the lightning lit the sky. And then I saw through the slashing rain the flashing red light, blinking on and off, apparently unaffected by the storm. Perhaps there were people there, gathered around a fire, using their magic to keep it alive. Lifting Gwen in my arms, I carried her toward the red light, praying the first unselfish prayer I probably ever uttered—that the Almin would send someone to save her.

  Who was I expecting to find by that fire? I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have been much surprised to see angels or devils. I would have welcomed either one. We could not survive this storm long. It was increasing in ferocity, and I had the dim, almost dreamy thought that comes sometimes in the midst of terror that it was battering against the Border of the world, trying to break it down.

  There were times I literally could not move against the tremendous force of the wind, times when I had to use all my strength just to stand, clasping Gwen’s cold, motionless body close to my own as the wind buffeted me and the rain and ice drove like sharp needles into my skin.

  By sheer effort of will, I struggled on. Eventually, I came to the red light. It was not a fire. There was no one around—devil, angel, no one. The red flashing light came from an odd-looking object sticking out of the rain-soaked earth, and it was not even warm to the touch. Frustration and despair overwhelmed me. The strength in my legs gave way, and I sank, with Gwen in my arms, to the ground.

  At that moment, above the noise of the storm, I heard a rumbling sound. It grew louder as I listened. I could feel the ground shake. The lightning was almost incessant now. Peering through the rain, I saw—illuminated by brilliant flashes—a huge monster crawling toward us. It had a squat, angular shape with two great flaring eyes in front, and it was bearing down on us with incredible speed!

  So this is how it ends, I thought. Torn to bits by some foul beast. I gave myself up to the darkness inside me. My last remembered thought was one of thankfulness that Gwen was unconscious and would slip into death without knowing these final moments of terror.

  They tell me I was conscious when they found me. They said I spoke to them and it appeared to them—for they could not understand me—that I was prepared to fight
. They tell me—and they smile to recall it—that I couldn’t have fought a child. My struggles were feeble, and I fainted.

  As for me, I remember nothing until I woke to the sound of voices. Terror assailed me, then I calmed myself. It was a dream! My heart beat rapidly in hope. The trial, the sentencing, the execution, the storm … it was all a dream and when I opened my eyes I would find myself back in the house of Lord Samuels….

  I opened my eyes and stared into a glaring light, so bright it hurt. My bed was hard and uncomfortable and I realized suddenly that I was inside something made completely of iron. It seemed we were moving, for we rocked back and forth with a sickening, swaying motion. My dream had been all too real.

  Yet, I still heard voices. Sitting up, I tried to see, shielding my eyes from the light.

  The voices were very close. Dimly I saw two figures, standing near me, walking unsteadily with the motion of the iron thing. They noticed me as I sat up and one came over to my side.

  He spoke in a language I could not understand and it seemed he realized this, for he kept patting my shoulder while he spoke, in a reassuring manner, as one comforts a frightened child.

  I was not frightened. By the Almin! After what I’d been through, I didn’t think I could ever be frightened of anything again. My only thoughts were for the poor girl who had given up everything for my sake. Where was she? I looked around, but I couldn’t see her. I tried to get up, but the man held me down—he was very gentle. It was not difficult to keep me from moving, I was too weak even to sit up long.

  All the while, the other figure inside the iron thing was talking to someone else—someone who spoke in a crackling voice.

  I know now, of course, that he was talking into a communications device, located inside his landrover (a type of vehicle similar to a carriage except that it operates by the Dark Arts of Technology, not by magic). I can still hear the man’s words quite clearly, though at the time I didn’t know their meaning. Months after that, in my struggles against madness, his words came to me over and over in my night-dreams.

  “We’ve checked out the alarm. There’s two of them on the Border this time—a man and a woman.”

  I remember nothing after that. The man who knelt beside me pressed something cold against my arm, and I sank into sleep.

  When I awoke, I found that Gwendolyn and I had been transported to a new world—or perhaps you might consider it a very old one—to begin living a new life. I married my poor Gwen—to keep her safe and secure—and part of every day I spent with her in the quiet, loving place where she stayed while the healers of Beyond endeavored to find some means to help her.

  It has been ten years … ten years in our new world … since she has spoken a word to me or to any living person. She talks only to those her eyes alone can see. She talks to the dead.

  I came to know many people in this world of Beyond, including a man who was not of that world but is of our own. His name is Menju, but he calls himself Sorcerer, and I have spent much of my time during those ten years learning his true nature and doing what I could to thwart his rise to power.

  I do not have the time, nor is it the intent of this document, to describe the world Beyond. Suffice it to say, the world Beyond is a world of Technology, a world beyond your comprehension. You would understand little and believe less of what I could tell. Alas, you may come to know it all too well….

  In closing, I will leave you with some thoughts regarding our world and how it relates to the universe. One of you, I pray will have wisdom enough to understand and accept, not shut your eyes to it as you have done for so many centuries.

