Triumph of the Darksword (14 page)

The Prince made himself relax. Rational thought returned.

“My orders,” he repeated, running his hand through his wet hair, noticing as he did so that though the rain was falling
around him, it was no longer falling on him. Someone—he supposed it was a
Duuk-tsarith—
had cast a magical shield over the group and the Gameboard, protecting them from the elements. Garald cast a shield over his mind in much the same way, creating a tiny calm in the center of the mental turmoil. Slowly, he turned back to the Gameboard.

“Pull all the warlocks and their catalysts back from areas near that front immediately,” he said, indicating the eastern flanks that were not yet under attack. There were no signs of fighting there yet, no one was fleeing or dying in those sectors. Whatever was happening was spreading westward from the north. “Bring them down south, near where we stand now. Cover their retreat with centaurs, the giants, the dragons.” He indicated other areas on the Board. “These creatures appear to be having some effect in stopping”—he paused—“whatever is out there….”

“There is also a pocket of strong resistance here, Your Grace,” said one of the commanders, calling everyone’s attention to an area on the far northwestern corner of the Board.

“Yes,” said Garald, recognizing it as did everyone else there. It was Emperor Xavier’s position around his own Gameboard. Silently, the Prince watched the small group of figures fighting … what? Garald roused himself. “Do nothing further until you hear from me,” he added, turning and walking swiftly from the Board. “Radisovik, open the Corridor. I place you in charge—”

“I’m going with you, Garald,” interrupted the Cardinal, coming to stand beside his Prince.

“Thank you, Radisovik,” Garald said in a low undertone, “but I think it would be better if you stayed here.” He looked about at his commanders, noting their nervous, darting glances at the Board and at each other. “Let me take one of the other catalysts. Your wisdom and cool thinking—”

“—will be needed by my hot-headed Prince,” finished Radisovik with a slight smile. Leaning near Garald so that the Prince alone could hear, Radisovik added softly, “Remember what we heard about the Borderlands?”

Puzzled, Prince Garald stared intently at Radisovik, wondering what he meant, silently interrogating the catalyst with his eyes. But the Cardinal—casting a meaningful look around at the others—said no more. Radisovik’s face appeared
to age visibly beneath the Prince’s gaze, however, answering Garald more eloquently than words.

The Prince suddenly understood The Prophecy.

“Very well, Radisovik,” Garald said, keeping his voice under control though he felt that his heart might have turned to iron, so heavy was it with this new burden of fear.

Radisovik caused a Corridor to open, a void of quiet nothingness set against a background of storm-tossed trees and slashing rain. The Prince, his Cardinal, and two
Duuk-tsarith
prepared to step inside.

“I will send Ariels back to report,” Garald said, turning to his commanders who were gathered around him. “Sorcerer, I leave you in command in my absence,” he added, silencing protesting murmurs with a glance. This was one decision of which he felt secure. He had already considered that this might be a plot by the Sorcerers to take over the world and he had discounted it. He knew these people, he trusted in their loyalty. More important, he knew their capabilities and their limitations.

Creatures of iron.

Garald brought forth a mental image of the blacksmith, summoning demons from the forge fire.

No. It made no sense. He had seen them, working day and night, fashioning spear tips and crude daggers…

Creatures of iron. It was almost laughable.

“What is your destination, Your Grace?” asked Radisovik as Prince Garald entered the Corridor.

“Take me to Emperor Xavier.”

L
ife is magic. Magic is life. Magic poured from the heart of Thimhallan, flowing from the Well of Life within the mountain fortress of the Font to every object in the world. Each pebble, each blade of grass, each drop of water was imbued with magic. Every person in the world—even those declared Dead—was gifted with magic. There had been only one truly Dead man on Thimhallan, and he had been driven beyond its borders.

But now, it was as if the well of magic had been poisoned, the magic laced with a fear that sprang from a source so deep and dark that it had—for centuries—been forgotten. As the Watchers screamed their unheard warnings from the border, so now the rocks of Thimhallan cried out in terror, the trees swayed their limbs in frenzy, the very ground shook.

