Forging the Darksword (38 page)

On the seventh night of every week, the entire population of the village gathers around the Wheel and recites the chant that each learns as a child. Accompanied by the music of instruments of iron, tortured wood, and stretched animal skins, the chant begins by paying homage to the three major forces in the Sorcerers’ lives—Fire, Wind, and Water. With voices that rise higher and higher as the music of the instruments becomes more frenetic, the people sing of the construction and building and development of wonders that no one now remembers or understands.

On the night before the men of the village were to leave with Blachloch on the raid of the farming communities, the Scianc was particularly wild, the former
Duuk-tsarith
cleverly using it as the
DKarn-Duuk
uses the war dance—to heat the blood until human conscience and compassion is burned
away. Round and round the great Wheel the chanters danced, the beating and strumming of the instruments adding their inhuman voices to the melee. Torches lit the darkness and in their light, the Wheel—forged of some type of shiny metal, the knowledge of whose making had been lost—shone in the torchlight like an unholy sun. Occasionally one of the dancers leaped up onto the black stone platform that supported the monument. Grabbing hold of one of the forge’s hammers, he would strike the center of the nine-spoked Wheel, causing it to join in the chanting with a voice of iron that seemed to shout from the bowels of the earth itself.

Most of the Sorcerers took part in the Scianc, men, women, and children, chanting the words no one understood, dancing in the flaming light, or watching with mixed emotions.

Andon watched in sorrow, hearing in the words of the chant the voices of the ancients crying out to their children to remember the past.

Saryon watched in a horror so vast it was a wonder he did not go mad. The flaring lights, the shrieking music, the leaping figures of men and women drunk with bloodlust—all seemed sprung from his carefully taught visions of Hell. He paid no attention to the words of the chant, he was too sickened. Here dwelt Death, and himself in the midst of it.

Blachloch watched in satisfaction, his black-robed figure standing well outside the circle of dancers, calm, observant, unnoticed. He heard the words of the chant, but he’d heard them often, and they didn’t matter anymore.

Joram watched in frustration. He heard the words. What’s more, he listened to them and he understood them—in part. He alone had read the hidden books. He alone, of all those there, saw the knowledge those ancient Sorcerers had hoped to impart to their children. He saw it, but he didn’t understand it. The knowledge remained locked up in those words, locked up in the books. And he couldn’t find the key—the key that was in strange, unfathomable symbols.

Simkin watched, bored.

With the rising of the moon, the Scianc ended. Standing in a ring of flame made by the flaring torches, Blachloch
wielded the hammer that struck the Wheel nine times. The people raised their voices in nine wild shouts, then the fiery ring broke apart as the Sorcerers walked to their homes, talking of the great deeds they would do when, once again, the Ninth Mystery ruled the world.

Soon the black rock arches stood alone, casting eerie shadows as the moon rose higher, its pale light shining on the Wheel nothing more than a ghostly reflection of the brilliant torchfire. In the moonlit darkness, the village slept, wrapped in a silence that was broken only by the sounds of autumn’s dry, dead leaves—blown by a chill wind—skittering and rustling through the empty streets.

Choose Three Cards …

O
n a bright, sunny day in late autumn, most of the men and boys of the Sorcerers’ village rode out to take, as they saw it, what the world owed them. Andon watched them go with eyes that held the sadness of centuries. He had done what he could to stop them but he had failed. They had to learn their lesson, he supposed. The old man only hoped it would not be too bitter. Or too costly.

The first days of the journey were days of sunshine and clear weather—warm and pleasant during the hours of light, cool and crisp with the hint of the coming winter at night. Blachloch’s band was lighthearted and merry; the young men, especially, enjoying the break from the drudgery of work in the forge or the gristmill, the mines or bricklaying. Led by the riotous Simkin, who was again dressed in his ranger clothing in honor of the occasion (“I call this color
Dirt and Dung”)
the young men laughed and joked and teased each other about their difficulties in riding the shaggy, half-wild horses that were raised in the village. At night they
gathered around a blazing fire to swap stories and play games of chance with the older men, wagering winter rations of food and losing them so consistently that it seemed likely none of them would eat until spring.

