Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Joram leaned down to lift the sword. His legs gave way and he ended up falling to his knees beside it. Reaching out his hand, he hesitated. “I can save them,” he said, “but for what? For this?” Lifting his head, he looked on nothing but death.

  He will hold in his hand the destruction of the world—

  Joram looked back at the Darksword. The sun shone bright upon it, but it did not reflect the light. Its metal, dark and cold as death….

  And Joram understood.

  Going to Merilon, dealing death to its foes. That fulfilled the Prophecy. This war would end, but there would come another and another. Fear and mistrust would grow. Each world sealing itself off from the other. At the end, each would believe that the only way to survive was to destroy the other totally, never realizing that, in so doing, it would destroy itself.

  “Open the window. Set the Life free,” came a clear, sweet voice behind him.

  Turning, he saw Gwendolyn sitting calmly amid the wreckage at the top of the Temple stairs. Her bright blue eyes were on her husband. There was no sign of recognition, yet she was speaking to him.

  “How?” Joram cried out from where he knelt beside the sword. Raising his arms to the heavens, he shouted in frustration. “How do I stop this? Tell me how.”

  His voice came echoing back. Bounding off the columns of the Temple, reverberating from the mountainside, it cried louder and louder, “How?” Thousands of dead voices took up the cry, each voice softer than the softest whisper. “How?”

  Gwendolyn motioned for silence and the echoes hushed. Everything in the world hushed, waiting….

  Clasping her hands around her knees, Gwendolyn regarded her husband with a serene smile that pierced him to the heart, for he saw that she still did not know him.

  “Return to the world that which you took from it,” she said.

  Return to the world that which you took from it. He looked at the weapon. In his hand. The Darksword, of course. He had made it of the stone of the world. But how to return it? He had no forge fire to melt it. He might cast it off the mountain peak, but it would only fall to the rocks below and he there until someone else found it.

  His eyes went to the altar stone. Looking at it closely for the first time, he realized what Menju had suspected earlier—it was made of darkstone.

  Turning back to Gwen, he saw her smiling at him.

  “What will happen?” he asked.

  “The end,” she said. “Then the beginning.”

  He nodded, thinking he understood. Lifting the sword, he walked over to Saryon. Kneeling down beside the catalyst, he kissed the mild, gentle face.

  “Good-bye, my friend … my father,” he whispered.

  He noticed that, strangely, his weakness was gone, the pain had disappeared. Rising to his feet, he walked to the altar stone with firm, unfaltering steps.

  He raised the sword as he drew near the altar, and the blade began to burn with blue flame. The altar stone responded, the symbols of the Nine Mysteries starting to shine with a white-blue light. He touched each symbol carved into the rock, tracing them with his fingers: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water Time, Spirit, and Shadow Life. Death.

  Turning to his wife, he held out his hand “Will you come stand beside me?”

  He might have asked her to dance. “Of course!” she answered with a laugh. Jumping to her feet, she ran lightly down the stairs, her gown trailing in the blood.

  Drawing near her husband, he saw her gaze curiously at his injured arm. Her blue eyes glanced at Saryon, then at the dead Executioner, then at Simkin’s body, and an expression of sad, puzzled wonder shadowed her face. Looking back at Joram, she reached out and touched his blood-soaked sleeve with the tips of her fingers. He flinched, and she drew her hand away quickly, putting it behind her, staring at him shyly.

  “You did not hurt me. Not my arm, at least,” he amended, for he knew she must have seen the pain on his face. “I was remembering … long ago, when you first touched me like that.” He gazed at her searchingly “Have they truly found peace in death? Are they happy?”

  “They will be, when you free them,” she answered.

  That was not the answer he wanted, but then, he realized, he had not asked the question that was in his heart. Will I find peace in death? Will I find you once again? He could never ask that question, he realized, for it would have no meaning for her.

  She was watching him expectantly. “They are waiting,” she said, a touch of impatience in her clear voice.

