“Don’t let him badger you, Father,” Joram interrupted coldly. “He knows well enough you didn’t heal me.”
Menju made a graceful gesture of supplication. “Take pity on me. Satisfy my curiosity. I swear I was truly grieved to see you die. It was quite a shock.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Joram said dryly. “Help me stand,” he instructed the catalyst. Ignoring Saryon’s remonstrations, he struggled to his feet. Leaning back against a broken column, he regarded Menju wanly. “That wasn’t I who died out there. You saw me arrive through the Corridor.”
“Perhaps I did,” Menju remarked casually, his gaze fixed on Joram, “Uncanny resemblance. Who—”
“Simkin.” Joram’s breathing was too fast, too shallow. Saryon moved nearer.
Menju nodded “Ah, I begin to understand. The teapot. I underestimated you, my friend. Quite a clever ploy, sending this fellow up here, masquerading as yourself. Did you guess it was a trap? Or did he tell you? I thought him an untrustworthy bastard, just like that fat priest, Vanya, who sent his assassin to try to snatch the prize from me. But the Bishop will pay for his treachery.” The magician shrugged. “They all will pay.”
Joram staggered, nearly falling. Catching himself, he refused Saryon’s proffered assistance with an angry shake of his head.
“You need medical attention, Joram,” Menju said, appraising him coolly. “Fortunately, it is near at hand, thanks to the Corridors. A word from the Father will return us to my headquarters. Catalyst, open a Corridor.”
“I can’t—” Saryon began when he was interrupted by a glad cry.
“Come inside! Don’t be afraid!” Springing up from the broken altar where she had been sitting, Gwendolyn ran toward the portico, her bright eyes glittering with their eerie light even in the shadowy confines of the Temple.
“Gwen, no!” Joram caught hold of her. “You can’t go out there—”
Gwendolyn easily broke free of her husband’s weak grasp, but it was not to run outdoors. Stopping just inside the portico, she held out her hands. “Come in! Come in!” she repeated, a hostess welcoming long-awaited guests.
“Don’t be frightened,” she continued, her voice tinged now with sadness. “Are you in pain, still? It will pass in time. It is only a phantom pain, remembered by the part of you that clings to your life. Let it go. It will be easier. For you, the battle has ended.”
“Battle? What battle is she talking about?” Joram demanded, turning to the Sorcerer.
“Gettysburg?” The Sorcerer shrugged. “Waterloo? Perhaps she fancies she’s Napoleon today.”
“You know better than that!” Joram replied. His eyes gleamed feverishly, sweat trickling down his pale face. “You know her power. She’s talking to dead who are…. My god!” he whispered in sudden realization. “You’ve attacked Merilon!”
“Don’t be hard on Major Boris, Joram. He is a soldier, after all, and you couldn’t expect him to stay penned up like a steer in the slaughterhouse.”
“It won’t do any good. You can’t penetrate the city’s magical shield.”
“Ah, that’s where you are wrong, my friend. The thickheaded Major actually came up with an ingenious idea. He converted the flying troop carriers into assault ships. He plans to use their laser fire to destroy the magical dome. It may not pierce the magic, but it will drain the Life of those who keep that magic in place. The shield will soon disintegrate. The Crystal Palace will fall out of the skies, taking with it those huge marble slabs—what do they call them, the Three Sisters? Poor ladies. They, too, will crash to the ground.”
“Thousands will die?” Saryon cried, aghast. Staring out across the plains, he saw a brilliant flaring of light, the glinting of the sun shining off the metal bodies of the creatures that were crawling, antlike, around the perimeter of the city. That was all he could see with his eyes, mentally he saw much, much more.
Prince Garald—if he were still alive—fighting courageously but bewildered and unnerved over this unexpected attack. Lord and Lady Samuels, their little children, and the countless other noble families whose homes were built upon those floating marble slabs dying horribly, crushed in the falling wreckage. The Crystal Palace, smashing to the ground, exploding into millions of shards of knife-sharp glass fragments…
“Let go of your life,” repeated Gwendolyn sadly.
