Triumph of the Darksword (13 page)

“Well, you understand, of course, what all this means?”

“No,” Mosiah snapped, cocking his head, trying to figure out the direction of the odd sound. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me….”

“It means, dear boy,” said Simkin loftily, “that Xavier doesn’t have the Darksword. Not only that, but either he or the
Duuk-tsarith
or both believe Joram has returned. And with Joram—the Prophecy.”

Mosiah said nothing. He couldn’t hear anything anymore and assumed it must have been his imagination. Staring out into the fog, he shook his head. “Xavier’s right, you know,” he said finally, reluctantly, in a low voice. “Joram
is
back. I knew it in my heart when I stepped on that beach and saw Saryon lying there. Joram’s the only one who could have broken that spell …” He paused, then said heavily. “We have to convince Garald—”

“Hush! The fog’s lifting!” cried Simkin, raising his head and starting to his feet.

The note of a single trumpet sounded. A sharp, crisp wind sprang up, blowing the fog to wispy shreds that curled about the ground, then fled completely. The noonday sun shone full upon them.

Blinking in the bright light, feeling it warm his blood, Mosiah hurriedly grabbed his crossbow and slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

“There’s my unit!” He pointed to a band of men forming into ranks under the leadership of one of the blacksmiths sons. “Not twenty feet away! I didn’t lose them! I’m over here!” Mosiah began to shout, waving his arm, when he heard the weird humming sound again, much nearer and louder. Turning, he glanced around behind him.

Mosiah gasped in horror. Fear impaled him on its sharp-honed point, driving deep, draining him. He could not move, he could not think. He could only stare.

“Simkin!” Mosiah cried out wretchedly, praying for the touch of living flesh, needing it to reassure him of his own reality in the midst of the blinding terror that was closing over him, thicker and more chill than the fog. “Simkin!” he moaned, frozen in fear. “Don’t leave me! Where are you?”

There was no answer.

P
rince Garald could not understand what was happening. He stared down at his Gameboard in bewilderment, unable to comprehend.

On his northern flank, gamepieces were under attack. They were fighting desperately, fighting for their lives.

They were dying….

And there was nothing there! No enemy within sight!

“What is this?” Garald cried hoarsely. Grasping the edge of the Board with his hands, he gripped it tightly, as though he might somehow squeeze the answer from the unspeaking stone. “What is going on?” he demanded of his commanders, who stared back at him blankly.

“Cardinal?” Garald glared at his minister. But the catalyst’s face was ashen, his lips moving in prayer. Looking at his Prince, he could only shake his head.

“I do not know,” he managed to murmur.

“Xavier!” Garald snarled in fury, his fingers digging into the stone. “He is responsible! The Darksword! Yet—”

“No, Your Grace,” Radisovik answered, pointing at the Board with a trembling hand. “Look? Whatever is attacking us is attacking Xavier, too.”

Garald turned his gaze back to the Gameboard. His eyes widened, his voice choked.

Emperor Xavier’s gamepieces were apparently battling the same unseen foe, for they had broken off their attack of Garald’s gamepieces and were now fighting for their lives as well.

Gamepieces! Garald groaned Those were real men and women dying out there, their living bodies represented by the tiny images that populated the magical Board. Watching in helpless confusion, the Prince saw the ranks of the War Masters on the northern part of the Board begin to crumble and break apart. The small figures were turning and fleeing, some of the red-robed warlocks dropping to the ground as though struck from behind by an unseen force, their bodies fading away on the Board as the life left them. Other warlocks and witches were apparently attempting to stand and fight the enemy that Garald could not see, but these tiny figures, too, soon disappeared, leaving no trace behind.

As for the catalysts—they were not being struck down, their bodies did not fall lifeless to the Board. The catalysts were simply and suddenly vanishing.

“What is happening? What is going on?” Garald raved. Wrenching his hands from the Board, he clenched them into fists. “The Ariels from that sector? Where are they?” he cried suddenly, scanning the skies. “Why don’t they report?”

