Forging the Darksword (52 page)

“Very well,” the voice said finally, coldly. “But it will be more difficult and dangerous, especially now that he has
darks tone. This was not in our original bargain. My price goes up.”

“You will be compensated according to your deserts,” Vanya remarked. “Act quickly before he becomes fully aware how to use the stone. And bring him personally” the Bishop added as an afterthought. “There are certain matters I wish to discuss with you, your reward among them.”

“Of course I’ll have to bring him personally,” the voice returned. “What else am I to do? Rely on your spineless catalyst? I will come through the usual channels. Look for me when you see me.”

“It must be s
oon!”
Vanya said, endeavoring with all his power to keep his thoughts calm. “I will contact you tomorrow night.”

“I may or may not answer,” replied the voice. “This matter must be handled delicately.”

The communication ended. The Chamber was silent.

A trickle of sweat ran down the Bishop’s tonsured head and trickled into the collar of his robe. Pale, quivering with anger and fear, he sat in the Chamber for many hours, staring unseeing into the darkness.

For there will be horn to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again but live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world ….

Saryon’s Turn

“L
isten, Saryon,” said Joram in low, persuasive tones, “it will be simple.” Sitting beside the catalyst, he slid closer still, resting his hand upon his arm. “You go to Blachloch. You tell him that you cannot rest, you cannot sleep. You are so horrified by what I have done and what I made you do that you think you might go mad.”

“I am not a good liar,” Saryon murmured, shaking his head.

“Would it really be a lie?” Joram asked, a bitter half-smile lighting his dark eyes. “On the contrary, I think you could be quite convincing.”

The catalyst did not answer, nor did he raise his gaze from the table where the two of them sat. A fat, almost obscene autumn moon grinned down from the clear black sky. Shining through the window, it sucked all color and life into its bulging cheeks, leaving everything a stark, bloodless gray. Bathed in the moonlight, the two sat close together at the table beneath the window, talking in hushed voices,
Joram’s watchful gaze divided between the guards in the house across the street and Mosiah, sleeping restlessly on a cot in a dark corner.

At the sound of voices, Mosiah stirred and muttered in his sleep, causing Joram to grip the catalyst’s arm in silent warning. Neither said a word until Mosiah had drifted off again, throwing his arm over his eyes in his sleep as the moonlight crept stealthily across the floor and up the cot to examine and gloat over his pale face.

“And then what must I do?” asked Saryon.

“Tell him you will take him to me. You will help him apprehend me and”—Joram’s voice lowered—“the Dark sword. You will lead him to the forge, where I will be working, and there, we will have him.”

Saryon shut his eyes, a shudder convulsing his body. “What do you mean—have him?”

“What do you think I mean, Catalyst?” Impatiently, Joram withdrew his hand and leaned back in his chair, glancing again at the guards, whose shadows could be seen against the background of a blazing fire in the house opposite. “We have talked about this before. Once he is drained of his magic, he will be helpless. You can open a Corridor and call the
Duuk-tsarith.
No doubt they have been waiting eagerly many years to get their hands on one who is a disgrace to their Order.” He shrugged. “You will be a hero, Catalyst.”

Saryon sighed and clasped his hands together upon the tabletop, his fingers digging painfully into his flesh. “What about you?” he asked Joram, his gaze going to the young man. The stern face, reflected in the moonlight, looked almost skull-like.

“What
about
me?” Joram asked coolly, staring out the window, the half-smile playing about his lips.

“A Corridor will be open, the
Duuk-tsarith
will be there. I could turn you over to them, as I was instructed to do by my superior.”

“But you won’t, will you—Saryon?” Joram said without looking at him. In the corner, Mosiah moaned and turned fitfully, trying to wriggle out from beneath the moon’s gleeful stare. “You won’t. I give you Blachloch and you give me my freedom. You need not fear me, Catalyst. I have no such ambition as Blachloch. I do not intend to use my power to take
over the world. I simply want back what is rightfully mine. I will go to Merilon and, with the help of this sword I have forged, I will find it!”

Watching him, Saryon saw the young man’s face soften for a moment, becoming as wistful and longing as a child’s gazing at some bright, jeweled bauble. Pity surged through the catalyst. He recalled the dark stories he had heard of Joram’s youth, of his insane mother. He thought of the hard life the young man had led, the constant struggle for survival, the need to hide the fact that he was truly Dead. Saryon, too, knew what it was like to be weak and helpless in this world of wizards. Memories came back to him—the longing to be able to ride the wings of the wind, to create beauty and wonder with a wave of the hand, to shape stone into towers of grace and usefulness …. Now Joram had this power, only it was reversed. He had the power to destroy, not create. And all he wanted to buy with it was a child’s dream.

“You will undoubtedly be a hero.” Joram’s voice came to Saryon as if out of this dream. “You can return to the Font, go back and crawl under your rock again. I trust your failure as far as bringing me to justice will be overlooked. They can always try to apprehend me in Merilon. If they dare ….”

Joram was silent a moment, then he returned to reality, the wistful, childlike face hardening, becoming the face of the Sorcerer who had murdered the overseer with a stone. “When the warlock is in the forge, I will attack him with the Darksword and absorb his magic—”

“You hope,” Saryon retorted, angry because he was suddenly discovering he was beginning to care for this young man. “You have only the vaguest idea of the sword’s power. You know nothing about wielding such a weapon.”