“If only I could get there?” Joram cried in a low voice. “I could help—What am I saying?” He laughed bitterly. “I brought this on them!” Slumping back against the column, he covered his eyes with his bloodstained hand.
“The time of the Prophecy is accomplished, Joram,” the Sorcerer said “Leave them to their fate. How did that charming little quotation run? ‘And in his hand he holds the destruction of the world—’”
“—or its salvation,” said Gwendolyn.
Lost in his despair, Joram didn’t even appear to hear her. Saryon did, however. Turning, he stared at her intently. She, too, was gazing out at the beleaguered city, her eyes wide and unfocused, a sweet, sad smile on her lips. Moving slowly and quietly, so he would not startle her, the catalyst laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“What did you say, my dear?”
“She is raving!” the Sorcerer snapped impatiently. “Enough of this. In case you have forgotten, there is an assassin out there Catalyst, open a Corridor—”
A Hand was outstretched, trying to help Saryon back from the edge of the cliff. He had only to reach out, take hold of it….
“Continue, my dear,” he said urgently, his voice trembling, trying to contain his excitement so as not to frighten the woman.
Gwendolyn gazed about her with a dreamy expression.
“There is someone here—an old, old man—a Bishop. Where are you? Oh, yes. There, in the back.” She pointed vaguely. “He’s been waiting for centuries for someone to listen to him. It was all a mistake, he says, running away from our home like spoiled, angry children. Then came the Iron War and everything was falling apart. He prayed to find out how to change the world. The Almin granted his prayers, hoping that mankind would turn back from the dangerous path on which he trod. But the Bishop was too weak. He saw the future. He saw the terrible danger. He saw the promised redemption. Dazzled by his vision, he perished. The words of the Almin that were meant to be a warning remained unspoken, unfinished. And mankind, in his fear, made of that warning a prophecy.”
“Fear…. A warning….” murmured Saryon, light filling his soul. “Joram, don’t you understand?”
Joram did not even look up. His head lowered, his face was hidden by the mat of tangled black hair. “Drop it, Father,” he muttered harshly. “It is senseless to go on fighting!”
“No, it isn’t!” Ecstatic, Saryon lifted his hands to heaven. “My God! My Creator! Can You forgive me? Joram, there is a way—”
A crack, a whine. Fragments of stone burst around them.
Joram knocked Saryon to the floor. Menju flattened himself against a column.
“Gwen!” Joram cried, trying to reach his wife. Bewildered by the noise, she stood in the open, staring around in confusion. Before Joram could reach her, however, unseen hands snatched her back out of danger and whisked her away, hurrying her to the rear of the Temple.
“It’s all right, Joram! The dead will protect her!” Saryon cried.
Another crack ricocheted through the Temple, smashing into a wall behind them.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Reaching into the pocket of his robes, Menju drew his phaser, adjusted it, and fired a burst of light at a glimpse of movement he caught near the altar stone. A puff of smoke and rock dust erupted from the stone, leaving behind a charred streak.
Taking advantage of the covering fire, Joram grabbed hold of the Darksword, and ducked behind a column beside the Sorcerer.
“Over here, Father! Keep down!”
Wriggling across the chill stone floor on his stomach, Saryon reached the columns. Leaning against one, Joram peered out into the Garden. Their enemy was nowhere to be
seen. Menju fired again, missing again.
“Open a Corridor, Father!” he snarled.
“I can’t!” Saryon gasped.
Another crack split the air. Menju flung himself back against his column. Saryon shrank down, huddling near the floor. Joram appeared too weak to move, perhaps even to care. He held the Darksword in a limp grasp. His wound was bleeding again, the stain on his sleeve was growing larger.
Worriedly, the catalyst looked from Joram back to Gwen. He could barely see her. Somehow the dead had managed to persuade her to find shelter behind the crumbling altar. A dusty beam of sunlight pouring through a crack in the ceiling shone upon her golden hair and lit her bright blue eyes.
Menju followed his gaze. “Take us out of here, Catalyst, or by the gods I’ll use this on her!” He pointed the weapon at Gwendolyn. “Unless you can move faster than the speed of light, Joram, don’t try anything.”
