Triumph of the Darksword (10 page)

An Ariel, one of the winged messengers of Thimhallan, appeared outside Xavier’s wall, the mutated man’s gigantic wings beating slowly in the morning breeze, allowing him to rest on the air currents that swirled gently about the Palace.

Dissolving the wall with a wave of his hand, Xavier motioned the Ariel to fly inside.

“The Taking of the Corridors has just been completed, my lord,” the Ariel informed his Emperor.

“Thank you. Return to your post.” Dismissing the messenger, Xavier absently replaced the wall, then gave the prearranged signal. Red smoke filled the sky. His War Masters ceased talking among themselves and crowded near the walls, watching expectantly.

The DKarn-Duuk himself was prepared to witness the event from the best possible vantage point, having had his study magically transported to the topmost turret of the crystal-spired Palace. Looking down, he could see the people of Merilon jostling to gain the best views of the proceedings. The wealthy rode in their splendid winged carriages or drifted lightly among the clouds of City Above. The middle-classes flowed into City Below, gathering around the Gates, crowding into the Grove, massing around the perimeter of the protective magical dome.

There was a festive air about the crowd. Not even the oldest among them could remember the last time a Challenge had been issued. It was an historic occasion and excitement was widespread. Lavish parties were being given by the nobility this night following the Challenge. Military garb of every day and age was the style; the city looked somewhat like an encampment of Julius Caesar’s that had been overrun by the combined forces of Attila the Hun and King Richard the Lion-Hearted. But amid all this heady excitement, there ran a single thread of disappointment. One tiny cloud cast a shadow over an otherwise perfect day.

There was to be no party held at the Crystal Palace.

People wondered at this. Emperor Xavier was known to be a serious-minded man (some even used the term
dour
to describe him—but only in whispers). Everybody believed it perfectly right and proper that he treat this war seriously. But a party in honor of the momentous event had been expected and, when it was not forthcoming, when word went out that the Emperor specifically demanded not to be disturbed, people exchanged dark looks and shook their heads. Such a thing would not have happened under the old Emperor, they said wistfully (again only in whispers). And more than a few began to speculate that perhaps this war wasn’t going to be the easy victory. The DKarn-Duuk had been predicting.

Xavier knew the people were disturbed by his refusal to celebrate tonight. His Minister of Morale had spent the last two days informing him of nothing else. The DKarn-Duuk didn’t care. Moody and restless, he flitted back and forth in front of the vast expanse of crystal wall, his hands twisting together behind his back. Xavier indulged himself in this unusual outward display of agitation only because he was alone in his study. Though the walls were transparent in order that he could see out, he had cast a Mirror Image spell upon them, thus keeping others from seeing inside. A highly trained and disciplined warlock, Xavier appeared to the rest of the world to be enigmatic and imperturbable. Indeed, he was, most of the time. But not on this particular occasion. Not with what he had on his mind.

And it wasn’t the Challenge.

The entrance of someone into the Emperor’s study brought Xavier’s pacing to a halt The person had traveled the Corridor that opened silently to admit him; the rustle of heavy robes and the grunt of labored breathing were the first indications of the man’s arrival. Xavier knew who it was—only one man in this world had access to him through the Corridors—and so he merely glanced over his shoulder to see the expression on the face, more interested in that than the face itself.

At the sight of that expression, Xavier scowled. Biting his lip, he turned back to staring intently out at the panorama of city spread beneath him. There was nothing to see yet. The Challenge hadn’t begun, and he wasn’t truly watching anyway; his thoughts and his vision ranged far afield. Pretending to be preoccupied with the forthcoming event provided him with the opportunity to conceal his face from his visitor.

“I take it the news is bad, Eminence?” Xavier said in a cold, even voice. He had ceased his airborne pacing and stood perfectly still now, his hands held quietly before him—the Almin alone knew by what effort of will.

“Yes,” puffed Bishop Vanya.

Although the stroke had left the Bishop paralyzed in his left arm and had immobilized the left side of his face, Vanya had been able—with the help of the
Theldara—
to overcome these handicaps and lead a fairly normal life. Certainly his
power in the realm had not diminished. If anything, it had grown under Xavier’s new regime.

