Forging the Darksword (36 page)

Glancing out the window, into the darkening evening, Simkin saw the catalyst stagger and nearly fall, then lean wearily against a tree.

“I really should go help the poor chap,” Simkin said. “You were rather brutal with him, after all.”

“He’s lying.”

“Egad, my dear Blachloch, according to you
Duuk-tsarith
, there isn’t a person alive on this planet from the age of six weeks on up who ever breathes a word of truth.”

“You know the real reason why he is here.”

“I told you already, O Merciless Master. Bishop Vanya sent him.”

The warlock stared at the young man.

Simkin blanched. “It’s the truth. He’s after Joram,” he muttered.

Blachloch raised an eyebrow. “Joram?” he repeated.

Simkin shrugged. “The young man they brought from the settlement half-dead. The dark one with the hair …. Chap who killed the overseer. He works in the forge—”

“I know him,” Blachloch said with a shade of irritation. He continued to stare intently at the young man, who was gazing out the window at Saryon. “Look at
me
, Simkin,” the warlock said softly.

“Very well, if you insist, although I find you extremely uninteresting,” Simkin replied, attempting to stifle a yawn. Lounging back in his chair, one silk-clad leg thrown over the armrest, he gazed at Blachloch obligingly. “I say, do you use a lemon rinse on your hair? If so, it’s starting to go a bit dark at the roots—” Suddenly, Simkin stiffened, his playful voice grew harsh. “Stop it, Blachloch. I know what … you’re trying to do ….” His words trailed off drowsily. “I’ve been … shrough thish be … bevore …”

Shaking his head, Simkin tried to break free, but the flat blue eyes of the Enforcer held him fast in their unblinking, unwavering stare. Slowly, the eyelids of the young man fluttered, blinked, opened wide, then fluttered, blinked, fluttered, and closed.

Murmuring words of magic, ancient words of power and spellbinding, Blachloch rose slowly and silently to his feet and walked around the desk to stand near Simkin. Chanting
the words over and over again in a soothing refrain, he rested his hands upon Simkin’s smooth, shining hair. The warlock closed his eyes and, throwing his head back, exerted all his powers of concentration upon the young man. “Let me see into your mind. The truth, Simkin, tell me everything you know …”

Simkin began to whisper something.

Smiling, Blachloch stooped low to hear.

“I call it …
Grape Rose ….
Mind the thorns …. I don’t believe … they’re poisonous ….”

The Experiment

N
ight flowed into the village like the dark waters of the river, submerging fears and sorrows in its gentle current. Around the brick houses it crept, its shadows growing deeper and deeper, for it was a cloudy, moonless night. Gradually almost every light in the village was engulfed by the rising darkness, nearly everyone let sleep wash over him, sinking down into the murky depths of dreams.

But when night was at its flood, when the silent waters of sleep were at their deepest, light from the forge continued to glow red, burning away sleep and dreams for one person at least.

The firelight glistened in black curling hair, flickered in brown eyes, and beat upon a face now neither sullen nor angry but intent and eager. Within the fires of the forge, Joram heated iron ore in a crucible, iron that he had ground as finely as he could. The mold for a dagger sat to one side of the young man, but he did not pour the molten iron into it. Instead, he lifted another crucible from the fire, this containing
a molten liquid similar in appearance to the iron except for its strange white-purple color.

Joram regarded the second crucible thoughtfully, a look of frustration causing the thick, black brows to contract.

“If I only I knew what they meant,” he muttered. “If only I understood!” Closing his eyes, he called to mind the pages of ancient writing. He could see the letters, could see every shape and twist and idiosyncrasy of the hand that had formed them, in fact, so often had he mulled over and studied the page. But it did not help. Again and again before his eyes rose those strange symbols that might have been another language to him for all the meaning they conveyed.

Finally, with a bitter shrug and a shake of his head, Joram tilted the contents of the second crucible into the first, watching as the hot liquid streamed into the burning pool of iron. He continued pouring until he had nearly doubled the measure of iron, then stopped. Looking at the mixture, he shrugged again and added a bit more for no particular reason except that it felt right. Putting the second crucible aside carefully, Joram stirred the molten mixture, examining it with a critical eye. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Was this good or bad? He didn’t know and, with another frustrated shrug, poured the alloy into the dagger mold.

It would cool quickly, the text had noted, minutes compared to the hours it took to cool iron. Still, it did not seem quick enough to Joram. His fingers itched to strike off the mold and see the object he had created. To take his mind off it, he lifted the second crucible and returned it to its hiding place among a pile of cast-off, broken tools and other refuse of the smithy’s. This done, he walked to the front of the cavern and peered through the cracks of the crude wooden door. The village was silent, drowned in sleep. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Joram returned to the forge. It must be ready now. His hands shaking in anticipation, he struck aside the wooden forms that held the mold, then broke the mold itself.

The object within had only the very crudest resemblance to the weapon it would become. Lifting it out with the tongs, he plunged it into the fires of the forge, heating it until it glowed red hot, as the text had instructed. Carrying the dagger to the anvil, he lifted his hammer and, with practiced blows, pounded it into shape. He hurried, being not too particular
as to the weapon’s construction since this was only a test. What happened next was critical, and he was anxious to proceed. At last, deeming the dagger good enough for his purposes, he lifted it by the tongs again and, drawing a deep breath, plunged the hot weapon into a bucket of water.

Steam billowed up in a cloud, momentarily blinding him. But with the hiss of the red-hot iron in the water came another sound, a sharp crack. Joram’s heavy brows drew together in a scowl. Impatiently waving his hand to clear the air, he jerked the weapon from the water—and brought up only a shattered fragment. Hurling it onto the refuse pile with a bitter curse, he was about to dump out the worthless alloy he had produced when a prickling feeling at the base of his neck made him turn around quickly.

