Forging the Darksword (54 page)

Appalled and sickened at the sight, Saryon turned away. Leaning against a workbench, he realized, slowly, that it was all over.

“I will open a Corridor,” he said, without looking around at Joram. He couldn’t face the sight of the warlock lying helpless on the floor, deprived of all his dignity as a human being. It was bad enough hearing his incoherent sounds and pitiful thrashings. “I have enough of his Life force left within me to do so. I will place him inside a Corridor, then close it again before the Enforcers figure out what has happened. I don’t think it likely anyone would come back here. They seem intent on avoiding this place and, once they’ve got Blachloch, I believe they’ll let the Technologists live in peace. Still, it would be best for you if you left, just in case—”

A scream interrupted him, a scream of fury and terror. Rising to a shrill shriek of excruciating pain, the scream became a wail, dying horribly in a dreadful, choking gurgle.

His soul riven by the awful sound, Saryon turned around.

Blachloch lay dead, his eyes staring straight up into the night, his mouth open in the scream that echoed still in Saryon’s brain. Joram stood above the warlock, his face stark white in the moonlight, his eyes hollows of darkness. In his hands, he held the Darksword, its blade protruding from the warlock’s chest. With a jerk, he pulled it free and Saryon saw blood glisten black upon the Darksword.

Saryon could not speak. The man’s death cry shrieked in his ears. He could only stare at Joram, trying to stifle the sound of that dreadful scream enough to be able to think.

“Why?” the catalyst whispered finally.

Joram looked over at him, and Saryon saw the half-smile glint in the dark eyes.

“He was going to attack you, Catalyst,” the young man answered coolly. “I stopped him.”

An image of the helpless, flopping body came vividly to Saryon’s mind. A sudden rush of burning liquid rose to his throat. Gagging, he turned quickly from the ghastly sight upon the floor at his feet. “You’re lying! That’s not possible!” he said through clenched teeth.

“Come now, Catalyst,” Joram said sardonically. Stepping over the body, he picked up the rag that lay upon the floor and began to wipe the blood from the blade. “It’s ended. You don’t need to keep up the game.”

Had Saryon heard right? He seemed to hear nothing but that shriek. “Game?” he managed to ask. “What game? I don’t understand ….”

“Almin’s blood! Who do you take me for? Mosiah!” Joram laughed but it came out a snarl—bitter and ugly. “As if I’d tumble for that sanctimonious blabbing.” His voice rose to a high, whining mockery of Saryon’s. “‘I’ll open a Corridor. You get away …’ Ha!” Tossing the blood-stained rag upon the floor, Joram carefully laid the sword down beside it. “Did you think I’d fall for that? I knew your plan. Once you had that Corridor open—”

“No! You’re wrong!”

Saryon’s impassioned cry caught Joram by surprise. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked intently into the catalyst’s face. “Well, of all the—I believe you meant it,” he said slowly, staring at Saryon in wonder.

The catalyst could not answer. Sinking down upon the workbench, he closed his eyes and, shivering, hunched deeper into his robes. The dead warlock was having his revenge, it seemed. His scream had drained the life from Saryon as effectively as the catalyst had drained the magic from the magus. Sick, cold, filled with hatred and revulsion for himself as well as for the young man, if Saryon had believed in the Almin enough to ask him for one final favor, it would have been for the blessed oblivion of death.

He heard Joram’s footsteps moving across the sand floor and felt the presence of the young man behind him.

“You meant it,” Joram repeated.

“Yes,” Saryon said tiredly, “I meant it.”

“You saved my life,” Joram continued, speaking in low tones. “You risked your own to do it. I know. I saw ….”

Saryon felt a touch on his shoulder. Startled, he glanced around to see Joram’s hand resting there hesitantly, awkwardly. He could see the face in the waning moonlight, dark eyes shadowed by a tangle of thick, black hair. In the eyes, for the briefest second, there was longing, hunger. The catalyst knew the truth now, as he had known it all along.

Years ago, Saryon’s mind whispered to him, I held this child in my arms!

Reaching up, he started to grasp Joram’s hand with his own. But as soon as he did, the hand on his shoulder jerked away.

“Why?” Joram demanded. “What do you want of me?”

Saryon stared at the young man for a moment, then a slight, tired smile twisted his lips. “I don’t want anything of you, Joram.”

