Forging the Darksword (53 page)

B
lachloch placed his folded hands upon the desk in front of him. “And so, Father, feeling wretched over committing one immoral act, and terrified that you might be forced to commit another, you saw as your only alternative the commission of a deed so heinous, so black, it was banned by your own Order centuries ago?”

“I have admitted that I was not thinking clearly,” Saryon murmured, the warlock’s bald statement of the facts unnerving him. “I—I am a scholar …. This type of life frightens and … and confuses me.”

“But you are confused no longer,” Blachloch said wryly. “Appalled and horrified, but not confused. You will surrender the Darksword and Joram to me.”

“The sword must be destroyed,” Saryon interrupted. “Or I will not go through with this.”

“Of course,” Blachloch replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as though this were nothing more than a cracked ale mug they were discussing, not a sword that could conceivably
give him power to rule the world. What a fool he must take me for, Saryon thought bitterly. Blachloch clasped his hands before him. “Now, as for the boy …”

“He must be turned over to Bishop Vanya,” Saryon said, his voice rasping.

“So, Simkin was right,” Blachloch remarked. “That is the real reason you were sent to this coven.”

“Yes.” Saryon swallowed.

“I wish you would have confided in me,” the warlock said, his two index fingers coming together to form a small sword, pointed at the catalyst. “Life would have been much simpler for you, Father. Your Bishop Vanya must be an imbecile,” he muttered, a tiny line appearing in his forehead, his eyes staring into a shadowy corner, “to think a scholar like you could deal with a murderer like this Joram….”

“You will see that he is taken to the Font?” Saryon pursued, flushing. “I cannot do so myself for … for obvious reasons. I presume your contacts in the
Duuk-tsarith
—”

“Yes. That can be arranged,” Blachloch cut in. “You say ‘for obvious reasons.’ I presume you mean that you dare not return to the fold. What of yourself in all this, Father?”

“I should surrender myself to Bishop Vanya,” Saryon answered, knowing what was expected of him. He lowered his head, his gaze on his shoes. “I have committed a grievous sin. I deserve my fate.”

“The Turning to Stone, Father. A terrible way to … live. I know. As I told you, I’ve seen it done.
That
would be your punishment for helping to create the Darksword, as of course you yourself know. Such a waste,” Blachloch said, running his finger over his blond mustache, “such a waste.”

Saryon shuddered. Yes, that would be his punishment. Could he face it? To live forever with the knowledge of what he had done? No, if it came to that, there were ways of ending things. Henbane, for example.

“Still, you might be forgiven, considered something of a hero …”

Saryon shook his head.

“Ah, this is your second infraction. I had forgotten. So your options are immortality of a most horrible sort or staying here with the coven and reconciling yourself to committing further immoral acts.” Blachloch’s fingers raised slightly,
pointing at Saryon’s heart. “There is, of course, another alternative.”

Glancing up quickly, Saryon saw Blachloch’s meaning plainly expressed on the cold face and in the unblinking eyes. The catalyst swallowed again, a bitter taste filling his mouth. It was uncanny the way the man could see into his head, uncanny and frightening.

“The … the last is not an alternative,” Saryon said, shifting uncomfortably. “Suicide is an unpardonable sin.”

“Whereas assisting me to rape and plunder or assisting Joram to create a weapon that could destroy the world is not,” Blachloch said with a sneer. His hands unclasped, spreading out, palms down, upon the desk. “I admire the neat and tidy way you catalysts think. Still, it works out usefully for me, so why should I complain?”

Sweating beneath his robes, Saryon found it safer not to reply. Matters were going well, almost too well. Probably, as Joram had said, because he was not having to lie. Well, not that much. Suicide was an unpardonable sin only if one believed in a god.

“Where is the young man?” Blachloch rose to his feet.

Saryon, too, stood up, thankful for the flowing robes that covered his trembling legs. “In … in the forge,” he said faintly.

No (fire burned in the forge this night. A faint red glow glimmered from the banked coals, but it was the white, cold glimmer of the sinking moon that touched the blade of the sword, it surface pockmarked with hammer blows, its edge sharp, though irregular and uneven.

