Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  A gurgle, coming apparently from the teapot, caused Menju to glance at it swiftly. But the teapot hushed instantly, though a wisp of steam coiled up lazily from its spout.

  “Change it back!” James Boris clutched his wrist, the chicken foot that was his hand twitched convulsively. “Get rid of it!” His voice rose to a shriek, and he choked.

  “There will be no more talk of retreat,” the Sorcerer said coldly.

  “Damn it!” Sweat beaded on Boris’s forehead. “We’re beat! We can’t fight this … this …” He sought for words, failing. “You heard my men! Werewolves, giants! Some guy with a sword that can suck up energy….”

  “I heard them,” Menju said grimly. With a motion of his hand, he gestured a folding chair to come scurrying forward and position itself behind him. Sitting down comfortably, he smoothed out a wrinkle in the cashmere pants and continued to watch the Major, who had never taken his eyes from his mutated hand. “I heard about the man with the sword. Frankly, that was the only thing I found the least bit interesting, much less frightening.”

  With a wave of his delicate fingers, the Sorcerer spoke another strange word and the Major had his hand back again. Shuddering in relief, James Boris examined it feverishly, rubbing the skin as though to assure himself of its reality. Then, wiping the sweat from his upper lip, he stared at Sorcerer with narrow, fear-filled eyes.

  “Pull yourself together. Major,” the magician snapped. “You know, of course, the identity of the man with the sword.”

  Elbows on the desk, the Major let his head, with its regulation military haircut, sink slowly into his hands. “No,” he muttered in hollow tones. “I don’t …”

  “Joram.”

  “Joram?” Major Boris looked up. “But they told me he’d stay neutral—” The Major stopped, his mouth twisting bitterly “Oh, I see. He would have remained neutral if we hadn’t started slaughtering his people?”

  “I suppose.” Menju shrugged. “Frankly, I always doubted whether he would allow us to conquer this world without reacting in some way to stop us. He played his role well, however, and he can be dealt out of the game. He has, in fact, increased the stakes immeasurably!”

  The Sorcerer slid his bottom lip beneath his two white upper teeth, a habit that gave a sinister cast to his handsome face, or so James Boris thought, staring at the magician with a morbid fascination.

  “Joram has been able to retrieve his Darksword,” the Sorcerer said, after a pause, during which he put the tips of the index fingers of each hand together, tapping them on his cleft chin. “Blast it!” Though he spoke with emotion, his voice was still soft and controlled. “We must get hold of some of that ore to analyze! Darkstone! According to him, it drains the magical energy from this world. Now it seems it has the capability of draining the physical energy used in our world as well.

  “Think of it, Major!” Menju lowered his hands, straightened his tie, adjusted his shirt cuffs in a preoccupied, obviously habitual gesture. “An ore that can drain energy from one source and convert that energy to its own use! Get hold of that weapon, and the battle is won. Not only in this world, but on any other we might choose to invade. Now, Major, how soon will it be before reinforcements arrive?”

  “Reinforcements?” Major Boris blinked glazed eyes. “There are no reinforcements! We are an expeditionary force, our mission is … or was”—his voice cracked—“peaceful.”

  “Yes, it was peaceful. We attempted to negotiate, but we were viciously attacked, our people mercilessly butchered,” the Sorcerer said coolly.

  “So that’s your game, is it?” James Boris responded in lifeless tones.

  “That’s the game.” Menju spread his hands. “Led by this Joram—who tricked us into coming here in the first place—the people of this world were lying in wait for us and attacked us without warning. We fought back, of course, but now we are trapped here. We need help, to save ourselves.”

  “And once these reinforcements come, they’ll fall under your control, just like my men, just like me,” James Boris continued in the same dull and uncaring voice.

  “And on my orders they’ll kill every man, woman, and child in this world, except the catalysts, of course, who—as you can see for yourself,—are helping me increase my magical powers.”

  “That’s genocide!” The Major gasped, his face flushed red with anger. “By god, you’re talking about wiping out an entire population! Why?”

