Forging the Darksword (28 page)

“This … this isn’t … the Coven?” Saryon asked nervously, feeling his feet sink into the boggy ground.

“No, of course not!” Simkin whispered. “It would never do now to appear suddenly in the middle of the Coven, stepping out of a Corridor, would it? I mean, people would ask questions. And believe me,” he said, an unusually grim note hardening his voice, “you don’t want Blachloch asking you questions.”

“Blachloch?” Saryon lifted his foot from the muck, and immediately a puff of foul-smelling gas burbled to the surface where his foot had been. Gagging, the catalyst covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his robe, watching in horrible fascination as oozing ground rushed in to cover his tracks.

“Blachloch? Head of the Coven,” said Simkin with a tight, strained smile.
“Duuk-tsarith.”

“An Enforcer?”

“Former
Enforcer,” Simkin said succinctly. “He decided his talents—and they are considerable—could be used more profitably for himself than his Emperor. So he left.”

Shivering in the dank, chill air of the dark, tangled forest, Saryon gathered his robes closer around him and stood looking about despairingly, wondering if there were snakes.

“You’ll learn more about him … much more … all too soon,” Simkin said darkly. “Just remember, my friend”—he gripped the catalyst’s arm—“Blachloch is a dangerous man. Very dangerous. Now, come this way. I’ll lead. Keep behind me and step exactly where I step.”

“We have to walk through this?” Saryon asked bleakly.

“Not far. We’re near the village, this is part of the outer defenses. Mind where you step.”

Looking at the black water gurgling up in the imprint left behind by Simkin’s foot in the muck, Saryon was careful to obey the young man’s instructions. Creeping along behind him, the blood pulsing in his throat and his heart beating painfully, the once sheltered and secluded catalyst stared
around at his surroundings in a vague kind of dreamlike horror. Something stirred in his mind, memories of childhood stories told to him by the House Magus when she put him to bed at night. Stories of the creatures of enchantment that had been brought from the Dark Land of the ancients—dragons, unicorns, sea serpents. It was in places like this that they lived. They had terrified him then, lying safe in a warm bed. How much more terrifying were they now, perhaps watching at this very moment!

Saryon had never supposed himself an imaginative man, locked as he was into his cold, logical, and comfortable cell of mathematics. But now he realized that his imagination must have been hiding beneath the bed, because now it leaped out, ready to astound and frighten him.

“This is ridiculous, “he told himself firmly, trying to remain calm, even as he was positive he saw the shining scaled tail of a dreadful monster slither away in the murky water of the swamp. Trembling from fear and damp and cold, he kept his eyes on Simkin, who was walking swiftly ahead of him, seemingly confident of every step. “Look at him. He’s my guide. He knows where he’s going. I have only to follow—”

The catalyst slowed, looking about him more intently, his senses now completely alert. Of course! How had he missed it at first?

“Simkin!” Saryon hissed.

“What is it, O Bald and Quivering One?” The young man turned around carefully, looking annoyed at being stopped.

“Simkin, this forest is under an enchantment!” Saryon gestured. “I can tell! I can sense the magic. It’s unlike anything I’m used to!” So it was. The magic was so pervasive, Saryon almost felt smothered by it.

Simkin appeared uncomfortable. “I … I suppose you’re right,” he muttered, glancing about at the mist drifting up from the water and twining round about the twisting trees. “I … believe I did hear at one time that this forest was … er … enchanted, as you say.”

“Who laid it? The Coven?”

“N-no,” Simkin admitted. “They don’t go in for that sort of thing, generally. Plus we haven’t had a catalyst around,
like yourself, you know, so it would have been rather difficult—”

“Then who?” Saryon carne to a halt, staring at Simkin suspiciously.

“I say, old chap, I suggest you keep moving.”

“Who?” Saryon repeated angrily.

Smiling and shrugging, Simkin pointed at the catalyst’s feet.

Looking down, Saryon was alarmed to note that he was slowly sinking into the bog.

“Give me your hand!” said Simkin, tugging at the catalyst. It took considerable effort to drag Saryon’s feet free of the muck and, when they did, the ground let loose with a sucking pop as though angry at having to release its prey.

