Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  A blinding flash followed by an explosion jolted Saryon from his bleak imaginings. A beam of light from the monster struck the ground near the altar stone, blowing a gigantic hole in the dirt not far from where Simkin’s body lay. Wisps of smoke curled into the air. The metal creature, hovering overhead, was slowly sinking down toward the ground. Menju shouted into the device, his voice questioning.

  “What is he saying?” Saryon whispered.

  “He’s asking if they destroyed the warlock.” Joram paused, listening, then he looked up at the catalyst with grim amusement. “They say they did. At least, no life registers on their screens.”

  “No life! Fools,” Saryon muttered, but—catching a warning glance from Joram—he fell silent. Menju drew near them, keeping a wary eye on the Garden.

  “Our gun-toting friend is finished apparently,” the magician said. “Let’s get ready to move out.” He gestured toward the rear of the Temple. “Unless you want your wife to remain here, Joram, and become a permanent member of her own fan club, you had better get her away from those ghoulish bodyguards.”

  “I will bring her,” offered Saryon.

  The catalyst moved slowly, a prey to despair that clutched at his footsteps and caught at the skirts of his robes, threatening to drag him down.

  Gwendolyn sat on the dusty floor behind the broken altar, her head resting against a large stone urn. She did not look up as Saryon approached, but stared straight ahead into nothing. The catalyst gazed at her pityingly. Her golden hair was bedraggled, her gown torn and dirty. She had no care for where she was or what was happening, no care for Joram, no care for herself.

  “Hurry up, Father!” Menju ordered peremptorily, “or we will leave her behind. You will serve me as hostage just as well.”

  Maybe that would be kinder, Saryon thought, reaching out his hand. Gwen glanced up at him. Docile as always, she appeared perfectly willing to come with him and started to rise up from her hiding place behind the altar. But invisible hands, catching hold of her, held her back.

  In the one shaft of sunlight filtering through the dust, Saryon could almost see the unseen eyes staring at him suspiciously, the mouths silently shouting to him to leave the sacred ground he was violating. So vivid was this impression that he very nearly put his hands over his ears to blot out the sound he couldn’t hear, closing his eyes to the sight of the anger and distress he couldn’t see. This is madness! he thought, panicking.

  “Father!” Menju said warningly.

  Saryon took hold of Gwen’s hand firmly. “I am grateful for what you have done,” he called out to the empty air. “But she is among the living still. She does not belong to you. You must let her go.”

  For an instant it seemed he failed. Gwen’s chill fingers closed over his, but when he tried to pull her toward him, he met a resistance so strong that he might well have tried to pull the Temple from the side of the mountain.

  “Please!” he begged urgently, tugging Gwendolyn forward, the dead pulling her back. A wild impulse to laugh hysterically at this absurd situation overtook him. He choked on it, knowing that his laughter must end in him breaking down and sobbing like a frightened child. The shouts of the silent voices around him reverberated in his ears, though he couldn’t hear a word.

  Then, suddenly, the unheard tumult ceased as though it had been silenced by a single word.

  Gwen was free, so unexpectedly that she tumbled forward into the catalyst’s arms, nearly upsetting them both. He caught her, helped her to stand, brushing back the golden hair that veiled her face. She did not appear the least bit disturbed by anything that had occurred, but continued to look around her with detached interest, as if all this were happening to some other person.

  “Aren’t you coming?” she asked, twisting her head to talk to the shadows as Saryon hurried her forward.

  The catalyst had the eerie impression that legions of ghosts were crowding around them, their unheard footfalls resounding loudly through the silence of the Temple.

  Menju stood waiting impatiently for them near the head of the Temple stairs, his weapon trained on both Gwen and the catalyst. Standing beside him, leaning against a pillar, Joram watched silently. He appeared at first glance almost too weak to stand, let alone fight. Saryon alone saw the fire burning deep in the dark eyes, the unyielding purpose taking shape, being forged into a blade of iron.

  “We all go together,” instructed Menju, motioning Saryon and Gwen out of the Temple with a gesture of his weapon. In his other hand, he held the speaking device. “Joram, I am keeping the catalyst and your wife between us. Try anything—anything at all—and one of them dies instantly.”

