Triumph of the Darksword (17 page)

Creatures of iron.

The
Duuk-tsarith
, with a wave of his hand, caused a salve to appear on the giant’s arm, spreading over it with soothing effect to judge by the smile on the tear-stained face. Conjuring up a roll of fabric, the warlock next hastily wrapped the giant’s arm in a bandage, more because these childlike beings were fond of such ornamentation than because the bandage would be particularly useful in healing the wound. This task completed, the warlock made a gesture in the air above the giant’s forehead, then flew back to report.

“I have laid a geas on the giant,” said the
Duuk-tsarith
, as his companion removed the magical shield from around the Prince and the Cardinal. “I told the thing that it must hunt down whatever it was that hurt it. Since this geas goes along with the giants natural inclination, we should have no trouble with it.”

“Excellent,” Garald replied. He glanced to the east, where the columns of smoke were growing larger, thicker, and more numerous. “We must hurry.”

“Certainly, milord.” Speaking a series of words, the warlock used his magic to lift the Prince and Cardinal into the air and set them down gently upon the giant’s huge shoulders.

Settling himself as best he could, Garald wrinkled his nose at the smell of the giant’s unwashed body dressed in animal hides. The giant was intensely curious about its riders, and there was several moments’ delay as it twisted its head this way and that in an effort to get a close look at them. Its breath was even more foul smelling than its skin. Garald gagged and Cardinal Radisovik covered his nose with the sleeve of his robes when the grinning, broken-toothed mouth turned in his direction.

At last, however, the
Duuk-tsarith
, with a sharp command, was able to goad the giant into lumbering motion. Pointing
toward the smoke to indicate the direction in which they wished to travel, the warlocks flew ahead of the giant, guiding its clumsy footsteps.

Garald had been somewhat afraid that, despite the geas, the giant would refuse to go anywhere near smoke, considering the painful burn it had sustained. Perhaps, however, the giant did not connect smoke with fire, for it stomped forward without hesitation, gabbling away in its unintelligible language that sounded very much like the prattlings of a toddler in a state of wild excitement.

Only half-listening to it, Garald realized suddenly that the giant was attempting to tell them what had happened. Repeatedly, it gestured to its hurt arm—once with such force that the Prince was nearly thrown off. Clinging precariously to his seat, both hands tangled in the giants matted, filthy hair, Garald regretted bitterly that no one had ever attempted to communicate with these oversized humans. Mutated for the purposes of war, they had been abandoned by their masters, left to roam the wilds until needed again. Locked in this huge head were the answers to Garald’s questions, for he had no doubt that the giant had been attacked by whatever it was that had massacred the people of Merilon.

They covered the miles of territory between the broken Gameboard and the columns of smoke swiftly, the giant hurrying forward with such enthusiasm and excitement that the
Duuk-tsarith
were forced to order it sternly to slow down or risk losing its passengers.

Inspecting the Field of Glory from his observation point, Garald saw more bodies, and his lips tightened grimly as his anger grew. He also saw additional indications of the foe—long snakelike tracks of churned-up earth that led overland, heading toward the east. The enemy stopped for nothing, apparently. Large trees had been uprooted and pushed aside, smaller ones snapped in two, vegetation plowed down or set afire. It was mainly on either side of these tracks that the bodies of his people could be seen.

At one point, near what was left of a smoldering grove of trees, Garald caught sight of a bright flash—metal gleaming in the sun. He turned to examine it, risking a fall from his precarious perch on the shoulder of the giant. It appeared to
be a body of a human and, if it had not seemed too fantastic, the Prince could have sworn that the body had skin of metal.

Garald’s first thought was to stop and investigate, but he was forced to abandon this idea. The giant—under the influence of the geas and its own mounting excitement—would be difficult to bring to a halt and would probably charge off on its own if left by itself. By the time the Prince reached this decision, the giant had carried them far past the thing; Garald, looking back, couldn’t see any sign of the grove of trees, let alone a body lying beneath it.

“I’ll probably find out what is going on soon enough,” he said to himself grimly, noting that they were drawing nearer the thickest columns of smoke. Suddenly Garald could hear—above the giant’s babblings—a low humming sound, combined with explosions like those created by Illusionists to startle children on holidays. Once again, he experienced the cramps in his stomach, the dryness of his throat, and the weakness in his knees. But this time his fear was laced by a strange excitement, a curiosity, a strong desire to know what lay ahead of them.

At that moment, the
Duuk-tsarith
, flying in front of the giant, topped a steep hill. Suddenly, their forward motion slowed Garald, watching them closely, saw the hooded heads turn to look at each other. Though he could not catch a glimpse of the warlocks’ faces, he could sense a shared incredulity and awe, emotions foreign to this well-disciplined sect.

Frantic to see what they saw, Garald half-rose to a crouching stance on the giants shoulder as it clamored up the hill. Staring ahead, Garald and the giant both saw the enemy at the same time. Bellowing in rage, the giant came to a sudden halt, and Garald lost his footing. Slipping, he fell backward off the shoulders. His magic was enough to sustain him, however. Using his Life force, he kept himself afloat in the air, hovering just above trees at the hill’s crest.

Looking down, he saw the enemy.

Creatures of iron.

T
hey crawled over the face of the earth, seemingly blind as moles, leaving death and desolation to mark their passing. They spared no living thing. Garald watched, stunned and aghast, as the heads of the creatures of iron swiveled this way and that, and wherever the heads looked, death followed, swifter than the blink of an eye.

Their movements were coordinated, purposeful. Twenty or more of the monsters were converging, coming from various positions to the north. Once they met up, they traveled in a straight line, separated from each other by about a distance of thirty feet. Walking behind the creatures were humans, hundreds of them. At least Garald assumed they were human. They had legs and arms and heads, they walked upright. But their skin was metallic. He could see them gleam in the sun and he recalled the body he had seen among the trees.