Thoroughly frightened, there was nothing for the catalyst to do but keep stumbling after Simkin, though Saryon was so oppressed with the stifling sensation of the heavy enchantment that he could scarcely breathe. It seemed it was sucking the Life out of him unbidden, draining his strength.

“I must rest,” Saryon gasped, staggering through the black water, his wet robes burdening him like a heavy weight.

“No, not now!” Simkin said insistently. Turning, he caught hold of Saryon’s arm and pulled him on. “There’s firmer ground, just a little farther …”

Clasped firmly in the young man’s grip, Saryon trudged wearily on, noticing as he went that Simkin was having no trouble walking, but was moving lightly over the surface, his boots barely leaving any impression at all.

“After all, he is a magus,” Saryon told himself bitterly, floundering after him. “Probably a wizard ….”

“Here we are,” said Simkin brightly, coming to a halt. “Now you can rest a bit, if you must.”

“I must,” Saryon said, thankful to feel solid ground beneath his feet. Following Simkin up onto a small round knoll that rose out of the bog, Saryon wiped the chill perspiration from his face with his sleeve and, shivering, glanced about their surroundings. “How far—” he began when suddenly, his breath catching in his throat, he made a strangled sound. “Run!” he cried.

“What?” Simkin whirled around, crouching, prepared for any enemy.

“Get … out!” Saryon managed to gasp, trying to move his feet but feeling the enchantment drawing him slowly and inexorably down.

“Get out of what?” Simkin’s voice seemed to come from far away. The mist was rising and swirling around them.

“Ring … mushrooms!” Saryon shouted, falling to his hands and knees as the ground shivered and quaked beneath his feet. “Simkin … look …”

With a last, desperate lunge, the catalyst tried to escape from the magical ring by flinging his body outside it. But as he lurched forward, the ground gave way and he fell. His fingers scrabbled for an instant among the mushrooms as he sought frantically to hold on, but the enchantment was irresistible, drawing him down, down …

The last thing he heard was Simkin’s voice, sounding ghostly through the whirling mist.

“I say, old boy, I believe you’re right. Frightfully sorry.

“Simkin?” whispered Saryon into the impenetrable darkness.

“Here, old boy,” came a cheerful response.

“Do you know where we are?”

“I’m afraid so. Try to be calm, will you? Everything’s under control.”

Calm. Saryon closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking to slow the beating of the heart that was lurching unsteadily in his chest. His mouth was dry, it hurt to breathe. He was standing on firm ground, however, which was some comfort, even though when he put his hands out and groped about in the darkness he could feel nothing around him. He could
sense
nothing around him either—nothing living, that is. For, oddly enough, his entire being pulsed and throbbed with magic—the source of the enchantment … as Simkin must have known.

When he thought he could speak in a relatively normal sounding voice, with only the hint of a quiver, he began, “I demand to know—”

At that moment, Saryon’s vision literally exploded with light and sound. Torches flared, stars seemed to shout from the sky and go flitting about him. Specks of green fire zoomed before his eyes and danced in his head. Brilliant bursts of white phosphorus blinded him as trumpet blasts deafened him. Reeling backward, he covered his eyes with his hands and heard laughter tingle and sparkle around him, while other, deeper laughter, boomed and shouted.

Blinking and rubbing his eyes, trying to see in the dazzling, smoky atmosphere that was somehow light and dark at the same time, Saryon heard a deep, low voice flowing out of the laughter like a cool river running through a vast, echoing cave.

“Simkin, my sweet, pretty boy, you have returned. And have you have brought me my desire?”

“Well, er, not exactly. That is … perhaps. Your Majesty is so difficult to please ….”

“I am not difficult to please. I would have settled for you.”

“Ah, come, come, now, Your Majesty. We’ve been over that, you know,” Simkin answered with a catch in his breath, or so it seemed to Saryon, who was still trying to see through the bursting blaze of light. “You know I would be … be honored, but if I left the Coven, Blachloch would come searching for me and he’d find me. And then he’d find you. He’s a powerful warlock—”

Saryon heard a throaty growl of impatience.

“Yes,” said Simkin hastily, “I know you could handle him and his men, but it would be so ugly. They have iron, you know—”

At this, the darkness was filled with hissing and yammering, dreadful to hear, while the lights blinked and flared, causing Saryon to shield his eyes with his hand.