  “What about the Executioner?” Saryon asked, hesitating at the top of the stairs, wanting desperately to drag time to a halt.

  “That pile of ash?” Smiling, Menju indicated the hole in the ground near the altar stone, the few wisps of smoke rising from it. “I don’t think you have anything to fear from him anymore, Father. Now move!” He gestured with the weapon.

  There was no choice, no hope. Bowing his head, Saryon drew Gwendolyn nearer him and stepped outside. After the shadowy confines of the Temple, the sunlight was blinding. Putting her hand to her eyes, unable to see, Gwen stumbled at the top of the nine stairs. Saryon held onto her, guiding her footsteps, noticing as he did so that Joram had descended the stairs ahead of them.

  Joram moved slowly, weakly, his breathing labored as though merely drawing each breath was a struggle. But Saryon saw his hand clenched firmly over the hilt of the Darksword.

  Despite his self-assured demeanor, Menju was clearly nervous. Occasionally he prodded Saryon and Gwen, impatiently ordering them to hurry up, and he kept a wary eye on Joram. But most of Menju’s attention was focused on the silver creature that—from what Saryon could make out of Menju’s mutterings—was apparently not landing fast enough to suit the magician. Irritably, the Sorcerer shouted into the speaking device.

  Turning slightly, ostensibly to see what had become of his wife, Joram looked at Saryon intently and silently mouthed the words, “Keep back!”

  The bitter pain in Saryon was so unbearable that he was almost thankful it would end soon. Following Joram’s orders, he slowed his steps—an easy matter since Gwendolyn was gazing around in vague curiosity, completely oblivious to everything. Menju was now a step or two ahead of them. Intent on staring at his winged monster, he had not noticed that they had stopped walking. The magician was lifting the device to his mouth to talk at it again when voices, coming out of the device, interrupted him. Startled, cursing beneath his breath, Menju turned, looking into the sky behind him.

  A dark shadow swept over them, a shadow cast by gigantic green wings sprouting from a huge reptilian body. The Executioner appeared out of nowhere. Standing beside the altar stone, he coolly ordered the dragon to attack. The dragon dove straight down on the silver creature, screaming shrilly in hatred, its huge, taloned feet extending to strike.

  Garbled cries came out of the speaking device in Menju’s hand. Immediately, the silver monster performed an evasive maneuver, veering sideways in a frantic attempt to avoid its enemy. The dragons claws clipped the edge of a silver wing, sending the monster rolling through the air. The dragon soared upward on the air currents and veered around for another attack. The silver creature nearly crashed into the side of the mountain, saving itself at the last instant. A burst of flame shot from its tail, and it pulled straight up out of the dive.

  The dragon flew at it again, and this time the silver creature was ready for the attack, shooting a single beam of light at the glittering green and gold enemy. The tip of the dragons wing burst into flame. Screaming in pain and rage, the dragon unleashed its fiery breath. A ball of flame enveloped the silver creature. The cries emanating from the listening device grew shrill and panic-stricken and then Saryon heard no more, for suddenly his world burst into flame around him.

  A wall of magical fire, created by the Executioner, sprang up out of solid rock. Burning green and go
ld, its intense heat blistered Saryon’s hands and face, the super-heated air seared his lungs. He pulled Gwendolyn close to him, trying to shield her with his body, but she was wrenched from his arms and he could not see what became of her for the blazing light and thick smoke.

  A horrible cry burst out of the smoke and fire ahead of him. Trying to avoid the flames that licked the steps at his feet. Saryon peered frantically into the smoke through watering, stinging eyes. A figure emerged—a figure clothed in flame. It was Menju, his gray robes ablaze with the magical green fire. His yells were terrifying as he flailed about in agony. The catalyst had a swift, indistinct impression of the magician’s wide-open, screaming mouth, the flesh of his face blackening in the fire, and then the Sorcerer sank down out of sight into the smoke swirling upon the stairs.

  I am next! Saryon thought, watching the green flames flow up the steps toward him. Then Joram, wielding the Darksword, leaped in front of Saryon, standing between him and the fire.

