Forging the Darksword (33 page)

Across the river, the catalyst could see the dark eyes of man-made caves glaring at him as if in reproach. Here, long ago, so Andon told him, the Technologists tore the stone containing iron out of the earth, using some sort of devilish substance that could literally blast rock to fragments. A skill now lost, Andon mentioned sadly. The Sorcerers now had to rely on iron ore left from that distant past.

And over and above every sound, the talking, the laughing, the crying, was the eternal, never-ending clanging that came from the forge, sounding through the village like a huge, dark bell.

Perversion of Life
, screamed the catalyst in Saryon.
They are destroying the magic!
But the logical part within him answered,
Survival.
And perhaps it was that same logical part that Saryon caught toying with wonderful new mathematical concepts using this art. He had already noticed that the brick dwelling in which he lived was warmer and snugger than the
dead, hollowed-out trees used by the Field Magi. Might not something be done …

Shocked to find himself thinking such things, Saryon forced his attention back to the old man.

“Yes, your adventures must have been quite terrifying. Captured by giants, fighting centaur, Simkin saving your life by transforming himself into a tree. I’d enjoy hearing your version someday, if it wouldn’t upset you to talk about it.” Andon smiled indulgently. “One hesitates believing Simkin.”

“Tell me something about Simkin,” Saryon said, glad to turn his mind to other matters. “Where did he come from? What do you know about him?”

“Know about Simkin? Nothing, really. Oh, there’s what he tells us, but that’s all nonsense, I suppose, like his tales about Duke So-and-So and the Countess of d’Something-or-Other.” Glancing at the catalyst, Andon added in a mild tone, “We don’t ask questions of those who come to make their home among us, Father. For example, one might wonder what a catalyst of the Font—as you so obviously are, if you forgive my saying so—was doing trying to cross the border into the Outland by himself.”

Flushing, Saryon stammered, “You see, I—”

The old man interrupted him. “No, I’m not asking. And you needn’t tell me. This has been our custom here—a custom that is as old as this settlement.” Sighing, Andon shook his head. His eyes were suddenly old and weary. “Perhaps it is not such a good custom,” he murmured, his gaze going to a large building that sat apart from the others on top of a small rise. Taller than the others, built out of the same rectangular, unnatural rock, the structure appeared newer than most in the settlement. “If we had asked questions, we might have avoided much sorrow and pain.”

“I don’t understand.” Saryon had noticed, during his recovery, a shadow lying over those who came to visit him—Andon, his wife, the Healer. They were nervous, talking in low voices sometimes, glancing about warily, as if fearful of being overheard. He had thought of asking, more than once, what the matter might be, recalling certain words of Simkin s. But he still felt a stranger among them and uncomfortable in his strange and dark surroundings.

“I told you I was the leader of my people here,” Andon said in such a low tone that Saryon had to bend down to hear him. The street they walked wasn’t crowded, but the old man seemed unwilling to risk the chance of even the few people hurrying along on their various errands overhearing his words. “That isn’t precisely true. I was once, years ago. But now another leads us.” He looked at Saryon out of the corner of his eye. “You will meet him soon. He’s been asking about you.”

“Blachloch,” said Saryon before he thought.

Stopping, the old man stared at him. “Yes, how did you—”

“Simkin told me … something of him.”

Andon nodded, his face darkening. “Simkin. Yes. Now there’s someone—Blachloch, I mean—who could tell you more about the young man, I believe. Simkin seems to spend a great deal of time with the warlock. Not that Blachloch would answer your questions, mind you. A true
Duuk-tsarith
, that one. I have often wondered what he did to cause them to cast him out of that dread Order.” The old man shivered.

“But”—Saryon looked around at the numerous dwellings and small shops that lined the streets of the village—“there are many of you here and only one of him. Why—”

“—didn’t we fight him?” The old man shook his head sadly. “Have you ever been apprehended by the Enforcers? Have you ever felt the touch of their hands upon you, draining you of Life like a spider drains it victim of blood? No need to reply, Father. If you have, you understand. And—as to us? Yes, we are many, but we are not one. That you may not understand now, but you will come to in time.” The old man changed the subject abruptly. “But if you’re still interested in Simkin, you might discuss him with the two young men who share his dwelling place.”