“Someday,” said the deep, low voice, “we will deal with this matter. But now there are more urgent needs.”

Saryon heard a rustling sound, as if someone had moved, and instantly silence fell. The dazzling, brilliant lights winked out, the horrible noise stopped, and the catalyst was, once more, left standing in the darkness. But this darkness was alive, he could hear it breathing all around him—light,
quick, shallow breaths; deep, even, rumbling breaths; and, above them all, a soft, whispering, throaty breathing.

He had no idea what to do. He dared not speak or call Simkin’s name. The breathing continued all around him—coming closer, it seemed—and the tension built inside him until he knew that any moment he would fling himself into the darkness and begin to run aimlessly, probably dashing himself to pieces among rocks—

Light flared again, only this time it was a pleasant, yellow light that did not blind him or hurt his eyes. He could see by it, he discovered, once his eyes became accustomed to it. And, looking around, he saw Simkin.

The catalyst blinked in astonishment. It was the same young man who had found him in the wilderness, the same brown hair curled upon his shoulders, the same brown mustache adorned his upper lip. But the brown robes were gone, so were the leather boots. Simkin was now dressed in nothing but shining green leaves that twined about his body like ivy. He was facing Saryon and regarding the catalyst with a pleading look on his expressive face—a look that changed the next instant when a figure emerged from where it had been standing in the darkness behind Simkin.

The figure stepped into the pool of shimmering light, and Saryon forgot about young men, forgot about Bishops, forgot about enchanted traps. He very nearly forgot about breathing and it was only when he felt light-headed and faint did he remember to draw a deep, quivering breath.

“Father Saryon, may I present Her Majesty, Elspeth, Queen of the Faeries.”

It was Simkin’s voice, but Saryon could not look at him. He could look at only one thing.

The woman drifted closer.

Saryon felt his throat close and an aching sensation spread through his chest.

Golden hair cascaded in undulating waves to the floor, casting a halo of light about the woman as she walked. Silver eyes shone brighter and colder than the stars Saryon had looked upon in the night. She did not walk, that he could see, but she came closer and closer to him, filling his vision. Her naked body—and Saryon had never in his life imagined anything
so soft and white and smooth—was wreathed in flowers. And these blossoms, which might have been used to modestly conceal her nakedness, had precisely the opposite effect. Hands of roses and lilacs cupped her white breasts, seeming to offer those breasts to the spellbound catalyst. Fingers of morning glories traced across her sleek stomach and caressed her shapely legs as if saying to Saryon, “Don’t you envy us? Cast us aside! Take our place!”

Nearer and nearer, her fragrance intoxicating him, she drifted toward him until she came to rest before him, her slim feet barely touching the ground. Saryon could do nothing, say nothing. He could only stare into her silver eyes and smell the lilacs and tremble at her nearness.

Tilting her beautiful head to one side, Elspeth studied him intently, earnestly, her sweetly curving lips puckering with the seriousness of her regard. Raising her hands, she laid them on Saryon’s shoulders. The movement of her arms lifted her breasts from their rose and lilac garden …. Saryon shut his eyes, swallowing painfully, holding himself rigid and stiff as her fingers traced along his shoulders, down over his chest, and around his back.

“How old is he?” the low, throaty voice asked suddenly.

Saryon opened his eyes.

“Forty or so,” answered Simkin cheerfully.

Elspeth frowned, almost a pout, her lips curving downward. Saryon swallowed again as her hands came to rest lightly on his shoulders. “That is not too old for humans?”

“Oh, no!” Simkin said hastily. “Not old at all. Many consider it to be the ideal age, prime of life.”

Saryon, finally able to withdraw his gaze from the lovely woman before him, started to ask Simkin what was going on—if he could find his voice, that is. But the young man scowled so fiercely and nodded so emphatically at the Queen that the catalyst kept quiet.

Elspeth’s frown deepened. “He is thin. He is not strong.”

“He is a scholar, a wise man,” answered Simkin quickly. “He has spent his life in study.”

“Indeed?” Elspeth said with interest. Saryon found himself in the silver-eyed gaze once more. “A wise man. We like that. There is much we would learn.”

Pausing a moment longer, her head tilted to one side, keeping Saryon in her enchanting gaze, Elspeth at last nodded slowly to herself. “Very well,” she murmured.