  As soon as Joram raised the sword the fire jumped from the rock straight for the blade and Saryon had a sudden vision of Joram engulfed in the magical blaze. But the sword greedily drank up the flame. The fire diminished, the blue flame of the Darksword burned brighter and brighter as the green flame died, and Saryon saw, standing before them, the Executioner.

  The warlock had discarded the projectile weapon, relying instead upon his magic. The Darksword was draining the Life from him very quickly. He had faced it before, however, and knew what to expect. Looking up at the top of the mountain above the Temple, the warlock made a gesture. At his command, a chunk of the mountain wrenched itself free. The gigantic boulder bounded down the mountainside, hurtling straight for Joram.

  His attention focused upon the Executioner, Joram could not see his danger. There was no time to warn him. Flinging himself forward, Saryon knocked Joram off his feet. The two tumbled down the stairs; the Darksword flying as Joram lost his grip on it.

  Saryon had a confused impression of the boulder smashing into the stairs, of rock striking his body, of pain bursting in his head. Then he was slipping away into a vast darkness…

  But I can’t die Joram! I can’t leave Joram. Struggling against the darkness and the pain, Saryon opened his eyes. The Temple crawled and writhed in his vision. Shaking his head to clear it, he winced in sudden agony and was very nearly sick.

  “Joram!” he repeated groggily, submerging his pain in his fear for his friend. Lifting his head to look around, he discovered he was lying at the foot of the stairs, amidst the rubble of the shattered boulder. Joram lay near him, his eyes closed, his face white, smooth, calm … at peace at last.

  “Farewell, my son!” Saryon murmured. He could feel no grief. It was better this way, so much better. Reaching out to touch the tousled black hair, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  The Executioner appeared, standing over them. From somewhere above, Saryon heard an explosion. Debris fell from the skies. He paid no attention to it. After a brief glance at the Executioner, he paid no attention to his enemy either. The catalyst’s hand closed over Joram’s. Kill me, Saryon thought. Kill me now. End it swiftly.

  But the Executioner, after studying Joram intently, turned away. Saryon glanced after him without much interest. The warlock was leaving, his task finished. Then the catalyst froze, a cold wind of fear blowing away the fog of pain. The warlock hadn’t completed his task! Not yet. Leaning down, the Executioner picked up the sword that lay dark and lifeless upon the steps.

  If anything happens to me, it will be left up to you. You must destroy the Darksword.

  There was only one thing Saryon could do. Barely able to recall the words of the prayer through the throbbing pain in his head, the catalyst began to drain Life from the warlock.

  It was an attempt born of desperation. Draining Life is a slow process. Saryon hoped the Darksword had already drawn off most of the warlock’s magic. If so, the catalyst could cripple him immediately.

  The warlock instantly felt the catalyst’s attack. Dropping the sword on the broken steps, the Executioner turned to face Saryon. The catalyst could not see the Executioners face, hidden as it was by the hood of his gray robe. But he could almost sense the man smiling, and Saryon knew he had failed. The warlock was still strong in Life. Raising his hand, the Executioner prepared to cast a spell that would destroy the catalyst.

  At least, Saryon prayed, bowing his head, the end will be swift.

  Light flared, blinding him. He heard a sizzling sound and braced himself, waiting for the firestorm, the last terrible agony.

  A hoarse cry of pain and anger sounded near him.

  Startled, Saryon opened his eyes. The Executioner stood before him, but he was not looking at the catalyst. He had whirled to face a new enemy.

  Menju lay upon the flame-swept stairs of the Temple. His body badly burned, the magician lifted a bloody and blackened hand. Aiming his weapon, he fired at the Executioner again.

  At the same instant, the warlock shrieked out words. Knives of ice, flashing in the sunlight, flew from the Executioner’s fingers. Speeding through the air, the blades thudded into Menju’s body, impaling it upon the stairs. The Sorcerer fell without a cry. He might well have been dead already.

  Saryon was aware, suddenly, of warm liquid trickling down his neck. The throbbing pain in his head increased, as did his dizziness. A red-tinged mist clouded his vision, and he could barely see the Executioner’s hooded head, turning in his direction once more.