“You work late, Joram,” said Blachloch. The warlocks face was visible as he stepped into the light of the forge, along with the hands that he held clasped in front of him in the manner of the Enforcers. Other than those, he was a patch of night within the red-lit forge, the black of his robes absorbing the light and even the warmth of the fire.

“It was my punishment,” said Joram coolly, having had this matter arranged beforehand. “I was negligent in my work today and the master ordered I stay until the dagger was finished.”

“It appears that you will be here most of the night,” the warlock stated, his cold-eyed gaze going to the refuse pile.

Joram shrugged, his face flowing into its embittered, angry lines much as the molten iron had flowed into the mold. “I will if I am not permitted to get on with my work,” he said sullenly, walking around to pump the bellows. Deliberately turning his back upon the warlock, he almost, but not quite, shouldered the black-robed man aside.

A tiny line creased Blachloch’s smooth forehead, his lips pressed together, but there was no sign of annoyance or irritation in his voice. “I understand that you claim to be of noble birth.”

Grunting from the exertion of his labors, Joram did not bother to reply. Not appearing surprised or disconcerted by this, Blachloch moved to where he could see the young man’s face.

Joram paused in his work for an instant, but continued almost immediately, the muscles in his back and arms rippling and knotting with the exertion as he operated the device that sent a blast of air onto the coals of the forge.

“I hear you have been reading the books.”

Joram might have been deaf. His arms moved in unceasing, rhythmic motion, his dark hair fell forward, curling about his face.

“A little knowledge to one who is otherwise ignorant is like a dagger in the hands of a child, Joram. It can hurt him very badly,” Blachloch continued. “I would have thought you had learned your lesson when you committed murder.”

Glancing at Blachloch through the tangle of his black hair, Joram smiled a smile only visible in the dark, fire-lit eyes. “I would have thought there was a lesson there you could learn,” he said.

“You see? You are threatening me.” From his calm, even tone, Blachloch might have been speaking of the weather. “The child brandishes the dagger. You will cut yourself upon its sharp edges, Joram,” the warlock murmured. “You really will. Either yourself”—Blachloch lifted his shoulders—“or someone else. Can your friend … What’s his name … Mosiah? Can he read?”

Joram’s face darkened, the steady pumping of the bellows slowed slightly. “No,” he answered. “Leave him out of this.”

“I thought not,” Blachloch said blandly. “You and I are the only ones in the village who can read, Joram. And I think that is one too many of us, but there is nothing I can do about it—short of melting your eyes in your head.”

For the first time, the warlock moved his hands, unclasping them and bringing one up to stroke the thin blond mustache that ran across his upper lip. Joram had ceased to work. Keeping his hands on the handles of the bellows, he stared fixedly into the fire.

Blachloch drew nearer. “It would grieve me to destroy the books.”

Joram stirred. “The old man will never tell you where they are.”

“He would,” Blachloch said with a smile, “in time. In time, he would be searching for things to tell me. I have not
pressed him before on the matter because it simply wasn’t worth upsetting these people by resorting to violence. It would be a pity if I were forced to change my policy, particularly now that I have the magic.”

Joram’s face flushed, burning in the light of the glowing coals. “You won’t have to,” he muttered.

“Good.” Blachloch clasped his hands together once again. “We
Duuk-tsarith
know something of these books, you know. There are things written in them that the world is better off for having lost.” The warlock stared intently at Joram, who remained standing where he was, looking into the fire.

“You remind me of myself, young man,” Blachloch said. “And that makes me nervous. I, too, hated authority. I, too, believed myself above it”—the faintest tinge of sarcasm colored his otherwise gray voice—“though I am
not
of noble blood. To rid myself of those I believed were oppressing me, I, like you, committed murder without guilt, without remorse. You liked that taste of power, didn’t you? And now you crave more. Yes, I see it, I feel it burn in you. I’ve watched you learn, this past year, to manipulate people, to use them and get them to do what you want. You got the old man to show you the books that way, didn’t you?”

Joram did not answer or raise his gaze from the flame. But his left fist clenched.

Blachloch smiled, a smile that was dark in the firelight. “I see great things before you, Joram. In time you will learn how to handle this lust that consumes you. But you are a child still, as young as I was when I committed my first impetuous act—the act that drove me here. There is one difference, though, between you and me, Joram. The man I sought to displace was not aware of me or of my ambition. He turned his back upon me.” Unclasping his hands, the warlock laid one upon the young man’s arm. Even in the warmth of the forge, Joram shivered at the chill touch. “I
am
aware, Joram, and I will not turn my back upon you.”

“Why don’t you just kill me,” Joram muttered with a sneer, “and have done with it.”

“Why not indeed,” Blachloch repeated. “You are of little use to me now, though you may be when you are older. Whether you
grow
older will depend upon you and those who take an interest in you.”

“What do you mean, ‘those who take an interest in me’?” Joram glanced at him.

“The catalyst.”

Joram shrugged.

“He is here for you. Why?”

“Because I am a murderer—”

“No,” Blachloch said softly. “Enforcers hunt murderers, not catalysts. Why? What is he here for?”

“I have no idea,” Joram replied impatiently. “Ask him … or ask Simkin.”

Blachloch’s eyes stared searchingly into Joram’s. The warlock began speaking words of magic. He saw the brown eyes glaze, the lids droop. Moving his hand up to touch Joram’s face, the warlock raised an eyebrow. “You are telling the truth. You
don’t
know, do you, young man. What’s more, you don’t believe Simkin. I’m not certain I do either, and yet—How can I risk it? What is Simkin’s game?”

Irritably, the warlock dropped his hand.

Feeling as though he had awakened from a disturbed and fitful sleep, Joram blinked and glanced quickly around the forge. He was alone.