Mosiah could not move. A Nullmagic spell could not have robbed him of life more thoroughly than did his fear, its chill fingers stealing reason, breath, and energy, leaving him
unable to think, to react when the clouds of fog parted and he saw the horror that had come to Thimhallan it was a creature of iron; Mosiah, who had worked for months in the forge, recognized the shining scales of metal as would few other magi in Thimhallan. The creature’s squat, toadlike body was as big as that of a griffin, but it had no wings, it could not fly. It had no legs either, and was forced to crawl along the ground on its belly. The head swiveled like the head of an owl, and Mosiah thought it must be blind, for it appeared to blunder forward aimlessly. Oblivious to anything in its path, the creature smashed into trees, mowing them down, wrenching their living roots from the earth. It crushed rock and churned up the ground, leaving marks of its clumsy passage in the trampled grass and mud.

Mosiah watched it in helpless terror, wondering what hideous being this was and how it came to be loosed upon the world. Then he discovered, horribly, that the creature was not blind. It had eyes. Like the basilisk, it used them for seeing … and for killing.

Hidden in a clump of trees about twenty feet from the creature, Mosiah saw suddenly a warlock fly toward him, fleeing the lumbering monster. Hurtling in wild panic through the air, his red robes streaming behind him, the War Master was easily outdistancing the slow, awkward creature.

The creatures head revolved, it appeared to be hunting its prey, sniffing it out. Suddenly, a single eye—hollow, dark, and empty—winked open in the head and focused on the flying wizard. The eye blinked, shooting forth a thin beam of light that flashed on and off so swiftly Mosiah wasn’t even certain afterward that he had seen it.

The eye beam struck the warlock in the back, causing the man to plummet to the ground. The momentum of his frantic flight carried him forward. He rolled near Mosiah, who stared at the warlock hopefully. At last, he wasn’t alone? Surely this War Master would know what was going on. Mosiah waited for the warlock to stand up, for the fall had not been particularly severe. But the warlock didn’t move.

“He’s not dead,” Mosiah told himself, swallowing the fear that was a choking bile in his throat. Glancing up, he saw that the creature had momentarily come to a halt, its head staring forward. “How could he be dead? There’s no wound,
nothing but a hole burned in his robes…. He must just be stunned. I’ve got to help….”

But it took several seconds to grapple with panics debilitating grasp. Finally, keeping one eye warily on the creature, seeing the head start to swivel around again—probably in search of its downed prey—Mosiah crept from the shelter of the trees and, grabbing the warlock by the collar of his robes, dragged the man back into the shadows.

Mosiah turned the warlock over on his back, but he knew even before he saw the staring eyes and gaping mouth that the man was dead. A tiny wisp of smoke curled upward from the wizard’s breast. Mosiah’s breath caught in his throat and he backed away from the corpse.

The beam of light that had flashed for less than a split second had burned a hole through the wizard’s body as a red-hot poker burns a hole through soft wood.

The ground shook beneath Mosiah’s feet. The creature was coming in search of its victim. Mosiah wanted to run, but all feeling left his legs; the sight of the dead warlock and the swift and sudden manner of the man’s death completely unnerved him. Raising his gaze from the corpse, Mosiah stared at the great beast as it approached, knowing it must see him. When it came in search of the wizard it had felled. But still he couldn’t move.

The creature drew nearer. Mosiah could smell its foul odor, poisonous fumes spewed out from its underbody, robbing him of breath. Choking and coughing, cowering amidst the trees, he had no thought of escape, no thought of anything except his fear.

Undoubtedly, this saved his life.

The creature swerved and rumbled past him, as a wolf passes by the rabbit sitting frozen in the presence of its enemy, knowing instinctively that movement draws unwanted attention.