Even the usually morose Joram appeared better for the change, astonishing Mosiah by his willingness to talk, if he did not share in the horseplay and joking. But then, Mosiah reflected, this may have had something to do with the fact that Joram had just come out of another one of his black melancholies.

By the second week, however, the fun had gone out of the ride. A chill rain dripped from the yellowing leaves, soaking through cloaks and trickling down the back. The soft plopping of the drops formed a monotonous rhythm with the horses’ plodding hoofbeats. The rain settled in, falling steadily for days. There were no fires by Blachloch’s orders. They were in centaur country now, and the watch had been doubled, which meant many lost half a night’s sleep. Everyone was miserable and grumbling, but there was one person so much more obviously miserable than the rest that Mosiah couldn’t help noticing.

Joram noticed too, apparently. Every now and then Mosiah saw a look of shadowed pleasure in Joram’s dark eyes and there would be almost a half-smile upon the lips. Following Joram’s gaze, Mosiah saw him looking at the catalyst, who rode ahead of them, jouncing uncomfortably in the saddle, his tonsured head bowed, his shoulders slumped. The catalyst was a pathetic sight on horseback. The first few days he had been stiff with fright. Now he was just plain stiff. Every bone and muscle in his body hurt. Just sitting in the saddle was obviously painful.

“I feel sorry for the man,” Mosiah said on the second week of their journey north. Chilled and soaked, he, Joram, and Simkin were riding together down a stretch of trail that was wide enough for a cavalry brigade to have ridden six abreast. Giants had blazed this trail, Blachloch said, warning them all to be alert.

“What man?” Joram asked. He had been listening to Simkin elaborate on how the Duke of Westshire had hired the entire Stone Shapers Guild, together with six catalysts, to completely redo his palatial dwelling in Merilon, transforming
it from crystal to rose-colored marble streaked with flecks of pale green.

“The court can talk of nothing else. Such a thing has never been done before. Imagine, marble! It looks quite … ponderous …” Simkin was saying.

“The catalyst. What’s his name? I feel sorry for him,” Mosiah said.

“Saryon?” Simkin appeared slightly confused. “Pardon me, dear boy, but what has he to do with rose-colored marble?”

“Nothing,” returned Mosiah. “I was just watching the expression on Joram’s face. He seems to be enjoying the poor mans misery.”

“He’s a catalyst,” Joram replied shortly. “And you’re wrong. I don’t care enough to think about him one way or the other.”

“Mmmm,” Mosiah muttered, seeing Joram’s dark eyes grow darker as they stared at the man’s green-robed back.

“He’s from your village, you know,” Simkin commented, leaning over his horse’s neck to talk confidentially in a loud voice that could be heard by nearly everyone in line.

“Keep your voice down! He’ll hear us. What do you mean, he’s from our village?” Mosiah asked, astonished. “Why didn’t you say anything before? Maybe he knows my parents!”

“I’m certain I said something,” Simkin protested with an aggrieved air, “when I told you about his coming for Joram—”

“Shh!” Mosiah hissed. “That nonsense!” Biting his lip, the young man stared at the catalyst with a wistful air. “I wonder how my parents are? It’s been so long …”

“Oh, go ahead! Talk to him!” snapped Joram, his black eyebrows drawing a straight, hard line across his face.

“Yes, go have a chat with the old boy,” Simkin said languidly. “He’s not a bad sort, really, as catalysts go. And I’ve got no more cause to love them than you, O Dark and Gloomy Friend. I told you they stole away my baby brother, didn’t I? Little Nat. Poor tyke. Failed the Testing. We had him hidden away until he was five. But they found out about him—one of the neighbors snitched. Grudge against my
mother. I was Nat’s favorite, you know. The little fellow clung to me, when they were dragging him off.”

Two tears rolled down Simkin’s face into his beard. Mosiah heaved an exasperated sigh.

