Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  A panicked thought entered the smiths weary mind. “I’m going to be blamed for the enemy’s attack and executed without benefit of a trial.” Lifting a hammer, the smith prepared to sell his life dear.

  But the Executioner, speaking in his cool, deep voice, assured the smith at once that it was his brains the warlock sought, not his head.

  Bringing the box out of the folds of his robes, the Executioner rubbed out the runes, unwrapped the cloth, and exhibited the weapon to the blacksmith.

  Sighing in awe, the smith lifted the weapon and ran his hands over it lovingly. The ingenuity and perfection of its workmanship and design caused his eyes to mist over with tears. The Executioner abruptly cut short the smith’s rapturizing, however, by demanding to know how the thing worked.

  It is possible that the Executioner cringed slightly when the smith began to dismantle the weapon. Possible … but doubtful. The Executioner was a highly disciplined individual who, if he had emotions, never revealed them to anyone. To all outward appearance, he stood unmoved and unmoving, his face concealed by his gray hood the entire time the smith worked on the weapon.

  The blacksmith spent an hour in intense examination of the tool and, at last, after reverently reassembling the components, announced bluntly, “I know how it works, my lord, though how they captured all that power is beyond me.”

  “That,” answered the Executioner, “is more than sufficient.”

  The blacksmith, holding the weapon. In his hands and stroking it fondly, explained matters clearly and concisely.

  “Aim the weapon at your target. When you press against this small lever with your finger”—the blacksmith pointed—“the weapon will shoot forth the projectile with such force that it should go through damn near anything.”

  “Flesh?” asked the Executioner offhandedly.

  “Flesh, rock, iron.” The blacksmith looked at the weapon with wistful longing. “I don’t suppose you’d care to see it demonstrated, my lord?”

  “No,” the warlock replied. “Your explanation is satisfactory.”

  Retrieving the weapon, the Executioner stepped into the Corridor and vanished. With a heavy sigh, the smith hefted his hammer and began pounding on a crude spear tip, all the joy having gone out of his work.

  Returning to the safety and privacy of his own chambers in the Font—chambers far underground, studiously avoided by everyone, and the only place where, it was said, the eyes of the Font were blind and the ears stopped up—the Executioner demonstrated the weapon himself. Pointing it at a wall, he wrapped his finger around the small lever as the blacksmith had indicated and squeezed.

  The concussive blast nearly deafened him, the weapons recoil staggered him. He all but dropped the thing and his hand stung with the shock for minutes afterward. Going to examine the target on the wall, once he had recovered himself, the Executioner was frustrated to find no trace of the projectile. The wall was smooth and undamaged. Further investigation revealed, however, that this was not the fault of the tool but the fault of the one using the tool. The Executioner had missed his target by, if not the proverbial mile, then certainly a city block.

  Undaunted, the Executioner cast a temporary spell of deafness over himself. Holding the weapon with both hands, he finally managed, after an hour, to at least come close to hitting his target. Measuring the holes he had made in the wall, the Executioner saw that they fit well within a space large enough to accommodate a human’s upper body. This was good enough. It was nearly dawn anyway and he had to make certain he took up his position unseen and unsuspected.

  When he arrived at the Temple, the Executioner stationed himself near the altar stone, protected from all eyes except those of the dead by his shield of invisibility. From this vantage point, he observed the Sorcerer’s arrival (the Executioner could have reached out and touched the man) and watched with keen interest as Menju selected his own hiding place.

  The Executioner glanced at the sun. Not too much longer. Standing in the bright sunlight, conscious of a breathless hush that had settled over the top of the world, the Executioner waited.

  7

  Watching, Waiting

  Father Saryon peered cautiously at the Temple of the Necromancer, intending to investigate this place of rumored evil before setting foot upon its grounds.

  “Come on, will you?”

  Pushing past the reluctant catalyst, Joram stepped out of the Corridor onto the crumbling white marble walkway. His intense, eager gaze scanned the area swiftly: the ruined Temple behind him; the altar stone in the center of the wheel; the vast vista of the world spread out before him, Merilon shining in the distance like a teardrop upon the face of the land.

