Forging the Darksword (41 page)

Fortunately, Simkin had returned at this time from one of his frequent and mysterious disappearances. Acting some say upon a suggestion of Blachloch’s, Simkin appeared on Joram’s doorstep, introduced himself, and moved in before the morose young man could utter a word. Joram, intrigued and amused by the older youth’s conversation, allowed Simkin to stay. Simkin, in turn, introduced Joram to the world.

“You have a gift, dear boy,” said Simkin banteringly to Joram one night. “Don’t scowl. Your face will freeze like that someday and you’ll spend all of your life frightening dogs and small children. Now, about this gift, I’m serious. I’ve seen it at court. Your mother was
Albanara
, right? They’re born with this ability, charisma, charm, whatever you want to call it. Now, of course, you have all the charm of a pile of rocks, but stay with me and you’ll learn. Why should you bother? you ask. The best reason in the world. Because, dear boy, you can make people do anything you want ….”

Venturing out into his small world, Joram found, to his surprise and pleasure, that what Simkin said was true. Perhaps it was the “noble blood,” the hereditary abilities of the
Albanara
that ran in his veins, perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that he was educated. Whatever the reason, Joram discovered the ability to manipulate people, to use them and still keep them at a comfortable distance from himself.

The one person this failed to work upon was Mosiah. Although he had been extremely glad to see his longtime friend when the young man came into camp, Joram resented Mosiah’s continued attempts to break apart the carefully crafted stone exterior of his being. Simkin entertained Joram. Mosiah demanded something in return for his friendship.

Back off
, Joram often thought in exasperation.
Back off and let me breathe!

Despite this, Joram was more truly content among these people than he had once thought possible. Although he still had to keep up the pretext of possessing a certain amount of
magic, he was able to do this easily with his sleight-of-hand illusions. There were others in this camp who had failed the Testing, and he wasn’t made to feel like a freak or an outcast.

Through hard, physical labor, he had grown strong and muscular. Some of the bitterness and anger that scarred his face was eased, though the slashing black brows and the dark, brooding eyes made many uncomfortable in his presence. The beautiful black, shining hair was generally unkempt and tangled, there being no Anja to comb it for Joram every night. But he refused to cut it, wearing it in a long thick braid that extended down his broad back, almost to his waist.

He enjoyed his work in the iron forge, as well. Shaping the shapeless ore into useful tools and weapons gave him the satisfaction he imagined other men must feel when they summoned the magic. In fact, Joram became fascinated by Technology. He spent hours listening to Andon tell of the legends of the ancient days when the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery had ruled the world with their terrible and wonderful engines and machines. Through some mysterious means, the young man was able to discover the location of the hidden texts that had been written after the Iron Wars by those who fled the persecution. Intrigued with the wonders described, Joram fumed that so much had been lost.

“We could rule the world again if we had such things!” he told Mosiah more than once, his thoughts always turning to this direction in the feverish, talkative state that followed his black periods of melancholia. “A powder, fine as sand, that could blast down walls; engines that hurled balls of molten fire—”

“Death!” cried Mosiah, aghast. “That’s what you are talking about, Joram. Engines of Death. That is why the Technologists were banished.”

“Banished by whom? The catalysts! Because they feared us!” Joram retorted. “As for death, people die at the hands of the War Masters, the
DKarn-Duuk
, or, worse, they’re mutated, changed beyond recognition. But just think, Mosiah, think what we could do if we combined magic and technology …”

“Blachloch’s thinking of it,” Mosiah muttered. “There’s your ruler, Joram. A renegade warlock.”

“Maybe …” Joram murmured thoughtfully with that strange half-smile in his eyes. “Maybe not ….”

Joram had made a discovery in one of the ancient books. It was this discovery that led him to work late nights in the forge with such frustrating results. He lacked the key yet to complete understanding. That was why his experiment had failed. But now he thought he might have found it in an unlikely place—the catalyst. At last he had an idea what those strange symbols were in the text. They were numbers. The key was mathematics.

But now Joram was torn. He hated the catalyst. With Saryon came the bitter memories—Anja’s stories, the stone statue, the knowledge that he was Dead, the knowledge that he had murdered. His peaceful life was shattered. Old dreams returned to plague him, the black moods threatened once more to engulf him in their madness. When the catalyst first arrived, he had thought more than once of ending the man’s life as he had so easily ended another’s. Often he found himself standing, a large, smooth stone in his hand, remembering how easy it had been. He recalled clearly how it had felt to hurl the stone, how it had sounded when it struck the man’s head.

But he did not kill the catalyst. The reason being, he told himself, that he discovered the man knew mathematics. A plan began to take shape within Joram, becoming as sharp and strong as the iron blades he hammered.

The catalyst would be of use to him. Joram smiled inwardly. The catalyst would grant
him
Life—of a sort. I’ll have to wait and see what type of man he is, Joram said to himself. Weak and ignorant, like Tolban, or does he have something more in him? One thing was in the catalyst’s favor—the man had, surprisingly, been honest with him. Not that Joram trusted him. The young man almost laughed at the absurdity. No, he did not trust the catalyst, but he allowed him a grudging respect.

The true test would come soon. Joram was waiting, along with nearly everyone else in the group of bandits, to see how Saryon would react when Blachloch ordered him to help rob the villagers.

“Do you think what we’re doing is right?” Mosiah asked one night as they lay on a pile of dead, wet leaves beneath a
tree. Even wrapped in their blankets, it seemed impossible to keep warm.

“What’s right?” muttered Joram, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

“Taking food … from these people.”

“So you’ve been talking to that pious old man again?” Joram asked, sneering.