  “Why?” The Sorcerer smiled the charming smile that caused audiences worlds over to believe in the fabric of illusions he wove before their dazzled eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? I alone will possess the magic. I and my sons and daughters. Which reminds me, I need several young women for breeding purposes. I’ll take charge of that personally. With the magic, my family and I will rule the universe! And there will be no magicians left alive with the power to stop me!”

  “I won’t obey you! I’ll denounce you! I’ll break you—” James Boris swore viciously. The words stopped cold on his lips as the Sorcerer, rising slowly to his feet, pointed casually—with one finger—at James Boris’s right hand.

  Turning deathly white, the Major snatched his hand back and hid it beneath the desk.

  “When we talk of breaking people, Major, I suggest you remember that simply by speaking a few arcane words I can break you, quite literally, bone by bone There are what—over two hundred bones in the human body? I forget, biology was never an interest of mine. But it would be, I fancy, an extremely painful way to die.”

  “My men will not murder innocent—”

  “Oh, but they already have, Major Boris,” the Sorcerer interrupted with a shrug. “Your men are terrified of the people of this world. What is that quaint saying of Joram’s? ‘What they do not understand, they fear What they fear, they destroy.’ A few more battles like the one they’ve been through today and they will be more than willing to exterminate these wizards. Now, I asked you a question about reinforcements. How long?”

  Major Boris ran his tongue over his lip. He had to swallow several times before he could speak. “Seventy-two hours, at least.”

  The Sorcerer shook his head thoughtfully. “Seventy-two hours! That won’t do, I’m afraid. That’s too long. The magi will attack us before that. Joram will push them to it.

  “Not even your magic can make it any quicker, Menju!” James Boris said with a bitter smile. “We have to get the message through and we’re having trouble with the communications link-up. The starbase is on alert, but the men will have to draw supplies and board the ship. Then there’s the jump. Turn me and all my men into chickens, if you want,” he added, seeing the magician’s tan, handsome face flush in anger. “It won’t help speed matters any.”

  The Sorcerer stared intently at James Boris, but Major Boris stared just as grimly back. There are limits you can push a man—even a shattered man. The magician had apparently reached them. “We need to stall for time then,” Menju said smoothly, turning away from the sweating, tight-lipped Major. “And, above all, we need that sword!”

  James Boris, sighing, put his elbows on the table and rested his aching head in his hands.

  Frowning in thought, the Sorcerer stared down, unseeing, at the teapot that was, under the man’s scrutiny, suddenly very quiet and subdued. No steam rose from its spout, the gurgling noises inside it had ceased.

  The magician began to smile. “I have a plan,” he murmured. “Peace … we came here in peace … just as you said, Major Boris.” Reaching down, Menju lifted the green teapot with the bright orange lid in his hands. “Now, all we need is someone to carry our message to the one man—a pious holy man—who will undoubtedly—if we play our cards right—be most eager to help us.”

  2

  Of Great Price

  It was no longer spring in Merilon. Winter had come to the domed city, as it had come to the lands outside the city’s magical cover. It was not that winter had been decreed to occur that day, or that the Sif-Hanar were derelict in their duties. Winter had come to Meri
lon because there were too few Sif-Hanar left to alter the season. Those who had survived the battle at the Field of Contest were so weak that they barely had breath enough to mist the icy air, let alone attempt to conjure the pink and fluffy clouds of spring.

  It was snowing inside the city for the first time that even the oldest resident could remember. It had started out as rain; the heat from thousands of living bodies combined with the heat and moisture given off by the trees and plants within the Grove and gardens of Merilon had been enough to overburden the air trapped within the city. Without the Sif-Hanar to govern it, the humidity level within the dome rose until the air itself began to weep—crying for the dead, or so the story went. With the coming of night, the rain changed to snow and now the city lay buried beneath a blanket of white—

  “—like a corpse,” said Lord Samuels heavily, staring out a window.