The sword was the first object Saryon saw as he and Blachloch materialized within the moonlit darkness of the forge. The weapon lay upon the anvil, basking in the moonlight like a perverse snake.

Blachloch saw it too, Saryon knew. Though he could not see the warlock’s face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his black hood, he could tell by the sharp intake of breath that even the discipline of the
Duuk-tsarith
could not suppress. The clasped hands quivered, their fingers twitching, longing to touch. But the Enforcer was in command of himself.
Every sense alert, his mind reached into the shadows, seeking his prey.

Saryon himself looked about almost casually for Joram. The catalyst had expected to be paralyzed with fear; his hands had been shaking so when he left Blachloch’s dwelling that he had barely been able to open a conduit to the warlock. But now that he was here, his fear had left him, leaving a cold, clear feeling of emptiness inside.

Standing in the forge, looking around for what might be the last minutes of his life, Saryon felt the world rush in to fill the void. It was as if he were living each second separately, moving from one to another with the steady regularity of a heartbeat. Each second absorbed his complete attention; he literally saw everything, heard everything, was aware of everything around him in that one second. Then he moved on to the next. The oddest thing was that none of it had any meaning for him. He was detached, an observer, looking on while his body performed its role in this deadly play. Blachloch could have cut off his hands right now, severed them at the wrist, and Saryon would not have cried out, would not have felt a thing. He could almost envision himself, standing there in the moonlit darkness, staring calmly at the dripping blood.

So this is courage, he thought, watching as a hand, glowing white in the moonlight, reached out from the shadows and silently grasped the hilt of the sword.

There was no sound and only the barest hint of movement. Indeed, if Saryon had not been staring straight at the sword, he would never have noticed; Joram had acted with the skill and deftness of the art his mother had taught him as a child. But the
Duuk-tsarith
are trained to hear night itself creep up behind them.

Blachloch reacted with such speed that Saryon saw only a black wind whirling through the forge, scattering sparks from the coals. With a motion and a word, the warlock cast the spell that would leave his opponent powerless to move or act or even think, the spell that drained magic, drained Life.

Except Joram had no Life.

Saryon almost laughed, so tense was he, as he felt the magic spell hit the young man a blow that should have been shattering. It fluttered down around him like so many rose
petals. The white hand continued to lift the sword. The metal did not gleam. It was a streak of darkness slashing through the moonlight, as though Joram held the embodiment of night.

Stepping into the light, Joram lifted the sword before him, his face tense and strained, his eyes darker than the metal. Saryon could sense the young man’s fear and uncertainty; despite all his study, Joram had only the vaguest idea of the metal’s powers. But the catalyst, every sense alive and attuned for the first time—he might have been newborn in this instant—could also sense Blachloch’s uncertainty, astonishment, growing fear.

What did the
Duuk-tsarith
know of the darkstone? Probably not much more than Joram. What thoughts must be rushing through the warlock’s mind. Was the sword responsible for blocking his Nullmagic spell? Would it block others? Blachloch must make his decision on his next move instantaneously, split-second. For all he knew, his life might well depend upon it.

Coolly, calmly, the
Duuk-tsarith
chose his spell and cast it. His eyes lit with a green glow and instantly a greenish liquid condensed from the air onto Joram’s skin, where it began to bubble and hiss. Green Venom, the spell was called. Recognizing it, Saryon winced, his stomach clenching. The pain was excruciating, so he had heard, as if every nerve ending were on fire. Any magus strong enough to shield himself against the Nullmagic must fall victim to the venom’s magical paralysis. He would not be able to protect against both.

And it apparently affected the Dead as well as the Living. Joram’s face twisted in agony. He gasped, his body beginning to double over as the liquid spread and the fiery pain burned through his flesh. But it was a spell whose casting drained a magus rapidly.

“Grant me Life, Catalyst!” Blachloch demanded, his eyes glowing a more brilliant green as they stared at the young man.

