Forging the Darksword (18 page)

“Joram! My sweet! My own! Please, listen—”

“Joram,” broke in Mosiah. Moving closer, ignoring his father’s disapproving gaze, the young man had no idea what he might do, only that he could offer comfort.

But Joram did not see or even hear his friend. Staring at his mother in horror, the young man shrank back before her, shaking his head violently. His black hair sprang loose from its bonds. Dark curls fell down across his pale face, a mockery of the tears she had taught him not to cry.

“Dead!” repeated the overseer, having apparently just absorbed this information. His eyes glittered. “There’s a reward for the living Dead. Grant me Life, Catalyst,” he commanded.
“Then open a Corridor! I’ll keep him prisoner until the Enforcers arrive—”

It happened and was over in the beat of a heart, the blink of an eye, the drawing of a breath.

With the image of Joram’s pale face before her eyes, Anja turned away from him to face the overseer. Her son, her beautiful son, knew the truth now. He would hate her forever, she could see the hatred in his eyes. It cut through her like the cold, conjured blades of an enemy. And sounding amid this bitter pain, tormenting her like the notes of shrill, discordant music, came the word “Enforcer.”

Long ago, the Enforcers, the
Duuk-tsarith
, had come to take away her lover. It was a
Duuk-tsarith
who had turned him to stone. Now they were going to take away her child. As they had come once that other time ….

“No … Don’t take my baby!” Anja cried wildly. “You mustn’t. He’ll be warm, soon. I’ll warm him. Stillborn? No! You’re wrong! Here, I’ll hold him thus, next to my body. He’ll be warm soon. Breathe, baby. Breathe, little one. You’re lying, you bastards! My baby will breathe! My baby will live. The Vision was a lie …”

“Shut her up and call an Enforcer!” the overseer cried, turning away.

Father Tolban felt the conduit surge, energy was sucked from him with such force that he fell to his knees. With his last strength, he closed off the Life-giving force, but it was too late. Looking up, he watched helplessly as Anja’s nails curled into strong, slashing talons, her teeth lengthened into fangs. The tattered dress changed to silken fur, her body rippled with muscles. Moving swiftly and silently in her giant catlike form, she leaped at the overseer.

The catalyst shouted an incoherent warning. The overseer, whirling, caught a glimpse of the raging wizardess. Flinging his arm up to protect himself, he reflexively activated a magical defense shield.

There was a crackling sound, a terrible, agonized scream, and Anja sank down to lie in a burned, crumpled heap on the newly plowed ground. The spell she had cast over herself ended. Relaxing into human shape, she looked up at Joram, tried to speak, then, shaking her head, she lay quite still, unmoving, her eyes staring up into the blue spring sky.

Weak and horror-stricken, Father Tolban crawled over and knelt beside her.

“She’s dead!” murmured the catalyst in shock. “You’ve killed her.”

“I didn’t mean to,” protested the overseer, staring at the lifeless body of the woman on the ground at his feet. “I swear! It was an accident! She … You saw her!” The overseer turned to face Joram. “She was crazy!
You
know that, don’t you? She jumped at me! I—”

Joram didn’t answer. The confusion was gone from his mind. Fear no longer blinded him. He saw everything with a startling, vivid clarity.

In my mother’s body, the warmth of Life is gone. In me, it has never been.
Now that the truth was spoken within him, he could accept it. The pain became a part of him, no different from any other.

Looking around, Joram saw the tool he needed, and reaching down, he picked up the heavy stone. He even paused a moment to notice the texture and feel of the stone as it lay in his palm. Rough and jagged, the stone’s sharp edges bit into his skin. It was cold and lifeless, as Dead as he himself. He thought incongruously of the stone Anja had given him as a child, telling him “to make the air swallow it.”

Balancing the stone for an instant, getting the feel of the weight, Joram straightened and, with all his strength, hurled it at the overseer.

The stone struck the man on the side of his face, caving in his head with a soggy sound, like the squashing of an overripe melon.