  The frozen, snow-shrouded garden that he contemplated sorrowfully was not the same garden where his Gwendolyn had loved to walk. It was not the garden where her love for Joram had grown and blossomed. It was not the same garden where Saryon, nursing his dark secret, had sought to protect the blossom by uprooting the plant. No, this garden was far grander, far lusher than the one that had nurtured so many dreams in its dark soil.

  The garden was grander and so was the house, being, like the garden, built on a magnificent scale. Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund had finally attained their dream. They were, at last, nobility. The cost had been nothing more than they had been prepared to spend—their daughter. Too late they realized they had exchanged a pearl of great price for a mere bauble.

  Shortly after his daughter’s disappearance, Lord Samuels had taken to haunting the deserted sands of the Borderland searching for her. Every day, following his work at the Guild, he traveled through the Corridor to that desolate, barren place, roaming up and down the beach crying out her name until it became too dark to see. Then, exhausted and despairing, he would return to his home.

  His sleep was restless, sometimes he woke up and insisted on returning to the Border in the middle of the night, saying he had heard Gwen calling to him. He ate little or nothing. His health began to suffer. The Theldara—the same blunt woman who had tended Father Saryon—told Lady Rosamund that her husband was in a dangerous state of body disharmony that could cause his death.

  At this juncture Lady Rosamund had received a visit from Emperor Xavier. The Emperor was all kindness and understanding. He had heard that Lord Samuels was behaving in a most peculiar manner, a manner that was—the Emperor sought to phrase this delicately—causing renewed public attention over a deeply regrettable incident. No one felt for the grief of the bereft father and mother more than Xavier. But it was time Lord Samuels viewed this tragic incident in its proper perspective. It had happened, nothing could change that The Almin works in mysterious ways. Lord Samuels must have faith.

  Xavier said this last with a grave voice, his hand patting Lady Rosamund’s. Why it should have filled her with terror was unknown to her. Perhaps it had been the expression of the cold, flat eyes. Removing her hand from the Emperor’s disturbing touch, she pressed it against her palpitating heart and murmured distractedly that the Theldara had recommended a change … a change of scene.

  Excellent idea the Emperor had remarked. Precisely what he’d had in mind. It was in his power to bestow a small estate upon some fortunate man. Lord Samuels would be conferring the greatest favor upon the Emperor if he would accept this trifling gift. The estate consisted of a small Field Magi village, a castle in an outlying district, and a house in the city. It was falling to rack and ruin since the death of its owner—a Count Devon—who had left no heirs. It behooved Lord Samuels, as a loyal subject of the crown, to take it over and make the estate properous once more. There was a small matter of back taxes, but a man in Lord Samuels’s position.

  Lady Rosamund had managed to stammer out that she was certain this was exactly what her husband needed to take his mind off his grief. She thanked the Emperor most profusely. Xavier had accepted her thanks with a gracious inclination of the head and had said, as he rose to leave, that he presumed her husband would henceforth be much too busy to make those nightly journeys to the Borderlands. He had further added that he trusted her husbands new duties would provide him with more cheerful subjects to discuss other than whatever it was he might have heard or witnessed concerning the young man called Joram.

  Xavier left Lady Rosamund with a little homily: A man who walks backward, staring into the past, is likely to trip and hurt himself.

  That night Lord Samuels’s visits to the Border ceased. The following week, he and his family journeyed to Devon Castle, returning to the Devon townhouse in Merilon only for holidays and during the winter season as was customary with the rich and the beautiful. They had everything they had ever wanted: wealth, position, acceptance by their betters, who were now their peers.

  Gwendolyn was spoken of no more. Her things were given to her cousins, but these simple girls could never look at the pretty dresses and jewelry without weeping, and soon put them away. The little brother and sister were taught not to ask for their Gwen.

  Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund attended all the important court functions and parties. If the joy appeared to have gone out of their lives—and it often seemed that they did not truly care where they were or what was transpiring around them—they were merely exhibiting the proper attitude of noble indifference. They fit in perfectly with their new peers.