“That’s it!” said Simkin, sniffing. “Mock my affliction. Make light of my sorrow. If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered, more tears streaming down his face, mingling with the rainwater, “I will indulge my grief in private. You two go on. No, it’s no use trying to comfort me. Not in the slightest …” Mumbling incoherently, Simkin suddenly wheeled his horse around and left the trail, galloping back toward the rear of the line.

“Mock his affliction! How many brothers is that who’ve met some appalling fate?” Snorting in disgust, Mosiah glanced back at Simkin, who was wiping tears from his face and calling out a rude remark to one of Blachloch’s henchmen at the same time. “To say nothing of assorted sisters held captive by nobles or hauled off by centaurs, not counting the one who ran away from home because she was enamored of a giant. Then there’s the aunt, who drowned in a public fountain because she thought she was a swan, and his mother, who has died five times of five different rare diseases and once of a broken heart because the
Duuk-tsarith
arrested his father for conjuring up offensive illusions of the Emperor. All of this happening to an orphan who was discovered floating in a basket of rose petals down the Merilon sewer system. He’s a monumental liar! I don’t see how can you put up with him!”

“Because he’s an amusing liar,” Joram replied, shrugging. “And that makes him different.”

“Different?”

“From all the rest of you,” Joram said, glancing at Mosiah from beneath his heavy, dark brows. “Why don’t you go talk to your catalyst,” he suggested coolly, seeing Mosiah’s face flush in anger. “If what I hear is true, he’s in for a lot worse punishment than saddle sores.”

Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, Joram galloped ahead, riding past the catalyst without a glance, his horse flinging up mud from its hooves. Mosiah saw the catalyst raise his head and stare after the young man, whose long
black hair, whipped free from its bindings, glistened in the rain like the plumage of a wet bird.

“Why do I put up with
you?”
Mosiah muttered, gazing after the figure of his friend. “Pity? You’d hate me for that. But it’s true, in a way. I can understand why you refuse to trust anyone. The scars you bear aren’t only from wounds on your chest. But, some day, my friend, those scars are going to be nothing—nothing—compared to the scar from the wound you’re going to get when you find out you’ve been wrong!”

Shaking his head, Mosiah urged his horse forward until he rode next to the catalyst.

“Excuse me for interrupting your thoughts, Father,” the young man said hesitantly, “but would—would you mind if I kept you company?”

Saryon looked up fearfully, his face strained and tense. Then, seeing only the young man, he appeared to relax. “No, I’d like it very much, in fact.”

“You—you weren’t praying or anything like that, were you, Father?” Mosiah asked in some confusion. “I can leave, if you—”

“No, I wasn’t praying,” Saryon said with a wan smile. “I haven’t done much praying lately,” he added in a low voice, glancing about the wilderness with a shiver. “I’m used to finding the Almin in the corridors of the Font. Not out here. I don’t think He lives out here.”

Mosiah didn’t understand but, seeing a chance for an opening, remarked, “My father talks like that sometimes. He says the Almin dines with the rich and throws scraps to the poor. He doesn’t care about us, so we must get through this life on our own honor and integrity. When we die, that’s the most important thing we leave behind.”

“Jacobias is a very wise man,” Saryon said, looking at Mosiah intently. “I know him. You are Mosiah, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” The young man flushed. “I know you know him. That’s why I came—That is, I didn’t know or I would have come sooner—I mean, Simkin just now told me—”

“I understand.” Saryon nodded gravely. “I should have come to see you. I have messages from your parents, but … I haven’t been well.” It was now the catalyst’s turn to flush uncomfortably. Grimacing in pain, he shifted in his saddle,
his gaze going to the figure of Joram disappearing among the trees.

“My parents …” nudged Mosiah, after several moments of silence.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” Saryon roused himself. “They are well and send their love. They miss you very much,” the catalyst said, seeing a look of hunger and longing sweep across the young man’s face. “Your mother gave me a kiss for you, but I don’t suppose I need pass that along personally.”