  Waiting…. It seemed the whole world was waiting, had waited, perhaps, ever since the moment of his birth.

  Turning from her, Joram grasped the hilt of the Darksword with both hands. Lifting the weapon high over his head, he braced his feet firmly in the soil of the dead Garden. He drew in a deep breath, then—with all his strength and might—he plunged the Darksword straight into the heart of the altar stone.

  The sword entered the rock easily, so easily that it astonished him. The altar stone flared a brilliant white-blue and shivered. He felt the tremor beneath his hands, as though he had thrust the sword through living flesh. The tremor extended out from the stone, traveling farther and farther.

  Beneath his feet, the mountain itself shuddered. The ground quivered and heaved like a live thing, splitting apart. The Temple tottered on its foundations; cracks split the walls; the roof caved in. Joram lost his footing and fell to his hands and knees. Gwendolyn crouched near him, staring around her, wide-eyed and fascinated.

  Then, suddenly, the shaking ceased. Everything was still and quiet once more. The flaming light of the altar stone faded. Nothing about the stone appeared changed, except that the sword had vanished. No trace of it remained.

  Joram tried to stand, but he was too weak. It was as if the sword—taking its last victim—had drained the life from his body. Leaning wearily against the altar stone, he looked out across the plains, wondering vaguely why it was beginning to grow dark when it was still noonday.

  Perhaps it was his own sight failing, the first shadows of death. Joram blinked rapidly, and the shadows did not diminish. Staring at the sky more intently, he realized that it was not his failing vision. It was truly growing darker.

  But such an odd, eerie darkness. It came from the ground, rising up over the land like a fast-flowing tide, fighting the sun that still lit the land from above. In this strange battle of darkness and light, objects stood out with unnatural clarity, every line sharply delineated and defined. Each dead plant stalk was touched with a radiance that made it seem almost alive. Tiny drops of blood upon the pavement glistened a brilliant red. The gray hairs on the catalyst’s head, the lines on his face, the broken fingers of his hands were so clear in Joram’s sight that he knew they must be visible from the heavens.

  So, too, must heaven see the flaring lights of the attacking tanks, the jagged lightning bolts of the defending wizards. As the darkness continued to deepen and the wind began to rise, Joram watched the battle around Merilon rage ever more furiously.

  Glancing up into the heavens to see if Anyone was watching, he saw the reason for the darkness. The sun was disappearing. A solar eclipse. He had seen them before. Saryon had explained their cause. The moon, passing between Thimhallan and the sun, cast its shadow on the world. But Joram had never seen an eclipse like this. The moon was sweeping across the sun, devouring it. Not content with nibbling at it a small bite at a time, the moon was feasting on entire chunks, leaving no crumb or scrap behind.

  The darkness grew deeper. At the edges of the world, along the horizon, it was night. Stars appeared, flashing into life for a brief instant, then vanishing as another darkness, deeper than night, engulfed them. The edges of this darkness flickered with lightning, and thunder rolled across the land.

  The sky grew darker and darker. The shadows rose up slowly around Joram. It was still light upon the mountain peak—a tiny fragment of sun shone down on them, desperately clinging to life. Watching the darkness rise up from the land below, Joram had the strange fee
ling that he and Gwen were adrift on an ocean of night.

  Eventually, however, the darkness must overtake them as well, the storm-tossed seas capsizing their fragile craft. Part of him was afraid, part begged him to find shelter from the coming storm. He knew he should, but he couldn’t move. It was like the paralysis of deep sleep; he watched what was happening as in a dream. His pain was gone, and he no longer had feeling in his arm. His right hand might have belonged to someone else’s body.

  The wind grew stronger, lashing at him from all directions. Stinging bits of rock bit into his flesh. Gwendolyn’s golden hair enveloped her in a bright cloud.

  Joram drew his wife near, and she huddled beside him in the shelter of the altar stone. She was not afraid but stared eagerly into the approaching storm; her eyes reflecting the jagged lightning, her lips parted to drink the wind.