“I don’t need to be skilled in swordplay,” Joram said irritably. “We’re not going to kill him, after all. When I attack and the Darksword begins to draw off his magic, you must attack also, and drain him of his Life.”

Saryon shook his head. “That’s too dangerous. I’ve never been trained for this …”

“You have no choice, Catalyst!” Joram said, his teeth clenching, his hand gripping Saryon’s arm again. “Simkin says that Blachloch has found the crucible! If he doesn’t already
know about the darkstone, he soon will. Do you want to make Darkswords for him?”

The catalyst put his head in his trembling hands. Slowly releasing his arm, Joram sat back in his chair again, nodding to himself in satisfaction.

“How can we get out of here?” Saryon asked, raising a haggard face and glancing around the prison.

“Run to the guards. Tell them you were asleep, and when you woke, you discovered I was gone. Demand that they take you to see Blachloch. In the confusion, I’ll slip out.”

“But how? They’ll be searching for you! It’s—”

“—my concern, Catalyst,” Joram said coldly. “You worry about your part. Stall Blachloch for as long as you can, to give me time to get there.”

“Stall! What should I—”

“Faint! Be sick on him! I don’t know! It shouldn’t be difficult. You look as though you could do both right now anyway.” With a scathing glance at the catalyst, Joram stood up and began pacing restlessly about the room.

“I am not as weak as you consider me, young man,” Saryon said softly. “I should never have agreed to assist you in bringing this weapon of darkness into the world. I did, however, and now I must accept responsibility for my actions. I will do what you ask of me this night. I will help bring this evil warlock to justice. But not because I will be a hero, not to enable me to go back.” Saryon was silent a moment, then, drawing a deep breath, he continued. “I can never go back. I know that now. There is nothing for me there anymore.”

Joram had stopped walking and was regarding Saryon silently, intently. “And you will let me go …”

“Yes, but not because I fear you or your sword.”

“Then why?” Joram asked, with a slight sneer.

“Exactly,” Saryon murmured. “Why? I’ve asked myself often enough. I could tell you … many reasons. That our lives are bound up together in some strange way, that I knew this the first time I saw you, that this goes back to a time in my life before you were even born. I could tell you this.” He shook his head. “I could tell you about a druid who counseled me. I could tell you about a baby I held …. It all seems
tied together somehow, and it doesn’t make sense. I can see already you don’t believe it.”

“Whether I believe you or not doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I really don’t care what your reasons are, Catalyst, so long as you do what I ask of you.”

“I will, but on one condition.”

“Ah, now we come to it,” Joram said, scowling. “What is it? That I turn
myself
in? Or maybe remain buried in this godforsaken wilderness—”

“That you take me with you,” Saryon said in a low voice.

“What?” Joram stared at the catalyst in astonishment. Then, nodding to himself, he gave a short, ugly laugh. “Of course, I see. Every Dead man needs his own catalyst.” Shrugging, he almost smiled. “By all means, come with me to Merilon. We’ll have a jolly time together, as our friend Simkin would say. Now, are we ready to get on with this?”

Moving carefully and silently to avoid waking Mosiah, Joram turned his back upon the startled catalyst and walked across the small room. He knelt beside his bed, put his hands beneath the mattress, and, slowly and reverently, drew forth the Darksword.

Saryon watched him in puzzled silence. He had expected rage, refusal. He had expected to have to stand firm on his position, to resist arguments, even threats. This casual, uncaring acceptance was, somehow, worse. Maybe the young man didn’t understand ….

Joram was carefully wrapping the sword in rags. Coming up behind him, Saryon put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m not going to turn you in. I only want to help you. You see, you can’t go back either. Not to Merilon—”

“Look, Catalyst,” Joram said, standing up, angrily jerking himself free of the man’s touch, “I’ve already said—I don’t care what you do or where you go so long as you help me in this. Understood? Fine.” He looked down at the sword he held cradled in his hands. The moonlight reflecting white off the rags made the skeletal-looking metal object lying within seem that much darker by stark contrast. The image of the Dead baby, wrapped in the white cloth of the Royal House, came to Saryon’s mind. Shutting his eyes, he turned away.

Seeing the catalyst’s reaction, Joram’s lip curled. “If the sermon is ended, Father”—the word was uttered with such venom Saryon flinched—“we must go. I want to get this over with.”

Thrusting the sword into a leather belt he had fashioned and now wore about his waist—a crude imitation of those he had seen pictured in the texts—Joram threw a long, dark cloak (provided by Simkin) over his shoulders. He walked the length of the prison cell, looking down at himself critically. The sword was hidden. Nodding to himself, he turned to Saryon and gestured peremptorily.

“Go on. I’m ready.”

Am I? Saryon asked himself in agony. He wanted to say something, but he could not talk and, coughing, tried to clear his throat. It was useless. He could never swallow fear. Joram’s face darkened, scowling at this delay. Saryon could see the muscles stand out rigid and stiff in the young man’s firm jawline, a nerve twitched in one eye, and his hands, hanging straight at his sides, clench and unclench nervously. But in the eyes burned a light brighter than the moon’s, brighter—and colder.

No, there was nothing to say. Nothing at all.

Reaching out, his own hand trembling, Saryon gently and silently opened the door. Every nerve, every fiber, of his being warned him to turn around, to refuse, to stay within this house. But the momentum of his past life was rising around him like a great wave. Caught in the tide, he could do nothing but ride the foaming waters hurling him forward, even though he could see clearly the jagged stones looming dark before him.

King of Swords