  Lord Samuels and his family had only last night arrived in their house in Merilon, having been forced to leave Devon Castle when news of war was brought to them by the Ariels. It was to Lord Samuels’s credit that he had not fled his lands until assured that the peasants who worked for him would be protected. Remembering what he’d heard from Joram of the life of the Field Magi and witnessing the appalling conditions in the village when he’d taken over the estate, Lord Samuels had done what he could to improve the living conditions of his people, spending his own money and magical energy. It was now one of the few pleasures in his barren, empty life to see the peoples formerly dull, lackluster stares replaced by gratitude and respect.

  “Do you think what we’ve heard is true!” Lady Rosamund asked him softly, glancing about to make certain the House Magi were out of hearing.

  “About what, my dear?” he asked, turning to look at her.

  “About … about the battle yesterday, the death of the Emperor? You’ve been locked in your study all forenoon. I heard you talking to someone and then the Ariels came. What messages did they bring?”

  Lord Samuels sighed. Taking his wife’s hand, he drew her near to him. “The news is not good. Yes, the reports are true. I was going to tell you, but I wanted to wait until Marie and the children and the servants were settled for the afternoon.”

  “What is it?” Lady Rosamund’s face was pale, but her manner composed.

  “The person I spoke to this morning was Rob.”

  “Rob?” Lady Rosamund looked at him in wonder. “Our overseer? Did you go back to the castle? After they warned us—”

  “No, my dear. Rob is here, in Merilon. All our people are here. The Duuk-tsarith brought them into the city this morning. And it is not only ours, but they brought in the Field Magi of the surrounding villages as well.”

  “Name of the Almin!” Lady Rosamund moved closer to her husband, who put his arm around her comfortingly. “Such a thing has not happened since the Iron Wars! What is going on? Sharakan agreed to the Field of Contest. Why did they break their solemn vows—”

  “It is not Sharakan, my dear,” said Lord Samuels.

  “But–”

  “I know. That is what Bishop Vanya would have us believe. There are too many who know the truth, however, and who have returned to report it. The enemy is rumored to have come from Beyond. It is said that Prince Garald of Sharakan, who, you know, my dear, is reputed to be a man of honor and valor, fought side-by-side with Emperor Xavier against this new menace.”r />
  “Then why is Bishop Vanya lying to us?”

  “That, my dear, is what a great many of us would like to know,” Lord Samuels said gravely, frowning. “He won’t even admit publicly that Xavier is dead, though witnesses have come forward giving their accounts. The Bishop—may the Almin forgive me—is old and infirm. This responsibility is too much for him, I fear. That is my belief and the belief of others, according to the messages they sent me. There will be a meeting this night at the Palace to consider what is to be done I plan to attend.”

  Lord Samuels looked intently at his wife as he spoke. She gripped his arm more tightly.

  “Who has called this meeting?” she asked, seeing a troubled expression in his eyes.

  “Prince Garald, my dear,” Lord Samuels answered calmly.

  Lady Rosamund caught her breath, her lips parted to protest, but her husband forestalled her.

  “Yes, I know Vanya will probably consider this treason. But something must be done. There is growing unrest in the city, particularly in City Below. Temporary quarters for the Field Magi have been established in the Grove, but those poor people are crowded in there like rabbits in a warren. There has always been dissatisfaction and rebellion among them. Now they have been dragged from their homes and brought here, to be held like prisoners. There is talk among them that they are going to be mutated and sent to fight, as were the centaurs in the ancient days. They plan to revolt—”

  “Merciful Almin!” Lady Rosamund murmured.

  “The lower classes of Merilon are in much the same state. Wild rumors fly among them. I have heard that they are gathering in front of the Cathedral, crying out for Bishop Vanya to show himself. Even among the nobility, families who have lost loved ones are angry and demanding answers. But the Bishop has shut himself up in his chambers in the Cathedral and refuses to see anyone, not even Duke d’Chambray or the other high-ranking nobles. Prince Garald and his retinue are staying with the Duke—”