At least they can be killed, was his first thought. His second, and more terrifying, was that the enemy—the creatures
and these strange humans—was heading in one direction—south. Tearing his gaze from them, Garald looked ahead, to the south. He could see the storm clouds of the
Sif-Hanar
that marked his lines. In his minds eye, he could see his War Masters, the warlocks and witches, standing unknowing, waiting for death to rumble over them. He remembered the carriage, now shattered on the ground, and he thought of the hundreds of spectators, with their wicker baskets of fruit and wine. Certainly the storm would have prompted some of them to leave, but they had probably just moved off to the borders of the Field of Glory, where it was dry. Some, perhaps, might even be traveling in this direction where they could undoubtedly see the sun shining….

“Milord!” One of the
Duuk-tsarith
touched his arm, something that Garald could not ever remember occurring, and a certain sign that these trained and disciplined warlocks were shaken. Garald looked back down and ahead several miles distant, to where the warlock indicated.

A natural formation of rock had been hurriedly shaped into a crude fortress of stone. Within that fortress, the Prince could see figures moving, their red robes and black marking them as warlocks and witches. The varying shades of red denoted the side of the war they had been on before the new threat made all things equal. As Garald watched, he saw a figure dressed in crimson stride across the compound of the hastily conjured fortress, waving his arm, obviously giving orders, though he could not be heard from this distance.

“Xavier,” Garald murmured.

“Milord, they are directly in the path of those things!” the
Duuk-tsarith
said, the tightness of his voice indicating his struggle to maintain control.

Did Xavier know that? Did he know the creatures were coming and intend to make a stand here? Or had he simply retreated to this place, unaware of the forces massing against him?

And what were these creatures of iron? These men of iron? Garald wondered, his gaze returning to them in terrible fascination. Where had they come from? Was it possible that another city-state in Thimhallan had somehow gained knowledge and power enough to create these things? No. Garald rejected the idea. Nothing like this could have been
kept secret. Besides, the creation of these things must have been undertaken by Sorcerers whose knowledge and power were beyond anything even the ancients had dreamed.

Yet another question. Why hadn’t they shown up on the Gameboard? Why hadn’t he been able to see them…?

The answer was there, so obvious he realized he’d known all along, surmised it from the very beginning.

They were Dead. Every one of them—the creatures of iron, the strange humans with the metal skin. Dead.

The
Duuk-tsarith
was touching him again. “Milord, Cardinal Radisovik, the giant…. What are your orders?”

Garald tore his gaze from the monsters. Glancing one final time at the stone fortress of Emperor Xavier, he turned away. As he did so he saw one of the creatures pause before a gigantic boulder that blocked its path. A beam of light shot from its eye and the boulder shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

So much for the stone fortress.

Garald moved quickly now. His mind, no longer tormented by shadowy fears, was active.

“We’re going to warn Xavier,” he said, “and get him to pull back. He can’t face these things with that small contingent of people. And I’ll need messages carried back to our lines.”

Talking to himself, he sped through the air, returning to the giant, having forgotten about it, the Cardinal, and nearly everything else in his first paralyzing glimpse of the creatures.

Cardinal Radisovik waited for him on the ground, having been carried down by the
Duuk-tsarith.
The enraged giant was barely being held in check by the warlock, and Garald felt a twinge of remorse when he realized that Radisovik had undoubtedly been in some peril and that his Prince had left him—a weak catalyst—to fend for himself. The feeling passed quickly, however, trampled underfoot by the need for action.

“You saw?” Garald asked his Cardinal grimly as he neared the stretch of scorched grass on which he and the giant stood.

“I saw,” Radisovik replied, pale and shaken. “May the Almin have mercy on us!”

“May He indeed!” Garald muttered, his sarcastic tone drawing a look of concern from the Priest. But there was no time for worrying about faith or the lack of it. Gesturing to the
Duuk-tsarith
who had accompanied him—the other warlock was keeping the giant in hand—Garald began issuing his orders.

“You and Cardinal Radisovik enter the Corridors—”

“My lord? I believe I should stay—” interposed the Cardinal.

“—and return to my headquarters,” Garald continued coolly, overriding the Priests objections. “Use whatever means you must, but get the civilians out of the area Take them all.” He hesitated, then continued with a twisted smile, “even our people, to Merilon. It’s the closest city and the magical dome protects it best. I wonder who Xavier left in control?” he muttered. “Probably sent Bishop Vanya back. Well, it can’t be helped. Cardinal Radisovik, you must go to the Bishop. Explain what is happening and—”

“Garald!” Radisovik said sternly, his brows coming together in a manner that the Prince had not seen since he was a young boy caught in some misdeed. “I insist that you listen to me!”

“Cardinal, it is
not
for your own safety that I am sending you back! I need you to talk to His Holiness—” Garald began impatiently.

“My lord,” interrupted Radisovik, “there are no bodies of catalysts!”

Garald stared at the Priest, uncomprehending “What?”

“On the field near the Gameboard, on the Field of Glory we have passed over—” Radisovik waved his hand—“there are no bodies of catalysts, milord! You know as well as I that they would never abandon their masters to death, or leave their bodies without the final rites. Yet none of the dead back there near the Board had been given the rites. Where are the bodies if the catalysts are dead? What has happened to them?”

Garald had no answer. Of all the strange things he had seen, this seemed the strangest. It was inexplicable, it made no sense. Yet, what did make sense? Creatures of iron, destroying everything in their path, killing for no reason. Killing everything except catalysts.