“It’s not that,” Mosiah returned. Propping himself up on one elbow, he turned to face his friend, who was nothing more than a black shapeless form in the starless, moonless darkness. “I’ve been thinking about it myself. These people are like us, Joram. They’re like my father and mother and your mother.” He ignored a sudden angry, rustling sound. “You remember how hard winters were. What if bandits had stolen from us?”

“It would have been our tough luck, just like it’ll be theirs,” Joram said coldly. “It’s us or them. We have to have food.”

“We could trade for it …”

“What? Arrowtips? Daggers? Spearheads? The tools of the Ninth Mystery? Do you think those farmers would barter with Sorcerers who have sold their souls to the Powers of Darkness? Hah! They’d sooner die than feed us.”

The conversation ended, Joram rolling over and refusing to talk, Mosiah hearing those last, disturbing words echo in his head.

They’d sooner die ….

The Raid

A
strong, chill wind blowing from the ocean swept apart the storm clouds, blowing them back southward into the Outland. The rain stopped and the sun appeared, its meager autumn warmth doing little, however, to counter the cutting cold of the wind through wet clothing. The men’s spirits did not rise. With the cessation of the rain, Blachloch pushed them forward rapidly, sometimes riding into the evening hours if the night was clear. The thick stands of oak and walnut trees of the Outland gave way to pines. The riders grew more cautious, for they were nearing the borders of civilized lands. Stopping at last on the banks of the river, they made camp and then spent three days cutting trees and lashing logs together to form crude flat boats.

The catalyst was kept busy giving Life to the men to enable them to complete the work swiftly. He did as he was told, though he watched the building of the boats with increasing despondency, In his mind, he could already see them loaded with booty, ready to be transported upriver, back to the settlement.

At last the boats were finished, and there came a night without a moon. The wind blew stronger and fiercer, buffeting Blachloch’s men as they mounted their horses. Riding swiftly, their black cloaks billowing in the gusts like the sails of a ghostly armada, the bandits swept down upon the village of Dunam, intending to strike them in the evening when, worn out from their long labors in the fields, the magi were settling down to rest.

On the outskirts of the village, Blachloch reined in his horse, calling a halt. Open land stretched out before them, fields already harvested, lying fallow. Stacked at the far end were the disks used by the Ariels to transport the fruits of the harvest to the landowner’s granaries. Seeing these, the men grinned at each other. They were in time.

The wind blew chill from the ocean waters to the north, carrying with it, even at that distance, a faint, salty tang. Facing into the biting wind, the horses shook their heads, setting the harnesses to jingling, and causing a few of the more skittish to shift nervously in place. Their riders, no more comfortable than their mounts, muffled up to the eyebrows in thick cloaks still damp from the soaking ride, sat stolidly in a line awaiting the orders that would send them into action.

Sitting apart from them, alone, hunched in his green cloak, Saryon shivered from fear and the cold, the credo of his upbringing ringing in his ears, its irony twisting in his bowels.

Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire.

“Catalyst, to my side.”

The words were not heard so much as they penetrated Saryon’s mind. Gripping the reins in his shaking hand, the catalyst rode forward.

“To obey is to live …”

Where was the Almin? Where was his God at this desperate time? Back in the Font, probably, attending Evening Prayers. Certainly He was not in this wild and windswept night, riding with bandits.

“To live is to obey ….”

Riding forward, Saryon was dimly aware of a face turned to look at him. His hood dragged back, the young man was barely visible in the bright starlight. But the catalyst recognized
Mosiah, looking troubled and distraught. The dark shrouded figure beside him would undoubtedly be Joram. Saryon caught a glimpse of the young man’s eyes behind a tangle of matted hair, staring at him with cool, appraising speculation. Muffled laughter came from behind the two along with a bright flash of color—Simkin.

Seemingly of its own volition, Saryon’s horse carried him past the young men, past the rows of waiting, grim-faced Sorcerers and their nervous mounts up to the front of the line. Here Blachloch sat upon his steed—a thick-bodied charger.

The moment had come. Half-turning in the saddle, the warlock looked at Saryon. Blachloch did not speak, his face remained impassive, expressionless, but the catalyst felt courage drain from him as surely as if the warlock had slit his throat. Saryon bowed his head and, at that, Blachloch smiled for the first time.

“I am glad we understand each other, Father. You have been trained in the art of warfare?”

“It was a long time ago,” Saryon said in a low voice.

“Yes, I can imagine. Do not worry. This will soon be over, I think.” Turning around, Blachloch spoke a few words to one of his guards, apparently going over last-minute instructions. Saryon did not listen, he could not hear for the wind and the blood pounding in his head.

The warlock rode forward; a gesture brought the catalyst to ride beside him.

“The important thing to remember, Catalyst,” Blachloch murmured, “is to keep to my left and stand slightly behind me. Thus I can shield you if need be. I want to see you out of the corner of my eye, however, so make certain to keep within my visual range. And, Father”—Blachloch smiled again, a smile that sent a shudder through the catalyst—“I know that you have the ability to drain Life as well as give it. A dangerous maneuver, but one not unheard of if the catalyst feels like avenging himself upon his wizard. Do not try it with me.”

There was no threat, the words were spoken in an expressionless, even tone. But the last tiny flicker of hope within the catalyst died. Not that it had ever burned very brightly. Draining the Life from Blachloch would leave
Saryon at the mercy of the Sorcerers, for such an action drains the catalyst as well. And, as Blachloch said, it was extremely dangerous. A powerful wizard could shut off the conduit, then deal swift retribution to his attacker. Still, it had been a chance, and now it was gone.

Had Bishop Vanya considered this? Had he known Saryon was going to be forced into committing these vile crimes? Surely Vanya had never intended it to go this far! Even if he had lied to him, there must be some reason, some purpose …