The elderly Bishop tired easily these days, however. Even the few steps that he had taken from the desk in his office in the Font to the Corridor and out of the Corridor into the study of the Crystal Palace of Merilon had exhausted him. Collapsing into a chair, Vanya gasped and wheezed for breath while Xavier stood waiting, outwardly calm, inwardly seething with suppressed impatience—and fear.

When he had recovered somewhat, Bishop Vanya shot a sharp glance at the warlock from beneath half-closed eyelids. Seeing that The DKarn-Duuk was staring intently out the wall and, apparently, not looking at the Bishop, Vanya hurriedly lifted his paralyzed left hand with his right, and placed it upon the arm of the chair, carefully arranging the limp fingers so that he might hide all signs of paralysis. Everyone knew the Bishop did this, of course, and everyone deliberately kept their eyes politely averted until Vanya had managed to arrange himself. These were a people accustomed to dissembling. After all, they had pretended the corpse of their Empress was alive for a year.

Hearing the Bishop finally settled in his chair, Xavier half-turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, Eminence?” he demanded abruptly. “What kept you? I expected you last night.”

“The
Duuk-tsarith
did not return until early this morning,” Vanya said, leaning back cautiously in the chair, careful not to disturb the placement of his arm. He spoke clearly and distinctly, with only a slight slurring due to the paralysis of the left side of his face, a disfigurement barely noticeable (through the help of magic) by a downward slant to the corner of his lips and an almost imperceptible droop of the left eyelid. The Bishop would have considered this intolerable, had not the
Theldara
who treated him assured Vanya that he should thank the Almin he was alive, and not complain about such mundane matters.

“I know from your expression the news isn’t good,” Xavier said, turning back to glare down upon the city. “The Darksword is gone.”

“Yes, Highness,” Vanya replied, the fingers of his good hand crawling spiderlike over the arm of the chair.

“What took them so long to discover that?” Xavier demanded bitterly.

“The storm on the Border is worsening,” Vanya said, moistening his lips. “By the time the
Duuk-tsarith
arrived, the statue of the catalyst had been completely covered by sand. The entire landscape has changed, Highness. They could not even recognize the Borderland and they were present during the Execu—”

“I am aware of when they were there, Eminence,” Xavier interrupted impatiently. The man’s hands, clasped correctly before him, were white from the strain of maintaining this semblance of outward calm. “Get on with your report!”

“Yes, Highness,” Vanya muttered. Irritated at the imperious tone, he took advantage of the man’s turned back to glower at him in hatred. “It took the warlocks some time even to discover the location of the statue, then they had to remove the mounds of sand covering it. The
Duuk-tsarith
were forced to work under magical shields to protect themselves from the storm that blew fiercely about them. It took two warlocks and four catalysts alone just to maintain the shield so that work could proceed. Finally, they dug down to the remains of the statue.”

“Is the catalyst—that Saryon—dead?” Xavier asked.

Vanya paused to mop his sweating forehead with a white cloth. He was either too hot or too cold these days. There never seemed any in-between.

When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. “Certainly the spell was broken, the spirit fled. But whether to the realm of the dead or the living, no one is certain.”

“Damn!” Xavier muttered beneath his breath, the fingers of one hand clenching. “And the sword is gone?”

“Sword and scabbard.”

“You are certain?”

“The
Duuk-tsarith
do not make mistakes, Highness,” Vanya replied acidly. “They combed a wide area around the site of the statue and found nothing. What is more important is that they
felt
no trace of the swords presence as they surely must have if it had been there.”

Xavier made a snarling sound. “The sword was quite capable of concealing its owner from the eyes of the
Duuk-tsarith
before—”

“Only when it had lost itself and its owner in the crowd. When isolated, the Darksword can be sensed by the
Duuk-tsarith
due to the minute draining effect it has—even un-wielded—upon their magic. At least, that is what the witch tells me, Highness. They had little time to test the sword, she says, before it was turned to stone in the arms of that wretched catalyst.

“No,” Vanya continued gloomily, “the Darksword is gone…. What’s more, the
Duuk-tsarith
say that only
its
power could have been used to break the spell surrounding Saryon.”