This is the time, Saryon knew. The time I must decide. I am Joram’s only chance. Without me, he must fall. He cannot control the sword, if the darkstone is even working. The catalyst glanced swiftly at the weapon and a shiver of exultation swept over him. Joram’s body glowed green, the young
man screamed in terrible pain. He was literally crumbling to the floor as the venom surged through his body. But his hands still gripped the sword, the hands themselves were not coated with the deadly liquid, and, even as Saryon watched, the venom began to disappear from Joram’s arms and upper body—the Darksword was absorbing the magic.

It was doing so too slowly, however. Joram would be worse than dead within seconds, his body a convulsing, writhing blob upon the sand-covered floor of the forge.

Saryon began to repeat the ancient words, the words he had learned seventeen years ago when he became a Deacon, words he had never spoken, never expected to speak …. Words each catalyst prays he will never be forced to speak ….

He began to suck out Blachloch’s Life.

A highly dangerous maneuver, it is generally practiced only in times of war when a catalyst will attempt to weaken an opponent through this means. Instead of closing off a conduit, which cuts the supply of Life given to a magus, the catalyst leaves the conduit open and simply reverses the flow. The danger lies in the fact that the wizard will instantly feel the Life beginning to seep from him and can, unless distracted, turn upon the catalyst and reduce him to dust.

Saryon knew well the danger he was in and he didn’t flinch when Blachloch’s cry of outrage split the darkness, the green-glowing eyes moved to turn their venomous pain upon him. His courage held, even as he saw his fingertips began to turn green and felt the first bursts of pain dance up his arms.

“Joram!” he shouted. “Help me!”

The young man was on his knees, sobbing. With Blachloch’s attention withdrawn and the sword absorbing the magic, the venom was vanishing from his flesh, though still slowly. At Saryon’s cry, Joram lifted his head. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise. But he was too weak to manage on his own and there was nothing near him he could use to lean upon. Finally, plunging the point of the sword into the dirt floor of the forge, he gripped the handle and dragged himself to his feet.

“Joram!” The venom ate into Saryon’s body, and the catalyst cursed himself. With all his logic, he should have foreseen this! He was absorbing Life from the warlock, but there
was nothing he could do with it! In battle, he would have had a wizard as his ally. He could grant this Life to his partner, who could then use it to enhance his own strength and fight off the enemy. But the catalyst could give no Life to Joram, he could give him no aid.

Then Saryon saw the sword.

It stood in the ground, its arms spread like a man pleading for help. Its black metal reflected no light. It was a creation of darkness, it
was
darkness. Like a man pleading for help.

A feeling of shock and horror hit Saryon, numbing the growing pain spreading slowly over his body, slowly because—even still—he was draining the Life from the warlock and he could feel the man weakening.

I can not give life to Joram, but I can give it to the sword.

Closing his eyes, Saryon blocked out the sight of the black, hideous parody of a living being that seemed to be opening its rigid arms to clasp him in its embrace. I can surrender. My torment would end.

Obedire est vivere …

He saw before him the flames of the burning village, the young Deacon falling dead upon the ground, Simkin dealing a hand from a deck of faceless, colorless cards.

Vivere est obedire ….

Opening his eyes, Saryon watched Joram draw the blade from the ground and raise it above his head. But the young man appeared in Saryon’s mind only as a shadow in the moonlight. All he truly saw or could focus on was the sword. Stretching out his hand toward it, the pain making his fingers twitch involuntarily, Saryon opened a conduit to the cold, lifeless metal.

The magic surged through him like a blast of wind, its force so strong that he stumbled backward. The pain ceased abruptly, the liquid on his skin vanished. The sword glowed a brilliant white-blue and, with an inarticulate cry, Blachloch fell to the floor, the combined power of the sword and the catalyst sucking the magic from his body, leaving him nothing more than the empty shell of a human.

The sword fell to the ground. Unprepared for the tremendous jolt of power that jarred his very being, Joram had dropped the weapon and now stood staring at it in amazement
as it lay on the floor, ringing and humming with an eerie, almost human screech of pleasure. Turning, he looked from the sword to the helpless warlock. Snarling in rage, Blachloch fought on, trying to regain the use of his limbs. It was a feeble attempt. Weakened by the full use of his magical power and now completely bereft of Life itself, the warlock flopped about in the dirt like a landed fish.