Forging the Darksword (22 page)

T
he border of the civilized lands and that region of Thimhallan known as the Outland is marked to the north of Merilon by a great river. Called the Famirash, or Tears of the Catalysts, its source is to be found in the Font, the great mountain that dominates the landscape near Merilon, the mountain where the catalysts have established the center of their Order. Thus the river’s name—a daily reminder of the toil and sorrows suffered by the catalysts in their work for mankind.

The water of the Famirash is sacred. Its source in the mountain—a merry, bubbling brook—is a holy place, tended and guarded by the Druids. Water taken from this pure portion of the river possesses healing properties used by the Healers throughout the world. As the river runs upon its way, however, tumbling and laughing down the mountain like the child it is, the Famirash is joined by other streams and brooks, its innocence and purity diluted. By the time it reaches the city of Merilon, the river has grown up, becoming a wide, deep body of water.

Having gained in maturity and stature, the Famirash River, upon arriving in Merilon, becomes civilized. In the years following the Iron Wars, the
Pron-alban
, wizards skilled in the arts of shaping stone and earth, took hold of the river, rechanneled it and tamed it, split it and divided it, twisted it and turned it, sent it flowing up hills and down ornamental waterfalls, and caught it in quaint, small pools. Through their magical arts and those of their descendants, the river is forced up into the marble platforms where it bubbles in fountains and shoots high into the air in rainbow geysers. Magically heated, the river creeps demurely into perfumed bathing rooms or presents itself boldly, ready for work in the kitchens. Finally, allowed to venture into Merilon’s Sacred Grove, where stands the tomb of the great wizard who founded this land, the Famirash nurtures the beautiful tropical plants and finds time to indulge in the artistic creations of the Illusionists. So vastly changed is the Famirash River in Merilon that most people forget it is a river at all.

After suffering itself to endure these civilized trappings, it is little wonder that once the river escapes the city walls of Merilon it churns and rages within its banks in a tumult of white-water confusion. Once the Famirash works this out of its system, it calms down, and by the time it meanders past the cleared fields and small farm villages, it is like a placid old Field Catalyst, plodding slowly and muddily along its tree-lined way.

Onward it flows through the croplands, quiet and hardworking until it leaves civilized lands behind. Then, once out of the sight of man, the Famirash River gives a final, great twist—like the back of a dragon—and plunges with a wild roar of exultation into the Outlands.

Free at last, the river becomes a raging torrent of white, foaming water that leaps over rocks and rushes through narrow cavern walls. There is an anger in the water, an anger it acquires as it surges past the dark places where lurk angry things—beings created by magic then tossed aside; beings wrenched from beloved homes, brought to a strange land, then left to fend on their own; beings who live here because their own, dark natures will not allow them to live in the light.

Strange sights the river sees, as it hurtles along its course. Trolls wash the bones of their victims in its waters in the manner that the creatures have, cleaning the bones to use them for ornaments upon the body or to decorate their dank caves. Giant men and women, fully twenty feet tall with the strength of rock and the brains of children, sit upon its banks, staring into the water in dim fascination. Dragons sun themselves upon its rocks like huge lizards, keeping one eye open always for signs of intruders into their secret caves. Unicorns drink from its pools, savage centaurs fish its streams, bands of faeries dance upon its waters. But the strangest sight of all, perhaps, comes within the deepest, darkest part of the river’s journeying, within the very heart of the Outland—the camp of the Technologists.

By the time it reaches this region, the Famirash River runs deep and wide, dark and sullen. For here the river receives a rude shock. It flows into the clutches of the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery, who chain the river and force it to work for them.

The Technologists, or the Coven of the Wheel, as they call themselves, have dwelt peacefully within the shelter of the Outland for many years. Numbering several hundred people, their community is an ancient one, having been founded by those who escaped the purges that took place following the Iron Wars.

“They give Life to that which is Dead!” was the accusation of the catalysts then. “Their Dark Art will destroy us in this world, as it came close to destroying us in the ancient world. Look what it has done already! How many have died because of it and how many more will die if we do not remove this plague from our land!”

Hundreds of the practitioners of the Ninth Mystery were sent Beyond in what became known as the Casting Out. Their books and papers were, according to the catalysts, completely destroyed, though the catalysts secretly kept examples of many of them (“To fight the enemy, one must know him as well as one knows oneself.”) The Sorcerers’ terrible weapons and engines of war slowly became things of dark legend; the stories of machines that raise water from the river and carriages that crawl across the ground on round feet
dwindled to the stuff of faerie tales that children laugh to hear repeated.

Those few who managed to escape the persecution fled into the Out land, where they waged a constant, bitter struggle for survival. Drawn to their ranks were all those who, as Bishop Vanya said, had a grudge against the world. Men and women of the lower classes who had rebelled against their lot, men and women of all classes whose greed led them to crime, men and women whose twisted passions led them into a thousand sins. Here too, in later years, came the Dead—those children who had failed the Testing. All were accepted because all were needed to help in the desperate battle against the wild and savage land and its inhabitants.

Finally, after centuries, the Technologists managed to create a haven in the wilderness where they could live more or less at peace. All they wanted was to be left alone, having neither the ambition nor desire left to force their ways upon others. They wanted to live as they chose, tinkering and puttering and building their waterwheels and grindstones and gristmills. Though still a haven for outcasts, the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery had their own laws, which were strictly enforced. Thus they managed to rid themselves of tainted blood. Thus they managed to live isolated and apart from the rest of Thimhallan for long, long years, eventually all but forgotten by the rest of the world.

The world, having forgotten the Sorcerers, might have left them alone. But, as often happens to mankind in his search for knowledge, the Coven chanced upon a discovery that could have led to great good but was, instead, perverted to evil.