Mosiah watched the thing lurch away from him, its hideous head—now seemingly blind again—turning this way and that in search of more prey, crawling past the body of the warlock without a look, without so much as a sniff.

A centaur kills out of hatred and mutilates the body. Dragons kill for food, as do the griffin and the chimera. A giant kills out of ignorance, not understanding its own
strength. But this thing had killed purposefully, coldly, without apparent reason or even interest.

Though the fog had lifted and Mosiah could now find and join up with the rest of his unit, he huddled within the sheltering grove, afraid to move, scared to stay. The creature of iron was still within sight and sound, its foul breath poisoning the air, its blind head turning this way and that as it blundered through the vegetation.

Were there more of its kind around? Mosiah wondered, leaning weakly against a tree. He was starting to shake, a reaction to his terror. Unwillingly, his gaze went to the body of the warlock, lying some distance from him. What monstrous being was this that Xavier had created? Mosiah quickly averted his gaze from the pale, astonished face of the corpse, the tiny curls of smoke rising from the charred fabric of the robes….

The robes.

Mosiah looked back at the body, his eyes widening. The warlock wore the robes of Merilon?

“Blessed Almin?” Mosiah whispered, his eyes going back to the creature, which was just vanishing out of sight beyond a small hill. “Is that … ours? Is that why it didn’t attack me?”

The Sorcerers! was his next thought. He put a trembling hand to his lips, wiping away chill sweat. Hastily, he glanced about, hoping to see other members of his unit. Many of them were true Sorcerers, people who had been born and raised in the hidden Coven of those who practiced the Dark Arts of Technology. They would know. Perhaps they had been building this thing secretly, intent on taking over the world. He had heard them talk of that often enough.

Closing his eyes, Mosiah pictured the creature—its metal scales, its breath reminding him of the fumes that rose from the forge.

Yes, he thought with swift anger and hatred. Yes? They must have done it. I never trusted them, never….

But even as he reached this decision, some cold part of him that was thinking rather than panicking said no. Mosiah looked down at the crossbow he held clutched in his hand. (He had completely forgotten in his terrified state that he even held a weapon.) He saw its crudeness, its misshapen
lines. He thought of the time it had taken to fashion this tool, of the men hammering and sweating in the forge hours upon hours. He recalled the creature of iron—the shining metal scales, the way it crawled smoothly over the uneven ground. Even in days of their power and glory the Sorcerers had not been able to construct anything like that. How could they now? They could barely build a working crossbow….

Drops of rain struck Mosiah’s cheek, rising wind blew cold against his already shivering body. A magical storm was brewing; the sky was darkening with thunderclouds. Jagged lightning tore through the air, thunder rumbled around him, making his heart stand still, reminding him of the creature. He looked again at the body of the wizard…. Suddenly, Mosiah started to run.

Panic drove him from his hiding place. He admitted that to himself as he stumbled over the uneven ground, dragging the heavy crossbow with him, his gaze constantly darting fearfully around him. Panic and a desperate need to find other people, someone, anyone who could tell him what was going on. His need for information—his need to know—was greater than his fear of the creature. This horrible panicked feeling would leave as soon as he knew for certain what was happening!

The storm lashed out at him, driving him forward with whips of wind and rain and stinging hail. Water streamed into his eyes; he could see nothing, yet still he ran, caroming off trees like some crazed gamepiece, slipping in the wet grass, entangling himself in clutching weeds.

Finally, bruised and battered, he stopped, huddling in a small grove of trees. Slumping back against a tree trunk, gasping for breath, he thought suddenly, “Simkin!”

In his terror, he had forgotten all about his erstwhile companion. “Simkin would know what’s happening. Simkin
always
knows,” Mosiah muttered bitterly. “But where the devil did he get to?” Unslinging the quiver of arrows, Mosiah dumped it on the ground and kicked at it with his foot. “Simkin?” he yelled above the storm, feeling incredibly stupid, yet hoping against hope to hear that insipid “I say, old chap!” in reply.