  Saryon followed, every nerve fiber tense and alert. Reaching out with his being, as he did when he drew Life into his body, he felt about him with mental fingers as a blind man feels about him with his hands. He sensed Life—the magic was extremely strong here, but that was not unusual. They were, after all, standing directly above the Well of Life itself. He sensed death, too, but that may have been his overwrought imagination.

  His fears were apparently groundless. The Temple appeared to be empty. Nothing moved, not even the air. No sounds of the living world below drifted upward to disturb the solitude. The silence was absolute, complete, unbroken.

  Why, then, was he afraid?

  “We are here in good time,” Joram remarked, glancing up at the sun and nodding in satisfaction. He rubbed his hands together to remove the chill of the mountain air. “It is almost noon.” Turning and looking around curiously, he walked past his wife, who was just stepping out of the Corridor, without a word or a glance.

  “I see no legions of ghouls thirsting for our blood, do you, Catalyst!” Joram continued caustically, going over to investigate the altar stone.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean…

  Saryon’s words died, he stared in perplexity.

  Joram’s back was turned to him. The folds of the long traveling cloak swept the ground as he walked. Concealed beneath that cloak, encased in the magical scabbard, was the Darksword. The weapon was well hidden. No one glancing at Joram casually would have noted anything unusual or out of the ordinary about him. But Saryon, who had traveled with Joram for so long, had come to notice a difference in the way he walked when he wore the sword. Perhaps it was the weapon’s weight, or a peculiar construction of the scabbard, but Joram always appeared slightly stoop-shouldered when he wore the Darksword, as though bowed down by an invisible burden.

  He bore no burden now. His back was straight, his walk free and easy.

  He’s not carrying the sword. We are defenseless! Saryon’s first thought was to keep near the Corridor and he reached out to catch hold of Gwendolyn as she started to wander off.

  Placidly, she allowed him to detain her and, standing beside the catalyst, she gazed about the Temple grounds, her blue eyes calm, seeing nothing in this world, caring nothing about what happened. And here was Joram, acting the same way? What could he have been thinking, to leave his sword behind?

  Certainly, Joram didn’t appear worried or nervous. He stood by the altar stone, lounging against it as though waiting for someone. Why was he acting so strangely? Perhaps it had something to do with this terrible place.

  Although Saryon neither saw nor felt any evil about the Temple of the Necromancers, his fear was growing. Maybe it was the oppressive sadness that hung over the Temple—the terrible sadness of those who have been long forgotten. Or maybe it was the breathless hush in the air. Everything seemed to be watching, waiting. Even the sun itself appeared to have come to a stop directly above them.

  We must leave, go back through the Corridor. Somehow, he must convince Joram of the danger. That wouldn’t be easy, since it was a danger he himself could not define, but he had to try. Marshalling his arguments, Saryon started toward his friend, when Gwendolyn suddenly broke free of his grasp.

  “No! No! There are too many of you!” she cried, backing away from him. “Don’t touch me!�
� She was not looking at the catalyst, but beyond him. Stretching out her arms, she warded off unseen hands. “There are too many of you! I can’t understand you! Stop shouting! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

  Gwen clasped her hands over her ears, as if shutting out a tumult. Saryon stared at her helplessly. The only sounds that could be heard in the still, unmoving air were her own cries. He reached out to her, but, turning from him, she ran down the path, retreating as before an onslaught. Dodging first one way and then another, her erratic movements looked like some macabre dance performed with nonexistent partners.

  “I can’t help! Why do you plead with me? I can do nothing, I tell you! Nothing!”

  Her palms covering her ears, her golden hair gleaming pale and unlovely in the chill light, Gwen began to run toward the Temple in a desperate effort to escape the unseen mob. She made it as far as the altar stone. Tripping over the long hem of her gown, she fell to her knees, and knelt there, cowering from her tormentors.