Cardinal Radisovik raised his eyes, too, and clutched at the Prince.

“Your Grace? The spectators,” the Cardinal said urgently “They don’t know what is happening. You must remain calm, or you will start a panic.”

Prince Garald looked at the glittering carriages circling or parked in the skies above him, their wealthy occupants enjoying their midday meals. Faintly, mingled with the murmur of voices and laughter, he could hear the tinkling sounds of clinking champagne glasses.

“Thank you, Radisovik,” the Prince said, drawing a deep breath. Straightening, he clasped his hands firmly behind his back and tried to assume a nonchalant attitude. “Move in
closer around the Board,” he ordered his commanders crisply. “Block it from their view. We’ve got to get them out of here!” he added in a low voice as the nobles gathered close, crowding around the Board, their faces pale. “But under what pretense—”

“Perhaps a storm, Garald,” suggested Radisovik, the catalyst’s fear evident in his use of the Prince’s given name in public. “The
Sif-Hanar—
”

“Excellent idea!” Garald motioned to one of the Ariels, who was standing by. “Fly to the
Sif-Hanar,”
the Prince ordered the winged man. “Tell them I want storms to sweep across this entire Board! Rain, thunder, hail, lightning. That might help stop whatever is attacking us from the north as well,” the Prince added, glancing back at the Board, his brow furrowed with concern. “Send additional messengers to warn the spectators”—Garald gestured upward—“both here and in other parts of the Field, that storms are imminent.”

The Ariel bowed, spread his wings, and soared into the air, motioning others of his kind to follow him. Gazing after them, Garald saw several suddenly swerve out of their course, flying over to a dark object that appeared between two carriages.

“It’s an Ariel,” Garald reported in carefully emotionless tones. “They are bringing him in. I think he’s been injured.”

Two Ariels—one flying on either side of their comrade, holding him gently by the arms—returned to the Prince while the others continued on to carry out their orders. The Ariels flew slowly, bearing their burden between them. Waiting impatiently below, trying to remain calm, Garald was acutely aware of the sudden silence falling among the crowd of spectators, then the slow murmur of voices as they caught sight of what was transpiring. As the Ariels neared, Garald saw the man they carried and he caught his breath in horror, hearing similar reactions from those gathered around him.

The Ariel’s body was burned, the feathers of the giant wings singed and blackened. His head slumped, he hung limply in the gentle grasp of his comrades.

“My lord, we caught him falling from the air,” one of the Ariels reported as they alighted on the ground before their Prince, easing the wounded man down on the grass.

“Send for the
Theldara!”
Garald ordered, his heart wrenched with pity for the wounded man and the thought of the courage it had taken to fly in that terrible condition.

Someone hastened away in search of a healer, but Garald, kneeling by the winged man’s side, saw that it was too late. The man was unconscious, obviously dying. The Prince gritted his teeth. He had
to
find out what was happening! At a word, he caused water to appear in the palm of his hand. Moistening the Ariel’s burned lips, he sprinkled the cooling substance on the cracked and blackened flesh of the face.

“Can you hear me, my friend?” Garald asked in a low voice Cardinal Radisovik, kneeling by his side, began to quietly perform the ritual rites granted to the dying.

“Per istam Sanctam…”

The Ariel’s eyes fluttered open. He did not seem to know where he was, but gazed around wildly and cried out in terror.

“You are safe, my friend,” Garald said softly, touching the lips with water. “Tell me, what happened?”

The Ariel’s eyes focused on the Prince. Reaching out a bloodied hand, the winged man grasped hold of Garald’s arm. “Monstrous creatures … of iron!” The man gasped for breath, clutching Garald tightly, painfully. “Death… crawls…. No escape!” The Ariel’s eyes rolled back in his head, the lips parted in a scream that was never heard, the voice died in the throat with a rattle.

“…
Untíonem indúlgeat tibí Dominus quidquid deliqústi.
…”

The hand on Garald’s sleeve slid from its convulsive grasp. The Prince remained kneeling, staring unseeing at the stains upon his robes, the blood a dark black against the crimson red of the velvet.