  And because she was not afraid, Joram’s last fears left him. He could no longer see Merilon now. The fragment of sun shone down on the mountain peak alone; the rest of the world was dark.

  The dying light gleamed softly on Saryon’s peaceful face, touching him like a benediction. Then the darkness covered him. A last tiny ray formed a halo around Gwendolyn’s hair, and Joram kept his eyes fixed upon her. He would take this vision of her with him from this world and keep it, he knew, in the next. There she would recognize him. There she would call him by name.

  The darkness surged closer. Joram could see only Gwen, her bright eyes on the storm. And he noticed, studying her face, that it had changed. Her expression was calm, there was no fear. But before it had been the calm of madness. Now it was the calm, beautiful face of the woman who had looked into his eyes once, so long ago, when he had supposed himself alone and nameless. The calm, beautiful face of the woman who had stretched out her hand to him in love and trust.

  “Come with me.” He murmured the words he had spoken to her then.

  Gwendolyn turned her blue eyes upon him. The darkness gathered thickly about him. The sun, it seemed, shone only in her eyes.

  “I will, Joram,” she said, smiling at him through her tears. “I will, my husband, for I am free now—as the dead are free, as the magic is finally free!” Reaching out, she took him in her arms and held him tightly, cradling his head against her breast. With her gentle hand, she smoothed his hair, her soft lips touched his forehead.

  His eyes closed, and she bent over him, shielding him.

  The sun vanished, darkness covered them, and the terrible storm broke over the world.

  13

  Requiem Aeternam

  One by one, blown down by the blasting winds, the Watchers on the Border toppled. The spell holding them prisoner—some for centuries—broke apart like their own stone bodies. The very last to fall, the one that withstood the fury of the storm to the end, was the statue with the clenched hand.

  Long after the oldest oaks had been uprooted and tumbled across the land like twigs, long after the tidal waves had smashed upon the shores, long after city walls were crushed and burning and the armies of the battling forces of Merilon scattered in all directions, this one statue braved the storm, and—had anyone been near—they might have heard hollow laughter.

  Time and again the wind slammed into it, the sand stung its stone flesh. Lightning burst over it, thunder hammered on it with its mighty fist. Finally, when the darkness was deepest, the statue fell. Crashing to the shore, its stone shattered, bursting into millions of tiny fragments that were gleefully caught up by the howling winds and strewn over the land.

  His spirit freed, the catalyst joined the dead of Thimhallan to watch, with sightless eyes, the end.

  The storm raged a day and a night, then—when the world had been swept clean by wind, cauterized by fire, and purified by water—the storm ceased.

  All was very quiet, very still.

  Nothing moved. Nothing could.

  The Well of Life was empty.

  Epilogue

  Huddled in the shadow of their broken city Gate, their meager possessions gathered around them in crude bundles, the last inhabitants of Merilon stood in line, waiting.

  They waited in silence for the most part. Bereft of their magic, forced to walk upon the ground in bodies that felt clumsy and heavy and difficult to control without the grace of Life, the magi had little energy left to expend in speech. They had nothing to talk about that was not depressing and despairing anyway.

  Occasionally a baby whimpered, and then could be heard the soft reassuring murmur of a mothers voice. And once three small brothers, too young to understand what was happening, began playing at war in the rubble-strewn street. Pelting each other with rocks and screaming in glee, their voices resounded shrill and unnerving in the lifeless streets. Others, standing or sitting in line, glanced at them in irritation, and their father stopped their play with a sharp word of reprimand, his bitter tone flicking across their innocence, inflicting wounds they never forgot.

  Silence fell, and the line of people settled back to grim waiting. Most tried to keep within the shadows of the wall, though the air was chill—especially for those of Merilon who had never known winter—the sun beat down upon them unmercifully. Accustomed as they were to the meek sun that had shone over Merilon decorously for centuries, this new and fiery sun frightened them. But though the bright sunlight was unbearable, the people glanced up in fear and apprehension whenever a shadow darkened the sky. Dreadful storms, the like of which had never been known in the world until now, periodically ravaged the land.