The DKarn-Duuk stood in silence, staring out the wall. The Challenge had started. The Corridors surrounding the invisible, magical walls of Merilon gaped open. (Few Corridors provided entry into the city itself. Those that did were located in the Gates, guarded normally by the
Kan-Hanar
alone. Now, in time of war, the
Duuk-tsarith
and The DKarn-Duuk—the War Masters—also stood guard over the Gates of Merilon. This was really a formality, however. Besides being an infraction of the Rules of the War, any attempt by the enemy to enter the city through the Corridors would precipitate a magical battle that would endanger both the city and its inhabitants; something neither side wanted—at least at this early stage. The only other Corridors that led into and out of the city were the secret Corridors that connected the palace to the Font.)

The army of Sharakan—hundreds of warlocks, resplendent in their red robes of war, followed by their catalysts—emerged from the Corridors. The warlocks arranged themselves at intervals surrounding the city, their catalysts at their sides. When all were in place, a single trumpet sounded and Prince Garald himself appeared, riding out from the Corridor in a golden chariot drawn by nine black horses. Flame breathed from the nostrils of the magic animals, lightning flickered at their hooves as they pawed the air. The animals’ shrill cries were so loud they could be heard through the magical dome.

Holding his fiery steeds in check, Prince Garald was a magnificent sight, accoutered in silver armor that had been handed down among his family for generations; some said it came from the ancient world and that it was endowed with
spells of victory and protection for the wearer. He carried his helm beneath his arm, his chestnut hair ruffled in the wind. Making a formal bow to the residents of Merilon, he turned his horses’ heads and began to drive his chariot around the walls of the city. As he galloped past, he caused banners of the kingdom of Sharakan to unfurl from out the air, until Merilon was ringed round by the sparkling colors of its enemy. So handsome was the Prince, so awesome was the sight of the black, fire-breathing steeds, and so beautiful were the banners that the inhabitants of Merilon gave the spectacular sight a rousing cheer.

Arriving back at the front Gate of the city, Prince Garald brought his chariot to a halt. Raising his hand, he caused the trumpet to sound again. Suddenly, savage centaur—their half-human, half-bestial faces twisted in rage, their hooves striking the ground—poured out from the Corridors. They rushed straight for the domed city, death burning in their eyes. In their hands they held spears—weapons of the Dark Arts.

Above them flew dragons, tearing the air with their talons, poisoning it with their foul breath. Giants appeared next, their huge heads on a level with City Above, leering at the tiny people below them with dumbfounded grins. Griffons, chimeras, satyrs, sphinxes—all manners and types of magical beasts—burst out of the Corridors, howling in rage, eager to taste human blood.

No one in Merilon applauded now. Children wailed in terror. Mothers grabbed their shrieking babes, men leaped to guard their families. The noblemen, furious at this effrontery, shouted out oaths, their lady wives rose to the occasion by decorously fainting dead away.

When the centaurs were within spears throw of the walls, when the giants were reaching down their huge hands, when it appeared that the dragons were prepared to crash through the magical dome, Prince Garald ordered the trumpet call to sound a final time.

One by one, with brilliant, multicolored starbursts and roaring explosions that shook the ground, the illusions vanished. Left behind, the exhausted warlocks and their equally weary catalysts who had created the illusions had just
strength enough to bow proudly to the stunned people of Merilon.

Lifting his banner above his head, Prince Garald shouted in a voice that could be heard throughout the city.

“I call upon you people of Merilon to overthrow your evil leader and his toad of a Bishop. You live in a dream as tragically dead as your late Empress, a dream as sadly insane as your late Emperor. Destroy the dome that hides you from the real world. We, in Sharakan, offer you life. Return to the land of the living.

“If you refuse to rid yourself of these parasites that feed on your blood, then we will do so ourselves, in order that they do not infect the rest of the world. There will be war between our kingdoms.

“What is your answer?”

“War! War!” shouted the people of Merilon in a high state of excitement. “War! War!” the nobles chanted. The fainted ladies roused themselves in time to cry, “War!” Mothers coaxed their babies to crow the word, “War!” which they did with mimicking, uncomprehending delight. Children shrieked, “War!” and conjured up pointed sticks on the spot, imitating the spears they had seen the centaurs holding. University students yelled, “War!” and vowed to a man to enlist in the army as soon as possible. Several young catalysts chanting “War! War!” were rebuked by a passing Deaconess, who reminded them sternly that the Almin was opposed to bloodshed. But since the Deaconess was in a hurry—on the way to offer her aid to the warlocks—she did not have time to watch over the culprits, and the catalysts resumed their cries the moment she was gone.