  The ancient magi, finding themselves persecuted for being “different,” fled what they considered a dying world—a world that was becoming too dependent on technology, a world that denied and even feared the magic. Seeking a place where they might live in peace, the ancients traveled through time and space. Their coming to this world was no accident, for here is contained the source of magic in the universe. The magi were led here by the magic’s siren call. Once they arrived on these friendly, welcoming shores, the ancients burned their ships and vowed never to leave.

  Not only did they cut off all contact with their old world, they built a barrier around this one so that there was no possible way anyone from Outside could enter. So powerful was this magical barrier, however, that it not only shut the universe out, it sealed the magic within.

  In their ardent desire to secure their present, the ancients destroyed their past. Instead of keeping memories of the old world alive—and thus reminding themselves that it was still out there—they destroyed the records and banished the memories until now it has become, for you, a House Magi’s tale, less real than the realm of the faerie.

  And because you forgot there was a land outside, distant and remote as it might be, you felt safe and secure—safe and secure enough to cast out those you believed did not belong in this world—even in death. Thus evolved the custom of sending people into “Beyond.” It is a neat and simple means of dealing with those who are different. It rids the world of them quickly and efficiently. The punishment is so awful that it serves as a fairly effective deterrent. What you did not realize was that you were sending these magi out, not to death, but to life.

  Though we forgot about them, the world Beyond has never forgot about us. The majority of the magic was shut up, sealed off from them, that is true. But tiny bits of it escape, now and then, seeping through cracks in the barrier. The world Beyond is hungry for Life, and—when it had the means through its advanced uses of Technology—the people of Beyond went in search of the magic.

  They found it, of course, but they could not reach it. The magical barrier was too strong for them to penetrate. They did, however, find those who had been cast out, wandering—as did Gwen and I—in the land across our Border. It is a dreadful land, swept almost hourly by terrible storms such as I experienced. There are few people here. It is an outpost, the men who run it have only one objective—to search for a way to gain the magic.

  Thus they found us, thus they found others. Alarms—those red flashing lights—are set along the Border, detecting anything that moves. Whenever possible, they have rescued magi, and now these outcasts live in the world Beyond.

  Most are insane—as is my poor Gwen. But some are not. Some—one in particular, this man known as “Sorcerer”—are quite sane. He tried, countless times, to get back across the Border. According to him, the barrier is an energy field composed of the magical energy within this world and within each of the Living. The Living who are cast out cannot get back in due to their own energy force. Much as two like magnetic fields repel each other, the magic of the world repelled his magic. All these years, he has waited for this world to make a mistake, a mistake that would let him back inside.

  I was your mistake.

  A Dead man crossed the magical boundary. The spell was shattered, the lock broken. I myself, having no magical energy, would not be repelled. I could come back. And if I did, it was theorized that I would disrupt the field. I would leave the door open behind me.

  As I said, Sorcerer came to this conclusion after months of study. We were not always enemies, you see. Once I trusted and admired him—

  But that is another story.

  Those in power managed to convince me that the two worlds must meld, become one. I thought this would prove a blessing for Thimhallan. I believed that a blending of the two worlds would bring about a new order in the universe. My dreams were bright. The dreams of others, however, were twisted and distorted.

  I came back. … and they followed me, bringing war.

  They deceived me and betrayed me. I realize now that they mean to conquer this world as they have conquered others.

  Will the Prophecy be fulfilled? Are we hurtling to our own destruction as rocks tumbling down a cliff face? The thought is a terrifying one. And it is made all the more frightening because it seems we have no choice in our own destiny; that some all-knowing and uncaring Master
controls our puny lives and has controlled them from time immemorial.

  Is there no escape? I am beginning to think there is not. The only two right and good things I have ever done in my life—choosing to leave this world and choosing to return to save it—have apparently only brought the Prophecy that much closer to fulfillment.

  If this is true, if our lives are dealt to us like the cards of the tarok, if we are thrown down to take a trick or be lost as our Player deems and there is nothing more to life than that, then I begin to understand Simkin and his way in this world.

  The game is nothing, the playing of it everything.

  1

  The Enemy

  Major James Boris, commander, fifth battalion, Marine Airborne, was known among his men affectionately (if unofficially, and never when he was within hearing) as Stump. In build he was short, thick-bodied, and well muscled—physical qualities that undoubtedly helped earn him this nickname. Thirty years old, he kept his body in top condition, and yearly, during the base’s annual inspection by the brass and top government officials, Major Boris invited as many young recruits as wanted to endanger their skulls to rush him in a group and attempt to knock him off his feet. (According to legend, a recruit once stole a tank and drove it straight at Major Boris. Legend has it that, when the tank struck him, James Boris remained standing rooted to the spot, and it was the tank that flipped end over end.)

  Those who served with James Boris from his early days as a young recruit knew the true derivation of his nickname, however. It came from the classroom, not the locker room.

  “James Boris, you have all the imagination of a tree stump!” remarked an instructor caustically.