“Joram, stop!” Laying a restraining hand on his friends arm, Saryon turned to face the magician. “I cannot open a Corridor in here because there is none to open!”
“You’re lying?” The Sorcerer kept the phaser aimed at Gwen.
“I would to the Almin I were!” Saryon said fervently. “There is no Corridor within the Temple of the Necromancer! This was sanctified ground, a holy place, the Necromancers alone were permitted to enter it. They never allowed a Corridor to be opened here. The only one is out there”—Saryon nodded—“near the altar stone.”
“And the Executioner knows it!” Joram said grimly. Sweat covered his forehead, his damp hair curled around his pale face. “That’s why he’s taken up his position there.”
Glancing at Saryon, Menju studied the catalyst’s face intently, then—with a curse—lowered his weapon. “So we are trapped in here!”
Another sharp crack blasted into the stone column near the Sorcerer, a chip of rock grazing his face. Cursing, he wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and started to fire again. Then he stopped, staring thoughtfully out across the plains. “We are trapped,” he repeated, reaching into the pocket of his robes, “but not for long.”
Bringing out a second small metal device, he pressed his thumb against it. A light blinked on and a scratching noise came from within it, sounding to Saryon like an animal with long claws struggling to escape.
Lifting the device to his mouth, the Sorcerer spoke to it.
“Major Boris! Major Boris!”
A voice came back, but it was accompanied by so much scratching that it was difficult to understand the words. The Sorcerer, scowling, shook the metal device slightly. “Major Boris!” he called again angrily.
Saryon stared at the device in horror.
“Blessed Almin!” he whispered to Joram. “Does he have this Major Boris trapped in there?”
“No,” Joram answered wearily, almost smiling. He remained standing, but only, it seemed, by sheer force of will. “The Major is in Merilon. He carries a device like that one. Through it, the two men can communicate with each other. No, hush! Let me hear!” He motioned Saryon to silence.
Saryon could not understand what Menju was saying; the man was speaking in his own language. He watched Joram’s face for a clue as to what was happening.
Seeing his friend’s lips press together in a straight, grim line, Saryon asked softly, “What is it?”
“He’s called for an air strike. They’re diverting one of the assault ships from the attack on Merilon and sending it here.”
“Yes, a simple way out, really,” said the Sorcerer complacently, shutting off the device and returning it to his robes. “The ship’s lasers will sweep the entire Garden, effectively incinerating our friend with the gun. Then the ship will land and transport us away from here. There will be a medic on board, Joram. He will give you a stimulant to keep you going so that you can assist me in winning the battle of Merilon with the Darksword. Always keeping in mind, of course, that I’ll have your lovely wife close at hand, not to mention the catalyst, both of whom will suffer if you should attempt to—how shall I put it?—upstage me.”
Thrusting back the sleeve of his robe, Menju glanced at a device he wore on his wrist. “It will arrive in a matter of minutes.”
If Saryon didn’t understand the unfamiliar words, he understood their import. He looked at Joram. His face was expressionless, his eyes closed. Was he so despairing, so defeated, so hurt that he would give in? Was it, as he said, senseless to keep fighting?
Saryon tried to pray to the Almin, tried to summon that Presence, tried desperately to grab hold of the Hand held out to him. But fear caught hold of the catalyst instead. Clutching his throat with fingers of stone, it choked off Saryon’s faith. The Hand wavered, then disappeared, and the catalyst realized bitterly that it had all been just a delusion.
11
The Destruction
Of The World
A low humming sound grew gradually louder and louder. Saryon, starting, saw a look of satisfaction on Menju’s face. The magician’s gaze was fixed expectantly on the sky and Saryon risked peeping out past the column. It occurred to him, as he did so, that there had been no more projectiles hurled at them in the last few minutes. Perhaps the Executioner had given up.
“A fool’s dream!” Saryon muttered to himself bitterly. He scanned the clear blue sky, seeing nothing, although the humming sound was becoming increasingly loud. The Executioner would never give up, never admit he had failed in his assigned task. His Order considered death the only excuse for failure, and the Executioner would not be an easy man to kill. Although Joram had drained him of some of his magical Life, he was still a threat, still a danger. He was, after all, one of the most powerful warlocks in Thimhallan.