  Hastening after her, Saryon saw that Joram stood not ten paces from his terrified wife. But he made no move to go to her. Instead, he leaned against the altar stone, watching her with amused interest, as if grateful to her for providing him with entertainment to pass the time.

  Anger surged through Saryon. He didn’t know what had come over Joram. He didn’t care, not anymore. Let him sink back into the darkness! Hurrying to Gwen’s side, Saryon bent down and gently took hold of her hand.

  A sharp, distinct crack split the air.

  Then another.

  And another.

  And one more.

  Saryon’s heart froze, his blood froze, his feet and legs, his hands. He could not move. He could only crouch on the pavement, holding onto Gwen, listening to the mind-numbing sounds careen among the rocks and reverberate from the Temple walls.

  And then, the cracks stopped.

  Fearfully, Saryon waited for the dreadful noise to come again. All he heard were the hollow echoes rattling down the mountainside. These, too, finally dwindled, swallowed up by the vastness of space.

  Nothing moved, nothing stirred. Even Gwen’s cries hushed. It was as if the sounds had torn the air asunder and now silence rushed in to fill the void.

  The catalyst had only one clear thought in his mind—to get out of this place. It was obvious to him that nothing in this accursed Temple was going to help Gwendolyn, who huddled, shivering in his arms. There was every possibility, in fact, that this Temple and the dead who dwelt here might drive her deeper into her madness.

  “I’m taking your wife home—” Saryon began in a shaking voice, looking up at Joram. The catalyst’s breath caught in his throat. “Joram?” he whispered, letting loose of Gwendolyn and rising slowly to a standing position. “My son, what’s wrong?

  Joram leaned weakly against the altar stone, staring at Saryon in the most profound astonishment. The brown eyes were open wide. His lips parted to speak, but no words came. One hand was pressed against his breast and beneath the hand, Saryon saw a crimson stain grow like a living thing, spreading out slowly over the white robes. Three more stains appeared on his body, bursting into bloom like lurid red blossoms.

  Lifting the crimson-stained hand slowly, Joram stared at it in the same bemused amazement. Puzzled, he looked back at Saryon and, shoving himself away from the altar stone, he took a step toward the catalyst. Staggering, he fell before he reached him.

  Saryon caught him in his arms. Touching the fabric of the crimson-stained robes, the catalyst felt the warm wetness of life’s blood draining from Joram’s body, falling through Saryon’s fingers like the petals of a shattered tulip.

  8

  My Poor Fool …

  The sound came from behind him, a low, muffled curse.

  “What was that?” Saryon raised his head “Who spoke? Is someone there? Help? Will you help me?”

  It had seemed to come from the Temple.

  “Who is there?” Saryon called desperately. Being careful not to disturb the injured man he held in his arms, he twisted around to look. But the shadows inside the Temple of the Necromancers remained unmoving, dark and silent as the realm they guarded.

  Nothing but my imagination. Who would be there? Saryon asked himself bitterly. His gaze went to Gwendolyn, crouched on the pathway near him. She was looking around her expectantly, as though waiting.

  Had it been her voice? Had she spoken? She loved Joram! Loves him still, for all Saryon knew.

  “Gwendolyn?” He spoke softly and gently, fearful of startling her. “Come to me? Stay with Joram while I get help.”

  Hearing Saryon’s voice, she turned to him. Her gaze went to her husband and flitted over him like butterfly wings, darting here and there over the stalks of the lifeless plants. The dead must have been shocked into silence, because Gwen’s fear of them appeared to have vanished. Slowly, she started to rise to her feet.

  Suddenly it occurred to Saryon that they themselves might be in danger! Whatever had struck down Joram in this mysterious and horrifying manner might be waiting to lash out again with its whiplike cracks!

  “No! Gwen! Stay down!” Saryon cried frantically, and either the terror and urgency in his voice penetrated the mists of Beyond that clouded her mind or unseen hands caught hold of her and kept her from rising. Saryon, in his agitated state, had the distinct impression it was the latter.