“Then, what was your reason. Catalyst? And don’t give me any of that holy honey you use to keep people like Mosiah sweet. I know you. There has to be a motive.”

“I’ve told you,” Saryon said softly, his gaze going to the weapon that lay on the floor like another corpse. “I helped bring this … weapon of darkness into the world. It is my responsibility,
partly
my responsibility,” he amended as Joram started to speak. Saryon’s gaze went from the sword to the warlock. “I have failed. It has drawn blood, it has severed a life—”

“
I
drew the blood! I severed the life!” Joram cried, coming to stand before the catalyst. “The Darksword was just a tool in my hands. Quit talking about the damn thing as if it were more alive than I am!”

Saryon did not reply. Staggering with fatigue, he walked haltingly across the sand-strewn floor of the forge and came to kneel beside Blachloch’s body. Gritting his teeth to quell a wave of sickness, keeping his gaze averted from the ghastly wound in the chest, he stretched out his hand and closed the eyes that were staring upward in horrified astonishment. He did his best to shut the gaping jaws, composing the face in some semblance of peace. Lifting the cold hands, he started to fold them across the breast, as was traditional, but found he could not as a wave of nausea overcame him. Letting them drop, he turned away hurriedly, slumping against the workbench, shivering in a chill sweat.

“I’ll take the body into the woods,” Joram said.

Hearing a rustling sound, Saryon glanced back to see the young man tug the warlock’s hood over his face and cover the body with the man’s cloak. “When they find him, they’ll figure centaurs got him.”

A
Duuk-tsarith?
Saryon thought, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t care anymore, anyway. Looking wistfully outside, he half-expected to see the dawn burning its way along the horizon. But the moon had just set. It was only a little past the deepest flow of night’s tide. He wanted his bed. Though it was cold and hard, he wanted to lie down and cast his own cloak over his head and maybe … just maybe … the sleep that had eluded him for nights would steal upon him and, for a little while, he could forget.

“Listen to me, Catalyst!” Joram’s voice was harsh. “The only other person who knows about the Darksword besides you and me is dead—”

“So that was why you killed him.”

Joram ignored him. “It must stay that way. While I’m moving the body, you take the sword and go back to the prison.”

“Blachloch’s guards are all over town, searching for you ….” Saryon protested, remembering the hue and cry that had been raised when he reported Joram missing. “How will you—”

“How do you think I got in here? There’s a way out, in back of the forge,” Joram said impatiently. “The smithy’s used it for over a year with his secret stash of weapons.”

“Weapons?” Saryon asked, uncomprehending.

“Yes, Catalyst. Blachloch’s days were numbered. The Technologists were bound to rebel. We have only hastened what was going to come sooner or later. But never mind that now! Take the sword and go back to the prison. No one will bother you. After all, you were with Blachloch. If they do stop you, tell them the warlock followed my trail into the wilderness. He went in alone after me. That’s all you know.”

Yes.” Saryon murmured.

Joram stared at him, scowling. “Did you even hear a word I said?”

“I hear!” Saryon said sternly. “And I’ll do what you say. I don’t want word of this terrible weapon to get out any more
than you do.” Rising to his feet, he looked directly into the young man’s face. “You must destroy it. If you don’t, I will.”

The two stood, confronting each other in the darkness that was lit now only by the dimly glowing coals. The fire glimmered in Joram’s eyes and on the lips that spread in a dark, red-tinged smile. “What if someone offered you the Magic, Catalyst?” he asked softly. “What if someone said to you, ‘Here, take this power. You no longer have to walk the ground like an animal. You can fly. You can call up the winds. You can banish the sun and bring down the stars, if you desire.’ What would you do? Wouldn’t you take it?”

Wouldn’t I? Saryon thought, a sudden memory of his father coming to him. He saw a little boy kicking off the hated shoes, drifting over the land in the arms of the wizard.

“This is my magic,” said Joram, his gaze going to the sword lying on the floor. “Tomorrow I start for Merilon. You, too, Catalyst, if you insist on coming. Once I am there, in Merilon, in the city that ended my parents’ lives and robbed me of my birthright, this sword will bring down the stars and put them in my grasp. No, I won’t destroy it.” He paused. “And neither will you.”