Father Tolban, still kneeling beside Anja’s body, froze, as if turned to stone himself. The Field Magi slowly dropped to the ground, feeling the Life force ebb from them as shocked realization of what had occurred penetrated their minds.

Joram stood silently, unmoving, staring at the bodies on the ground.

Anja was a pitiable sight to her son. Thin and gaunt, clad in the rags of her former happiness, she died as she had lived, Joram thought bitterly. She died denying the truth. He spared a glance—and a glance only—for the overseer, who lay on his back, blood from the terrible wound forming a
pool in the freshly turned dirt. The man had not seen the attack coming, he had not even imagined it possible.

Looking at his hands, then looking at the stone lying next to the mans crushed head, Joram’s only thought was—how easy …. How very easy it had been to kill with that simple tool ….

He felt a touch on his arm. Whirling in fear, he grabbed Mosiah, who shrank back before the madness he saw in the dark, brown eyes.

“It’s me, Joram! I’m not going to hurt you!” Mosiah raised his hands.

At the sound of the voice, Joram loosened his grip slightly, dim recognition dawning in his eyes, driving away the darkness.

“You’ve got to get out of here!” Mosiah said urgently. His face was pale, his eyes so wide that they seemed almost all white with only a tiny dot of color. “Hurry! Before Father Tolban opens the Corridor and brings the
Duuk-tsarith!”

Joram stared at Mosiah blankly, then he looked back at the bodies on the ground.

“I don’t know where,” he muttered, “I can’t—”

“The Outland!”—Mosiah shook him—“The border, where you wanted to go before. There are people who live there. Outlaws, rebels, Sorcerers. You were right. I’ve talked to them. They’ll help, but you’ve got to hurry, Joram!”

“No! Don’t let him escape!” Father Tolban cried. Pointing at Joram, the catalyst opened conduits full-force to the magi, sending Life flowing into them. “Stop him!”

Mosiah turned. “Father?” he cried urgently.

“Mosiah’s right. Run, Joram,” said the magus. “Take yourself to the Outlands. If you survive, those who live there’ll watch over you.”

“Don’t worry about your mother, Joram,” came a woman’s voice. “We’ll tend to the ceremony. You better run, young man, before the
Duuk-tsarith
get here.”

Still Joram stood there, staring at the bodies.

“Take him partway, Mosiah,” said his father. “He’s addled. We’ll see that he gets the time to make a fair start.”

The Field Magi moved toward Father Tolban, who shrank backward, staring at them.

“You don’t dare!” the catalyst whimpered. “I’ll report you! An uprising …”

“No you won’t report us,” said Mosiah’s father calmly still advancing. “We tried to stop the boy, didn’t we?”

The other Field Magi nodded.

“Your life has been easy enough here, Father. You wouldn’t want that to change now, would you? Mosiah, get him going …”

But Joram had come to himself now, returning as if from a great distance. “Which way?” he asked Mosiah in a firm voice. “I don’t remember …”

“I’ll come with you!”

Joram shook his head. “No, you have a life here.” He caught himself, adding bitterly. “You have a
life.
Now, which way?” he repeated.

“Northeast,” Mosiah answered. “Cross the river. Once you’re in the woods, be wary.”

“How will I find those people?”

“You won’t. They’ll find you, hopefully before something nastier does.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Joram.”

Joram stared at the young man’s hand for a moment, the only time he could remember seeing a hand held out to him in either help or friendship. Looking into Mosiah’s face, he saw the pity in his eyes, pity and revulsion he could not hide.

Pity for a Dead man.

Turning, without a look behind, Joram ran across the plowed fields.

Mosiah’s hand dropped to his side. For long moments, he stared after Joram, then, with a sigh, he went back to stand beside his father.

“Very well, Catalyst,” said the magus, after Joram’s figure had disappeared into the nearby woods. “Open the corridor and send for the Enforcers. And, Father,” he added as the catalyst turned, cringing, to start back to his cabin, “remember the way of things, will you? The
Duuk-tsarith
will be here for only a few minutes. You’ll be here a long, long time ….”