Seeing that Andon was obviously intent on leading the conversation away from the former Enforcer, Saryon let the matter drop and returned once more, and not reluctantly, to Simkin, saying that he would be interested to meet his friends.

“Joram and Mosiah are their names,” remarked Andon. “You might have heard of Mosiah from his father since you lived for a time in Walren—” Glancing at the catalyst, he stopped suddenly in concern. “Why, how pale you are, Father.
I was afraid this outing might be overdoing things a bit. Would you like to sit down? We’re near the park.”

“Yes, thank you,” Saryon said, though he wasn’t in the least tired. So Simkin had been telling the truth when he said he and Joram were friends. And those voices in his room he’d heard when he had been ill. Joram … Mosiah … Simkin ….

“They’re working now—Mosiah and Joram, that is. Simkin’s never turned a hand that anyone’s seen,” Andon said, helping Saryon to a seat on a bench in the cool shadow of a large spreading oak tree. “Are you feeling better, Father? I can send for the Healer …”

“No, thank you,” Saryon murmured. “You were right. I have heard of Mosiah. I’ve heard of Joram, too, of course,” he added in a low voice.

“An unusual young man,” said Andon. “I presume that since you are from Walren, you heard about the murder of the overseer?”

Saryon nodded, afraid to speak, afraid of saying too much.

The old man sighed. “We knew of it, too, of course. Word spread rapidly. Some among us viewed him as a hero. Some thought he would be a useful tool.” Andon glanced darkly at the large brick building on the hill. “That, in fact, was why he was brought here.”

“And you?” Saryon asked. He had come to have a profound respect for this gentle, wise man. “What do you think of Joram?”

“I fear him,” Andon admitted with a smile. “That may sound strange to you, Father, coming from a Sorcerer of the Dark Arts. Yes”—he patted Saryon’s hand—“I know much of what you have been thinking. I see the horror and revulsion on your face.”

“It—it is just hard for me to accept—” Saryon stammered, flushing.

“I understand. You are not alone. Many who come to us feel the same way. Mosiah, for example, still finds it difficult, I think, to live among us and accept our ways.”

“But, about Joram,” Saryon said hesitantly, wondering if his interest seemed too suspicious. “Were you right? Is he to be feared?” The catalyst felt chilled, and waited anxiously for
the response. But when it came, it wasn’t what he had expected.

“I don’t know,” Andon said softly. “He has lived among us a year, and I feel I know less about him than I do you, whom I have known only a few days. Fear him? Yes, I fear him, but not for the reason you might think. And I’m not the only one.” Andon’s gaze went, once again, to the brick building on the hill.

“An Enforcer? Afraid of a seventeen-year-old boy?” Saryon looked skeptical.

“Oh, he wouldn’t admit it, maybe not even to himself. But he does or, if not, he should.”

“Why?” asked Saryon. “Is the young man so formidable? Has he such a violent nature?”

“No, none of that. There were extenuating circumstances to the murder, you know. Joram had just seen his mother killed. He doesn’t have a wild or violent nature. If anything, he is
too
controlled. Cold and hard as stone. And alone … so very alone.”

“Then—”

“I think …” Andon frowned, trying to give word to his thoughts. “It is because—Have you ever walked into a crowd of people, Father, and noticed one person almost immediately? Not for anything he might do or say, but just for his presence alone? Joram is such a one. Perhaps because he took a life, he has been marked by the Almin. There is an intensity about him, a sense of destiny. A sense of dark destiny.” The old man shrugged, his face grave. “I can’t explain it, but you can judge for yourself. You will soon meet this young man, if you want. That’s where we’re headed. Joram, you see, works in the iron forge.”