“Why not?” asked Saryon.

“Because you helped create it,” Joram said, the forge fire lighting his face. “Because you helped bring it into this world. Because you gave it Life.”

“I—” Saryon began, but he could not finish. He was too scared to search inside himself for the truth.

Joram nodded, satisfied. Turning, he walked over to the body, issuing instructions as he went. “Wrap the sword in those rags. If anyone stops you, tell them you are carrying a child. A dead child.” Glancing over at the pale, shaken catalyst, he smiled. “Your child, Saryon,” he said. “Yours and mine.”

Bending down, Joram picked up the body of the warlock in his strong arms. Heaving the corpse over his shoulder, he turned and made his way through the clutter of tools and stacks of wood and coal, heading toward the back of the cavern. The body bounced horribly as the young man walked, the hands dangling limply down behind, brushing against objects as though trying in vain to hold onto the world their spirit had left. Joram finally disappeared into the blackness
beyond, leaving Saryon alone in the forge, staring at a splotch of darkness on the floor.

For long moments he stood there, unable to move. Then he had the strangest feeling—as though he were slowly rising up off the floor and, drifting backward, could look down and see himself still standing there. Up and up he floated, watching his body slowly walk over to the sword. Spiraling around, going ever upward, moving further and further away, he saw himself wrap the sword in rags. He saw himself lift it carefully in his arms. Cradling the sword to his bosom, he saw himself walk out of the forge.

The heavy oaken door shut upon the catalyst’s shuffling tread and the whisper of his robes. Silence flowed back into the forge like the shadows of night, seeming to quench even the glowing coals with its heaviness. It was shattered suddenly by a clattering bang. A pair of huge tongs slipped from the nail upon which they were hanging and landed in a water bucket with a splash.

“Sink me,” muttered the tongs. “Didn’t see that damn thing in the dark. And it
would
be full.”

The sound of a bucket overturning, followed by water running out onto the floor, was accompanied by a wide and varied assortment of oaths until Simkin stumbled out of the wreckage to stand in the middle of the forge, dressed in his usual, gaudy, if somewhat damp, finery.

“I say,” remarked the young man, wiping the water from his beard and glancing about him, “what an extraordinary business. I haven’t been so entertained since the old Earl of Mumsburg flew a rebellious serf over his castle. Tied a rope around his ankle and hung him out in a stiff breeze. ‘Chap tried to rise above his station,’ the old boy said to me as we watched the peasant flapping in the wind. ‘Now he knows what it’s like.’”

Shaking his head, Simkin walked casually over to stand near the dark splotch of still-wet blood that had soaked into the sand on the floor of the forge. He gestured, and a bit of orange silk materialized at his command. Drifting gently down to the floor, it covered the splotch. With a snap of his fingers, Simkin caused the silk and the blood spot to vanish.

“’Pon my honor,” he murmured with a languid smile, “we should have a jolly time in Merilon.”

Then Simkin, too, was gone, drifting away into the air like a wisp of smoke.

T
here was no dinner party at Bishop Vanya’s this night.

“His Holiness is indisposed,” was the message the Ariels carried to those who had been invited. This included the Emperor’s brother-in-law, whose number of invitations to dine at the Font were increasing proportionately with the declining health of his sister. Everyone had been most gracious and extremely concerned about the Bishop’s welfare. The Emperor had even offered his own personal
Theldara
to the Bishop, but this was respectfully refused.

Vanya dined alone, and so preoccupied was the Bishop that he might have been eating sausages along with his Field Catalysts instead of the delicacies of peacock’s tongue and lizard’s tail which he barely tasted and never noticed were underdone.

Having finished and sent away the tray, he sipped a brandy and composed himself to wait until the tiny moon in the timeglass upon his desk had risen to its zenith. The waiting
was difficult, but Vanya’s mind was so occupied that he found the time sliding past more rapidly than he had expected. The pudgy fingers crawled ceaselessly along the arms of the chair, touching this strand of mental web and that, seeing if any needed strengthening or repaired, throwing out new filaments where necessary.

The Empress—a fly that would soon be dead.

Her brother—heir to throne. A different type of fly, he demanded special consideration.

The Emperor—his sanity at the best of times precarious, the death of his beloved wife and the loss of his position might well topple a mind weak to begin with.