  He scanned the Temple once again, then the Garden, the pathways, the jagged edges of the summit, searching frantically for their enemy.

  “Not that I care for myself,” the old Priest muttered, lowering his head over the body he held in his arms, tears dimming his eyes. Although still breathing. Joram had lost consciousness. Gently, Saryon stroked the thick, black hair back from the deathly white face. “I am tired of this life, tired of the fear, tired of the killing and the dying. If Joram must die here, then I can find no better resting place.”

  Shaking his head angrily, Saryon fought back his tears. Give way to despair and you are dead, and so is Joram and so is Gwendolyn! She must get to a place of safety. If there was such a place…. The Temple! It had once been sacred ground. Perhaps the Almin’s blessing lingered there still.

  “Gwen, run to the Temple,” instructed Saryon, forcing himself to speak calmly and quietly, “Quickly, my child! Run to the Temple.”

  Gwendolyn made no move to go. Gazing around with that same expectant look, she gave no indication that she had even heard him.

  “Take her there!” Saryon cried urgently to the shadows in the empty Garden. “Take her to the Temple! Guard her there!”

  It was a cry born of desperation, and no one was more astonished than the catalyst to see Gwen lifted to her feet by unseen arms, unseen hands helping her stand.

  “Hurry!” he breathed, waiting in fear for that sharp crack.

  Bearing Gwen along, the dead swept past him. He could feel the soft whisper of their presence upon his cheek; he saw it flutter Gwen’s gown and stir her golden hair as they bore her to the Temple. When she stumbled, she was caught and supported. When she started to falter, she was hurried forward. Saryon saw her stumble up the nine stairs leading into the Temple, and he saw her vanish into the shadows.

  The catalyst sighed in relief, one care off his mind. And now, he repeated to himself stubbornly, I must get help for Joram, for all of us. He looked back at the man in his arms, and his heart sank within him, the cold, logical part of his mind telling him that, for Joram at least, there was no help.

  “There must be a chance to save him!” Saryon shouted fiercely, defiantly at the heavens.

  In mocking answer, the body in his arms shuddered, a groan of pain escaped the lips The catalyst clasped Joram tightly, trying to keep hold of the spirit that was seeping away with every drop of blood. “If only I knew what had happened to him!” he cried to the cold empty sky.

  “Sink me!” came a weak voice. “That makes two of us!”

  Startled, Saryon lowered his eyes from the heavens back to earth, to the man he held in his arms
. Gone was the stern face with its high cheekbones and firm jaw Gone was the luxuriant black hair with its shock of white. Gone were the dark, lowering brows, the brown eyes, burning with a deep, inner flame. Instead he saw a face of indeterminate age with a pointed chin, a soft beard and mustache, the eyes regarding him with an almost comical expression of puzzled indignation.

  “Simkin?” Saryon gasped.

  “In the flesh,” remarked Simkin, struggling for breath.

  “Though … that particular part of me … is … rather ventilated. I’m feeling … a distinct draft about the kidneys…

  “But where … where’s Joram?” stammered Saryon, mystified.

  “Here,” came the stern reply.

  A figure in white robes, its head covered with a white hood, stood above them. In its hand was the Darksword. Joram knelt at Simkin’s side and, though his voice was stern, the hand that reached out to the injured young man was gentle. From Joram’s fingers fluttered a bit of orange silk that appeared to have been cut in two by a sharp blade.

  “Ah, clever boy!” Simkin choked, a small stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You … escaped … my cunning knot.” His head lolled back, his eyes closed.

  “What’s happened to him?” Saryon asked in a low voice.

  Laying the sword down upon the pavement, Joram carefully peeled aside the blood-soaked fabric of Simkin’s white robes, examining the wounds in his chest. He glanced down at the other wounds in the stomach and shook his head.

  Simkin moaned, shuddering convulsively.

  Joram’s stern expression softened. Taking the orange silk, he dabbed gently at the sweat-covered forehead. “My poor fool,” he said softly.