Does this Sorcerer from another world realize what he’s up against? Saryon wondered, glancing at Menju speculatively. Noting the man’s calm demeanor, his smile of self-assurance, Saryon doubted it. After all, Menju had been young when he was cast out of this world—only twenty, so Joram had said. He probably knew little of the Duuk-tsarith, knew little about the many powers of their Order: the acute sense of hearing that allowed them to detect the approach of a butterfly by the fluttering of its wings, the keen powers of sight that let them see through a man’s skull into his thoughts.
Menju was pleased with his newly recovered abilities in magic, but he had forgotten its true power. He regarded it as a toy, an amusement, nothing more. When the crisis came, he preferred to trust in his Technology.
“There is the strike ship,” he said crisply. “It won’t be long now.” He flicked a glance at Joram. “Is our friend able to walk, Father? You’ll have to help him I’ve got to direct the ship’s fire.”
He spoke into the device again. This time the scratching sound was considerably lessened, the voices speaking back from within the contraption he held in his hand were clearer and Saryon judged—from the intent manner in which Menju stared into the heavens as he talked—that he was communicating with whatever monster he had summoned to do his bidding.
Following the magician’s gaze, Saryon could still see nothing and was just wondering if the creature was invisible when a flaring glint caught his eye. He gasped, having been unprepared for the tremendous swiftness with which the thing traveled. At one instant it was very small, a brightly shining star that had gotten mixed up and burst out during the day instead of night. The next instant, the thing was larger than the sun, then larger than ten suns. He could see it clearly now, and he stared in shock.
The catalyst had not been present at the battle at the Field of Glory. He had only heard descriptions of the great creatures of iron, the strange humans with silver skin and metal heads. This was the first time he had seen one of these creations of the Dark Arts, and his soul trembled with fear and awe.
The monster was made of silver, its body glistening in the sun. It had wings, but they were stiff and unmoving, and Saryon was at a loss to understand how it flew so rapidly.
The monster had no head or neck. Blinking, multicolored eyes
sprouted on the top of its body. The only sound it made was the humming noise, now so loud that it practically drowned out Menju’s voice.
Saryon felt Joram’s hand, warm and reassuring, on his arm.
“Steady, Father,” Joram said softly. Drawing him near, he added in a low voice, “Make it appear as though you are tending my wound.”
Glancing at the magician, who was absorbed in his monster summoning, Saryon leaned closer to Joram.
“We can’t allow him to take us on board that ship. When he moves us out there, watch for my signal.” Joram paused, then said softly, “When it comes, get Gwen out of the way.”
Saryon was silent for a moment, unable to reply. When he did, it was in a husky voice. “My son, even with the Darksword you can’t fight them all! Do you know what you are saying?” He kept his head lowered, pretending to concern himself with the wound. Joram’s hand, touching his face, made him look lip and he saw the answer in Joram’s clear, brown eyes.
“It will be better this way, Father,” he said simply.
“What about your wife?” Saryon asked, when he could speak for the burning ache in his chest.
Joram looked toward the back of the Temple, where Gwendolyn sat amid the shadows, the single bright ray of light glistening in her hair. “She fell in love with a Dead man, who brought her nothing but grief.” The dark, ironic smile twisted his lips. “It seems I can be of more use to her dead than alive. And at least”—he breathed a sigh, half-bitter, half-wistful—“perhaps she will talk to me then.” His hand tightened around Saryon’s arm. “I leave her in your care, Father.”
My son, I will not live through this! were the words in Saryon’s heart and they very nearly burst out. But he checked them, swallowing them with his tears. No, it was better that Joram find peace in his last moments.
I will hold him in my arms as I held him when he was a baby. And when the brown eyes close forever and he is at rest, when the struggle that has been his life is finally ended, then I will rise up and, in my clumsy, fumbling way, I will strike out at the cold and uncaring Presence until I, too, fall.
Triumph of the Darksword Page 32