“Creatures of iron?” he repeated.

“The poor man was delirious, Your Grace,” said Cardinal Radisovik firmly, closing the vacant, staring eyes of the corpse. “I would pay little attention to his ravings.”

“Those weren’t the ravings of a delirious man,” Garald said thoughtfully, when he felt the Cardinal’s hand close tightly over his arm. Glancing up, he saw Radisovik shake his head ever so slightly, with a warning look in the direction
of the commanders, who were watching them intently, faces pale, eyes wide.

“Perhaps you are right, Holiness,” the Prince amended lamely, licking his dry lips.

Above them, the bright blue sky was darkening rapidly as storm clouds materialized, surging and boiling like the confused thoughts in Garald’s mind. Though not consciously aware of it, he heard the voices of the spectators—shrill with irritation or deep with anger—demanding to know what was going on. He heard the stern voices of the Ariels in answer, urging the spectators to return to their homes before the full fury of the storm broke.

The full fury…. Creatures of iron…. Death … crawls. What an odd expression. Death crawls….

Voices clamored. Everyone was talking at once, demanding his attention.

“Shut up! Leave me alone! Let me think!” The words swelled in his throat, but—with an effort of will—he swallowed them. They would reveal to everyone that he was losing control of the situation.
Losing
control? Garald smiled bitterly. He had no control to lose! He had absolutely no idea what was going on. He was still inclined—perhaps wanted desperately—to believe this was some trick of Xavier’s. But another glance at the Gameboard was enough to convince him that this was not so. The forces of Merilon were being routed, destroyed, along with the forces of Sharakan.

Routed and destroyed by an unseen foe….

Creatures of iron….

Death crawls….

“I’m going out there to see for myself,” Prince Garald said abruptly.

Clouds darkened the sky, massing thicker and blacker. A sudden gust of wind flattened the tall grass and set the limbs of the trees creaking. Heralded by a forked tongue of lightning and a sharp thunder crack, the storm broke around them. Driving rain soaked clothes through in an instant, hail stung their skin painfully. The release of the storm released the tensions within each man as well. Chaos erupted, as panic swept among the entourage like the wind over the grass.

Some tried to dissuade their Prince from going, pleading that he return to Sharakan. Others insisted that he go and take them with him. One faction decided it was a clever ploy of Merilon and were arguing that they should hurl everything they had against Xavier’s forces. Several pointed accusing fingers at the blacksmith.

“Creatures of iron!” cried one. “It’s the accursed work of these Sorcerers!”

Suddenly all fears had a focus.

“The Dark Arts?” cried several. “The Sorcerers are taking over the world?”

“Emperor Xavier said this would happen,” came an angry shout.

“My lord, I swear!” The agonized voice of the Sorcerer blacksmith boomed over the cracking thunder. “It isn’t us! You know we would never betray you—!”

Creatures of iron…

Ignoring the pleas and the arguments and the clutching hands as he ignored the rain in his face and the hail that was pelting him, Garald shoved his commanders aside. Cardinal Radisovik had just drawn his own cloak over the body of the Ariel and was rising to his feet as the Prince approached him.

“Open a Corridor to me, Radisovik,” Garald demanded, glaring at the catalyst sternly, expecting further opposition.

To Garald’s surprise, the Cardinal nodded in acquiescence. “I will do so, Your Grace, in a moment.” Laying his hand upon Garald’s arm, Radisovik looked intently at his Prince. “What are your orders in your absence?” the Cardinal reminded him gently.

Garald’s first impatient impulse was to rebuff the catalyst, to shove him aside as he had the others. But the Cardinal’s touch on his arm was firm and reassuring, his minister’s voice calm and steady. Although there was fear on the face of the older man, it was being held in check by wisdom. Garald saw his own face reflected in Radisovik’s eyes, he saw his own eyes, wild and staring, he saw the beginnings of panic.