They learned, once more, the ancient, lost art of forging iron.

Who knows by what chance this brought the evil men to them? Perhaps it was the discovery of a crude knife upon the body of a centaur. Perhaps it was the spear in the hands of some poor, pathetic giant, who babbled the name of those who had made it for him before he succumbed to torture. It doesn’t matter now. The bandits found the Coven—a simple, peaceful people, isolated from the world. To enslave them
was an easy task, for the leader of the bandits was a powerful warlock, a former
Duuk-tsarith.

For the last five years, the Technologists have been ruled by a group who has taken the iron, taken that which is Lifeless, and given it a most deadly life of its own.

The Renegade

I
n less time than it takes to tell it, Saryon started on his journey. By the time he was ready to leave the Font, he was no longer afraid, nor was he bitter or angry. He was resigned. He had accepted his fate. After all, he had escaped punishment for seventeen years …. He left the Font under the cover of night, sped upon his way by the Enforcers, the black-robed
Duuk-tsarith.

Only one person noticed Saryon was gone—Deacon Dulchase. When his inquiries among Masters and brethren brought only shrugs and blank looks, Dulchase, secure in the favor of his Duke, finally confronted Bishop Vanya himself.

“By the way, Holiness,” said Dulchase in conversational tones, planting himself in front of the Bishop as he walked about one of the terraced gardens, “I have missed Brother Saryon of late. He and I were to have discussed a mathematical hypothesis concerning the possibility of fetching the Empress the moon. The last time I saw him, he spoke of being summoned to your chambers. I wondered—”

“Father Saryon?” interrupted the Bishop coldly, glancing around at several other catalysts, members of his staff, who were standing near. “Father Saryon …” the Bishop mused. “Yes, I recall now. I believe he and I discussed a mathematical theory of his, something about shaping stone. He seemed fatigued to me. Overworked. Don’t you agree,
Deacon!”
An emphasis on the rank. “I recommended a … holiday.”

“I’m certain he took your recommendation to heart, Holiness,” the perennial Deacon returned, frowning.

“I hope so, Brother,” Bishop Vanya said, turning away.

With a sigh, Dulchase went back to his cell to perform the Ritual of Night, seeing, in his mind’s eyes, his poor friend slogging among the beans and cucumbers.

Dulchase was not far wrong in his imaginings. The Bishop had decreed that Saryon should establish a “reputation” as a renegade catalyst so that, when he vanished into the Outland, his story would be believed. He also advised Saryon to discover what he could about Joram, to gain information on the young man that might be of use later. What better way to accomplish both objectives then to live among the Field Magi in the village of Walren?

Saryon agreed to the arrangements calmly and quietly, a doomed man accepting his fate. He had decided, after serious reflection, that this business about Joram was all a sham. There seemed no other reasonable explanation. He simply could not fathom why the Bishop was going to all this trouble to track down one Dead young man, even if he was a murderer.

Saryon had simply outlived his usefulness to the Order and this was Vanya’s way of eliminating him swiftly and silently. Such things were not unusual. Catalysts had disappeared before. The Bishop had even taken the trouble to establish a witness in this wretched Father Tolban, who would relate that Saryon had died in a heroic cause. Thus Saryon’s mother’s spirit would rest easy and not trouble Bishop Vanya in the night as spirits sometimes did now that the Necromancers were no longer in the world to propitiate them.

Saryon and Father Tolban arrived in the village of Walren within moments after leaving the Font, traveling through
the Corridors whose magical halls made a journey of hundreds of miles seem little more than the placing of one foot in front of the other.

Though it was early night when they arrived, the Field Magi were in bed and asleep, according to Tolban, who was obviously nervous and ill at ease in Saryon’s presence. Muttering something to the effect that he assumed Saryon would wish to rest as well, the Field Catalyst led the priest to an empty dwelling near his own.

“The old overseer lived here,” Father Tolban said in gloomy tones, opening the door to a burned-out tree that had been converted to a dwelling like the others in the village. Slightly larger than the rest, it appeared on the verge of collapse.

Saryon glanced inside in bitter resignation. Nothing more, it seemed, could add to his misery. “The overseer who was murdered?” he asked quietly.

Tolban nodded. “I hope you don’t mind,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands. The spring air was chill. “But it—it’s all that’s vacant, at present.

What does it matter, thought Saryon wearily. “No, it’s all right.”

“I’ll see you at breakfast, then. Would you care to eat your meals with me?” Father Tolban asked hesitantly. “There’s a woman, too old to work in the fields, who earns her way by doing such chores.”

Saryon was about to reply that he wasn’t hungry and didn’t expect to be, when he suddenly took notice of Tolban’s anxious, pinched face. Something occurred to Saryon then and, remembering the pouch someone had thrust into his arms before he left the Font, he handed it to the Field Catalyst.

“Certainly, Brother,” Saryon replied. “I would be pleased to share your table. But you must let me pay my way.”

“Deacon … this—this is too much,” stammered Tolban, who had been eyeing the hefty sack hungrily ever since they’d arrived. The fragrant aroma of bacon and cheese filled the air.

Saryon smiled wryly. “We might as well eat it now. I don’t believe I will be needing it where I am going, do you, Brother?”

Flushing, Father Tolban muttered some incoherent reply and backed hurriedly out the door, leaving Saryon to stare around the dwelling. Once it might have been a relatively nice place to live, he thought bleakly. The wooden walls were polished, the branches that formed the roof gave some signs of having been skillfully mended and repaired. But its past owner had been dead a year, the dwelling allowed to fall into ruin. Apparently no one had entered it since the man’s murder; there were remnants of its former owner scattered about in the way of clothes and a few personal items. Picking these up, Saryon tossed them into the firepit, then glanced about.