  Saryon could do nothing. He could not even continue draining the man’s Life, for he himself was teetering on the edge of consciousness. He watched the warlock turn and saw the gaping hole blown through the Executioner’s chest. The warlock made a spasmodic motion with his hand, then pitched forward on his face, dead. Saryon felt nothing, not elation, not relief. Nothing except bitter pain and despair.

  He sank down upon the pavement, the stone cool beneath his cheek. Saryon closed his eyes. He was lost in a thick mist, stumbling blindly along the edge of a cliff, knowing that a single misstep must plunge him into the chasm. He had a vague impression that the Hand was there, wanting to help him.

  Around him, beyond him, above him, he could hear the world dying.

  “I can never forgive You for what You have done,” Saryon whispered. Spurning the Hand, he stepped over the edge.

  The Hand caught and gently held him.

  12

  The Triumph

  Of The Darksword

  Father?” A sense of danger beat at Joram, pounding like the hammers of the forge, making sleep impossible. He was back in the smith’s shop, creating the Darksword. Saryon was giving it Life. Then, suddenly, everything went wrong. Before his eyes, the catalyst was turning to stone….

  “Father!” Joram cried.

  He woke up, his body drenched in sweat. The sound of hammering ceased.

  All was silent around him, a terrible, unnatural silence; the world holding its breath like a drowning man, knowing that it would not be able to draw another.

  Looking into the sunlit, blue sky above him, Joram remembered where he was, but he couldn’t, for a moment, recall what had happened. He saw in his mind a blazing magical fire, felt its intense heat, and he remembered raising the Darksword against it, stopping it. He heard Gwen scream, Saryon cry out. A weight struck him from behind. The sword flew from his grasp … and … nothing.

  “Saryon,” he mumbled thickly, trying to sit up. “Saryon, I—”

  Turning, he saw the catalyst.

  Saryon lay in the midst of a pile of shattered stone. Dust and blood from a jagged gash on the side of his head covered his face. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. He might have been asleep.

  “Father?” Joram said, touching him gently.

  Saryon’s skin was cold, his pulse weak and irregular. Concussion, shock. He needed treatment. Joram started to look around for something to cover the injured catalyst, but he stopped, staring, immobilized by the terrible sigh
t.

  The body of the Executioner lay on the pavement near the altar stone, a hole burned through the warlock’s back. Menju’s blackened body was sprawled on the Temple stairs. Rivulets of blood ran from it, twining together, breaking apart, merging again to form small pools on the sidewalk below.

  “Gwen?” he called fearfully, looking up the stairs toward the Temple. Her name died on his lips. The portico of the Temple was smashed, the mangled fragments of the silver strike ship gleamed from among the broken stones. The body of the ship’s pilot hung at a grotesque angle from the crushed cockpit. The dragon’s twisted corpse lay huddled nearby.

  “Gwen!” Joram shouted. Rising to his feet, fear giving him strength, he made his way up the rubble-strewn stairs, calling out his wife’s name. There was no answer. Reaching the porch, he tried to shove aside a piece of wreckage to reach her in case she was trapped inside. Sudden dizziness and a wrenching pain in his arm reminded him of his injury. He staggered, almost falling.

  The distant sound of an explosion, like a muffled thud, caught his attention, penetrating his despair. Turning, Joram looked out from the top of the mountain onto the plains below. Sunlight glinted off hundreds of metallic surfaces—tanks crawling around Merilon. White flashes of laser fire bombarded the magical dome. He thought he saw—though it might have been his imagination from this distance—one of the gleaming crystal spires of the Palace topple.

  Everything, everyone around him was dead. Now Merilon was dying. The Prophecy was coming to fulfillment.

  “Why didn’t I die?” Joram cried in anguish. Bitter tears stung his eyes. Then, suddenly, blinking them back, he looked out again across the plains. “Perhaps that’s why …” he murmured.

  He would die, but not here. He would die in Merilon, fighting. The Prophecy wasn’t fulfilled. Not yet.

  Looking hastily around, Joram caught a glimpse of dark metal almost buried beneath the crushed stone. Setting his teeth against the agony that each move caused, he made his way through the wreckage, back down the stairs. The Darksword lay near the body of the Executioner. One of the dead warlock’s hands was stretched out, almost touching it.