Triumph of the Darksword (20 page)

As the
Duuk-tsarith
sprang forward, a blast shook the ground.

“The stone wall is breached!” someone shouted. “We can see them! They are coming.”

“Death crawls….” Garald murmured.

Tears of frustration and anger and fear blurred the vision of the corpse lying at his feet. Confused, shaken, horrified, scared, he put his hand to his eyes to hide them, cursing himself for his weakness, knowing he must not give way. Another explosion rocked the fortress. The people cried out to the Prince, begging him to save them. But how could he? He was as lost and desperate as they…

Near him, he could hear the Cardinal, praying to the Almin. Was this Joram? Was this salvation or destruction?

Did it matter …

“Let him go!” he ordered the warlocks finally. Drawing a deep breath, he turned to face the white-robed man. “Very well, I will listen to you, whoever you are,” he said harshly. “What do
you
say we should do?”

“Gather the magi and their catalysts together. No, Cardinal, there is no time for that,” the man said to Radisovik, who looked up from where he was kneeling beside the Emperor’s body. “The living need you now, not the dead. It will take you and all of the catalysts to grant the magi Life enough to cast this spell. We must build a wall of ice around this entire complex, and we must do it without expending all of our magical energy.”

“Ice?” Garald stared at him incredulously “I’ve seen those creatures shatter rock with their light beams! Ice—”

“Do as I say!” the man commanded, his fist clenched, the imperious, arrogant voice ringing like a hammer blow through the chaos around him. Then, suddenly, the stern face relaxed. “Do as I say,
Your Grace,”
he amended, a dark half-smile twisting his lips.

A vision came to Garald, a vision from long ago, himself and an arrogant, hot-tempered youth.

“Fine words
!”
Joram retorted. “But you’re quick enough to lap up ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Your Highness!’ I don’t see you
dressed in the coarse robes of the Field Magi. I don’t see you rising at dawn and spending your days grubbing in the fields until your very soul starts to shrivel like the weeds you touch!” He pointed at the Prince. “You’re a wonderful talker! You and your fancy clothes and bright swords, silk tents and bodyguards! I
—”
Choking on his anger, Joram turned and began to walk away.

Garald caught hold of him by the shoulder, spinning him around with his strong hand. Joram shook free, his face distorted by rage, and struck back, swinging his fist wildly. The Prince countered the blow with ease, catching it on his forearm and, with practiced skill, forced the young man to his knees on the ground. Joram struggled to rise.

“I can keep you here with a spoken word of magic!” Garald hissed, his arms holding the young man in a strong grip.

“Damn you, you—
!”
Joram swore, spitting filth. “You and your magic! If I had my sword, I’d
—”
He looked around for it, feverishly.

“I’ll give you your sword,” the Prince said grimly. “Then you can do what you will. But first, you will listen to me. More important, you will listen to the voice of your own soul! It is true that in order to do my work in this life, I must dress and act in a manner befitting my station. Yes, I wear fancy clothes and bathe and comb my hair, and I’m going to see to it that you do these things, too, before you go to Merilon. Otherwise you will be laughed out of the city. Why? Because, unfortunately, people judge by appearance. As for my title, people call me ‘milord’ and ‘Your Grace’ as a mark of respect for my station. But I hope it is a remark of respect for me as a person as well. Why do you think I don’t force you to do it? Because it is empty for you. You don’t respect anybody Joram. You don’t care for anybody. Least of all yourself!
…”

“My god!” Garald whispered. “It can’t be! It can’t….”

“You
are
Joram!” Mosiah shoved his way through the crowd, staring at the white-robed figure with wide eyes, “For once, Simkin was telling the truth! It
must
be the end of the world,” he muttered.

“Trust me, Your Grace. Give the order!” the man urged.

Garald tried to study the man’s face, but he found it too painful and unnerving to look at for long. Averting his gaze, he glanced at the pale and shaken Mosiah, then silently interrogated the Cardinal, who could only shrug and raise his eyes heavenward.

Faith in the Almin? Well and good, but what he needed was faith in himself, in his instincts.