The Forge

A
ccording to the catechism, To deal in the Dark Art of the Ninth Mystery is to deal in Death.”

According to the catechism, “The Souls of those who deal in Death shall be cast in the fiery pit and shall dwell there forever in agony eternal and unending.”

Thus do they act out their own doom, Saryon thought as he stared into the fire-lit, red-tinged darkness of the forge.

Andon had entered the cavern ahead of him, saying something to the men who worked there, gesturing behind him at the catalyst. Now, aware that Saryon had not followed him, the old man turned around. Saryon saw his lips moving, though the noise of the forge was such that he could hear nothing. Andon gestured. “Step in. Step in.”

Yellow and orange, the heat of the fire beat upon the old man’s face, the red heart of the forge burned in his eyes, the wheel he wore at his breast blazed with a flaming light. Consumed with horror, seeing the Sorcerer of his fevered dreams spring up before him, Saryon drew back from the gaping
entryway. Andon might truly have been the Fallen One, rising up to drag the catalyst to the flames.

At the sight of Saryon’s fear, an expression of puzzled hurt creased Andon’s face. But it was followed almost immediately by understanding.

“I am sorry, Father.” Saryon saw Andon’s lips form the words. “I should have realized how this would affect you.” The old man came toward him. “Let us return home.”

But Saryon could not move. Transfixed, he stared at the scene. The iron forge was located in a cave in the side of a mountain. A natural chimney carried away the noxious fumes and heat from vast quantities of glowing red charcoal banked in the center of a vast, round stone ledge. Crouched over it like a wheezing monster, a large baglike contraption breathed air on the coals, giving them fiery life.

“What … what are they doing?” Saryon asked, wanting to leave, yet drawn to it by a terrible fascination.

“They are heating the iron ore until it becomes a molten mass,” Andon shouted over the banging and hissing and wheezing, “that contains refuse of the ore and the charcoal as well.”

As Saryon watched, one of the young men working in the forge walked over to the ledge and, using what appeared to be a hideous extension of his arm made out of metal, lifted a lump of the red-hot iron from its bed among the coals. Setting it down on another ledge—this not of stone but of iron itself—he took a tool and began pounding the hot iron.

“There he is—that is Joram,” said Andon.

“What is he doing?” Saryon felt his lips shape the words, he couldn’t hear himself speak.

“He is hammering the iron into the form he wants,” Andon continued. “He does it this way or else he could pour the hot iron into a mold and let it cool first, then work it.”

Destroying the Life within the stone. Shaping the iron with a tool. Perverting its god-given qualities. Killing the magic. Dealing in death. The thoughts pounded in Saryon’s head with each strike of the hammer.

He started to turn away, but at that moment, the young man working in the black shadows of the forge lifted his head and looked out at him.

It is written that the Almin knows the hearts of men but does not rule them. Thus man is free to choose his own destiny, but thus also can the Almin foresee how each man will act to fulfill that destiny. By making themselves one with the mind of the Almin, the Diviners were able to predict the future. It is also said that two souls destined to touch each other for good or for evil will know this in the instant of their meeting.

At that moment, two souls met. Two souls knew.

As the hammer’s ringing blows cracked the black slag covering the smoldering red iron, Joram’s dark-eyed stare sent a shivering blow through Saryon. Shaken to the very core of his being, the catalyst turned away from the forge and its fire-lit shadows.

Andon was hovering near him. “Father, you’re not well. I’m sorry. I should have realized how shocking …”

But the old man’s voice was lost in the pounding of the hammer blows and in the steady, intense gaze of those brown eyes. For Saryon knew those eyes, he knew that face.

Stumbling through the streets of the settlement, having the dim impression that Andon was with him but unable to see or hear the old man, Saryon saw only the clear cold eyes that not even the reflected fire of molten iron could heat. He saw the heavy black brows tracing a line of bitterness across the sweat-covered forehead. He saw the grim, unsmiling mouth, the high planed cheekbones, the shining black hair tinged a burning red.