  At intervals here and there along the line of people, strange humans with silver skin and metal heads stood guard, watching the magi closely. In the guards’ hands were metal devices which, the people of Merilon knew, fired a beam of light that could either cast one into the sleep of unconsciousness or the deeper, dreamless sleep of death. The magi were careful to keep their eyes averted from the strange humans or, if they did look at them, it was with swift, furtive glances of hatred and fear.

  For their part, the strange humans—though attentive to their duty—did not appear overly nervous or ill at ease. These magi they were guarding were families, generally of the lower-and middle-class workers, and were not considered dangerous. A vast difference from the long line of black-robed warlocks who were being marched down the street. Their hoods cast aside, their faces grim and expressionless, they walked with heads bowed. The glint of steel manacles could be seen gleaming beneath the long sleeves of the tattered black robes. They moved with a shuffling step, their feet chained together at the ankles. The warlocks and witches were under heavy guard, the strange humans outnumbering them nearly two to one and watching each of them with a nervous intentness that quickly stopped the slightest movement of a hand.

  The Duuk-tsarith prisoners were hustled rapidly out of the Gate, the waiting people of Merilon barely glancing at them as they passed by. Wrapped up in their own misery, the people of Merilon had little sympathy for the misery of others.

  This same lack of interest applied to a person being carried out of the broken Gates on a stretcher. A heavy, rotund man, he was borne by six stout catalysts who sweated and staggered beneath their burden. Although gravely ill and unable to walk, the man was regally attired in his rich red robes of office, his miter carefully balanced on his head. He even managed to weakly raise his right hand, extending his blessing over the crowd as he passed. A few people bowed their heads or removed their hats, but for the most part they watched their Bishop leaving their city in mute despair.

  A few university students, standing near the Gate, peered out into the plains, attempting to see what was happening; rumors having spread among the students that the warlocks were going to be exterminated. The captive, black-robed Duuk-tsarith were, however, loaded into the body of one of the silver creatures along with Bishop Vanya’s pathetic entourage. Seeing that the prisoners hadn’t been lined up and set on fire, the students—somewhat disappointed—lounged back against the crumbling, charred walls, muttering imprecations at the guards and whispering pl
ans for rebellion that would never come to fruition.

  The rest of the people of Merilon avoided looking out onto the wind-swept plains. It had become an all-too familiar sight in the past week—the gigantic silver-bodied creatures that the strange humans called “air ships” opening their maws, swallowing up thousands of people, then rising into the sky and disappearing into the heavens. It would be their turn to enter one of the creature’s bellies soon enough.

  The people had been reassured, time and again, that they were not being taken to their deaths. They were being relocated, removed from a world that was now unsafe. They had even been able to talk—through some demonic means of the Dark Arts—with friends and relatives who had been carried off to this other. “brave, new world.” Still, they remained huddled inside their shattered city to the bitter end. Though few could bear looking on the wreckage of Merilon without tears blurring their vision, they sought desperately to cling to its memory as long as possible.

  The street was empty following the Bishop’s departure, and the crowd began to stir around in anticipation of its being their turn to go; people gathering up their bundles or hunting about for children. There was some comment, particularly among the watching students, when a figure was seen emerging from the silver creature and walking across the plains toward Merilon. The figure drew nearer, and the students—seeing that it was only a catalyst, a stooped, middle-aged man whose brown robes were too short for his height, showing his bony ankles—lost interest.

  A strange silver-skinned human stopped the catalyst as he entered the Gate. The catalyst pointed to a man under heavy guard, a man being kept apart from the rest of the people. Like the Duuk-tsarith, this man’s hands were manacled. He was not dressed in black robes, however. He wore velvet and silk. But the clothes that had once been elegant and rich were now torn, dirty, and stained with blood.