“Very well,” Garald said suddenly, with a sigh. “Mosiah, spread the word. We are going to encompass this fortress in a wall of ice.”

Mosiah hesitated one last moment to look at the man—who was regarding him with an expression of sadness and regret—then he dazedly stumbled off to carry out his orders.

But it seemed it might be too late. The magi—even the well-disciplined members of the
Duuk-tsarith
and The DKarn-Duuk—appeared too disorganized to come together. Those who had not succumbed to panic were acting on their own, fighting as they’d been taught to fight. Floating above the wall, they were casting balls of flame at the creatures. The fire had no effect on the iron scales of the monsters. It did nothing except call attention to the warlocks themselves. The blind eyes turned in their direction, the beams flared, and the magi fluttered to the ground like dead leaves.

Others were working frantically, trying to repair the breach in the stone wall. Summoning the rock up from the earth, they hastily shaped it to fit the hole. But the creatures of iron blew apart sections of wall faster then the magi could shape it, and soon those standing near the wall fled before the coming of the humming, foul-breathed monsters.

One person acted on Garald’s instructions. Having been the one who captured Joram in the Grove of Merlyn, the witch—head of the Order of
Duuk-tsarith—
recognized him immediately. When Joram put away the Darksword, the witch was able, by using the mind-searching skills of her kind, to probe the man’s mind. Though the witch understood little of what she saw there, she learned enough about the creatures in the brief span of time she shared Joram’s thoughts to comprehend his plan.

Moving through the crowd, speaking calmly and forcefully, the witch gathered around her the members of the
Duuk-tsarith
and any others who were standing nearby. All
the magi obeyed her without question; some because they were accustomed to doing her bidding, most because she was authority, a focal point of reality in a horrifying nightdream.

The witch organized the catalysts and, mumbling their prayers, the Priests drew the Life from the world around them, sending it arcing into the bodies of the warlocks, the witches, the wizards, even those few sorcerers who, like Mosiah, had strayed here from their disbanded or destroyed units. Concentrating their thoughts upon a single spell, the magi caused a wall of ice to rise, shimmering, into the air, completely surrounding the fortress.

Almost instantly, the lethal beams of light ceased. The killing stopped.

The wizards stared in amazement. The frosty breath of the ice was visible in the warm air. Swirling about the feet of the magi, it cooled their fevered blood, bringing calm and order where there had been only moments before panic and chaos. Silence fell upon the crowd inside the fortress, as they blinked, half-blinded, at the ice wall gleaming in the sunlight.

A light beam shot through the ice, but it was aimless, directionless. The creatures had no targets now, apparently, and though they continued to fire the light at the ice, most of the beams passed harmlessly through empty air.

“It worked,” said Garald, mystified. “But … how? Why?”

“The tanks—the ‘creatures’ as you call them—kill by focusing their laser weapons—their eye?—on anything that moves or gives off heat,” the white-robed man replied. “Using that, they lock onto their targets. Now they can no longer sense the body heat of those in the fortress.”

Shading his eyes against the glare of the reflected sunlight, the Prince peered through the ice at the creatures.

“So we are safe.” He let out his breath in a sigh.

“Only for the moment,” the man said grimly. “This will not stop them, Your Grace. It will merely slow them down.”

“It will give us time enough to contact the
Thon-li
and force them to open the Corridors again,” Garald stated briskly. “You have saved us! We will begin the retreat—”

“No, Your Grace.” The man caught hold of Garald’s torn, bloodstained shirt as the Prince was starting to move away.

“You cannot retreat, not yet. You must fight. My uncle was right about one thing, there is no escape, nowhere to run. If you don’t stop them here, they will take over the world.”

“Fight them? How? It is impossible!”

Garald’s gaze returned to the creatures. Evidently at a loss for coping with this new and unexpected situation, several of the iron monsters had come together and were focusing their light beams on the ice, intent on melting it away. This had little effect—the magi simply used their magic to replace it. Other creatures kept up random firing, occasionally cutting down a victim but generally doing little harm. The shining bodies of the strange humans could be seen moving among the creatures now, keeping close to them as if for protection.