His head bowed in understanding, Father Tolban cast the magi a last, fearful glance, then hurried off.

Kneeling down beside Anja, one of the women moved her hands over the burned body, creating a coffin of crystal
around the corpse while the other magi levitated the body of the overseer and sent it drifting toward the settlement.

“If the boy’s truly Dead, you’ve done him no kindness, sendin’ him out there,” remarked a woman, staring into the dark regions of the forest. “He’ll stand no chance at all against the likes of what roams the Outland.”

“At least he’ll have a chance to fight for his life,” Mosiah answered hotly. Catching his father’s eye, he choked and fell silent.

Into each mind came the unspoken question.

What life?

Escape

J
oram ran, though nothing chased him.

Nothing that he could see, that is. Nothing real. Nothing tangible. The Enforcers could not arrive this fast. The others would protect him, buy him time. He was in no danger.

Still, he ran.

It was only when spasms cramped his aching legs that he finally collapsed onto the ground and knew that he could never outrun the dark and tormented being who pursued him. He could never outrun himself.

How long Joram lay on the forest floor, he never afterward knew. He had no idea where he was. He had an indistinct impression of trees and tangled plant life. Somewhere, he thought he heard the low murmuring of water. The only thing real to him was the earth beneath his cheek, the pain in his legs, and the horror in his soul.

As he lay in the dirt, waiting for the pain to ease, the cold, rational part of his mind told him that he should get up and continue on. But beneath that cold and rational surface of
Joram’s mind lurked a being, a dark creature that he managed, most of the time, to keep fettered and guarded. But on occasion it slipped its leash and took him over, mastering him completely.

Night blanketed the young man lying exhausted and frightened in the wilderness, and the coming of night loosed the blackness within Joram. Free again, it leaped out of its corner, sank its teeth into him, and dragged his soul away, to gnaw and ravage.

Joram did not get up. A numb, paralyzed sensation stole over his body, such as one feels upon first awakening from a deep sleep. The sensation was pleasant. The pain left his legs and soon all feeling left his body. He could no longer taste the dirt of the ground in his mouth, where his cheek pressed against the muddy trail. He no longer had any conscious thought of lying on the ground, or of the chill of the evening air, or that he was hungry or thirsty. His body slept, but his mind remained dreamily awake.

Once again he was a little child, crouched at the feet of the stone magus that was his father, feeling that hot, bitter tear splash upon him. Then the tear changed to his hair, tumbling and curling around his face and down his back, his mother’s fingers ripping and tugging at it, tearing apart the tangles. And then his mother’s fingers were the claws of animals, ripping and tugging at the overseer, tearing apart his life.

Then the stone that was his father became a stone in Joram’s hand. Cold and biting, the stone shrank suddenly, becoming a toy, dancing in his fingers and appearing to disappear into the air. But all the while, the stone was safely palmed, concealed, hidden from view. Hidden, until today, when it grew so large in his hand that he could hide it no longer and he hurled it far away …

Only it kept coming back and, once again, he was a child ….

It was night. And it was day. Perhaps it was night again and day again.

Black spells, Anja called these times for Joram, when the darkness of his soul overwhelmed him. They had begun to afflict him when he was about twelve. He had no power over them. He could not fight them, but for days he would lie
upon his hard cot, staring at nothing, refusing to even acknowledge his mother’s frantic attempts to force him to eat or drink or walk in the real world.

What roused him from these black times, Anja could never tell. Joram would suddenly sit up, cast a bitter glance about the hovel and at her, as if blaming her for his return. Then, with a sigh, he would return to life, looking as if he had wrestled with demons.

But so deep had he sunk this time that it seemed nothing might rouse him. The cold and rational part of his mind appeared ready to give up the light when it suddenly gained an ally—danger.

Joram’s first conscious thought was irritation at being bothered. But his next was one of excruciating pain that exploded in his knee, tore through his body, and snatched his breath away. Gasping and moaning, he rolled over in agony.