But Garald knew his people couldn’t maintain their defense for long. Already, the magi were growing weak, the Life needed to keep the huge wall of ice in existence was slowly being drained off. When their strength gave out, they would be at the mercy of the creatures of iron and the metal-skinned humans.

“Our magic is helpless against them!” Garald persisted. “You’ve seen that—”

“Only because you do not know them, Your Grace!” the man interrupted impatiently. “You don’t know how to fight them!”

“Then you must tell me what is going on? I need to know before I can make this decision.”

The man clenched his fist in frustration, and Garald was strongly reminded of the impatient, arrogant youth. The man checked himself, however, swallowing hot words. Fighting some internal battle for control, he rubbed his fingers over the leather that crisscrossed his chest, perhaps feeling a soothing comfort in the touch. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

“Look into my face.”

Reluctantly, the Prince did as he was asked Staring into the face that he knew yet didn’t know, he realized that he had been avoiding looking at this man, avoiding dealing with the inexplicable, fearful change.

“Who am I? Say my name.”

Garald tried to withdraw his gaze, but the brown eyes held him fast. “Joram,” he said at last, reluctantly. “You are Joram,” he repeated again.

“How long is it since I left this world?” Joram asked softly.

“A year,” Garald faltered.

Reality struck a telling blow. He was forced to confront the fact that only a few hundred days before he had walked in the wilderness with a youth. Now he faced a man as old or older than himself.

“I don’t understand!” he cried, frightened.

“Ten
years have passed for me,” answered Joram. “There is not time enough for me to explain everything. If I do not survive this battle, seek out Father Saryon, who is in Merilon. I have left in his keeping a record of my life. What I am going to tell you now you must accept on faith. If not faith in the thankless boy you knew and helped”—Joram paused, sighing—“then faith in what I thought would be my final act: the renunciation of this sword I created, the voluntary walk into death.”

Joram’s face was anguished as he spoke; the hand closed over the leather straps, pressing them into his heart.

Garald recalled all that he had heard of the final, terrible day in Joram’s life on this world, and his last suspicions vanished. He tried to say something to this effect, but the words would not come. Joram saw and understood, removing the need for words by reaching out and grasping hold of the Prince’s hand.

“I walked into what I thought was death, but there is not death Beyond, Your Grace,” Joram continued quietly. “There is life! In our conceit, we imagined ourselves safe, protected from the rest of the universe by our magical Border. When we left the ancient world to come to this one, we thought—we hoped—the Old World would forget us as we forgot them.”

Joram looked away, staring beyond the wall of ice into realms that had been revealed to his eyes alone. “They did not forget,” he said softly. “They missed the magic and they searched for it, knowing that somewhere it still lived.” Joram smiled, but it was a dark smile and it sent a shiver through Garald. “I said before that there was not death Beyond. I was
wrong. Actually, there is nothing out there
except
Death. Those worlds that lie Beyond are populated by the Dead. Some Life, some magic exists, but it is scattered throughout the universe like atoms in deep space.”

“Atoms deep space.” The words were strange, meaningless. Garald’s gaze turned, like Joram’s, to the heavens. His confusion was not dispelled, but rather was growing, as was his fear. The ancient world, the world they had fled in terror, was searching for them? He almost expected to see faces leering at him from the cloudless sky.

“I am sorry I know you don’t understand.” Joram’s gaze returned to Garald and it was pleading in its intensity. “What can I say?” He gripped the Prince’s hand harder, as though he could communicate through touch what he was failing to communicate with words. “They—the Dead, if you will—” there was a bitter irony in Joram’s voice that made Garald wince—“call this an expeditionary force. It has been sent to investigate this world, to conquer and subdue it, and prepare the way for occupation.”

“What?” Gerald repeated, stunned. Conquer, subdue, occupation: these were words he knew, he understood. He forced himself to attend, urging his brain to let loose of its grasp of what he had known this morning as reality. “You say,
they—
the Dead”—he stumbled over the word, his mind still stubbornly disbelieving, although all he had to do was look out beyond the wall of ice to see the evidence of his senses—“want to conquer us? Why? What then?”