Triumph of the Darksword (29 page)

“They do indeed,” Prince Garald said, “and hopefully we will be able to impart it to them.” He glanced at Joram, who continued to stare into the night, his face stern and impassive. Shoving aside the maps, Prince Garald stood up and began pacing the room, his hands behind him. “So, Simkin,” he said abruptly, turning to the green velvet clad young man, “you’ve been to see the enemy.”

“E’gad! Of course!” said Simkin. With a wave of his hand, he conjured up a fainting-couch. “You will excuse me, I hope?” he asked languidly, stretching out on the couch that sat squarely in the center of the study, making it impossible for the Prince to continue pacing without running into it. “And do you mind if I change clothes? I’ve been wearing this same color of green for hours and I fear it does nothing for my complexion. Makes me look quite jaundiced.”

As he spoke, the green hose and doublet transformed themselves into a red brocade dressing gown, trimmed with black fur cuffs and a thick fur collar. Red slippers with curled toes adorned his feet. Simkin appeared quite charmed with these and, lifting a foot, regarded it with delight.

“The enemy?” Garald reminded him.

“Oh, yes! Well, what else was I supposed to do, Your Grace? I trotted about the battlefield for a bit, but—while undeniably entertaining, it struck me that there was a chance that I might see the light, so to speak, in a most painful manner. Having a hole burned in one’s skull is not my idea of an illuminating experience. However,” continued Simkin,
plucking the orange silk from the air and dabbing delicately at his nose, “I was determined to do something for my country. So, at great personal risk to myself, I decided”—dramatic flourish of the orange silk—“to become a spy!”

“Go on,” ordered Gerald.

“Certainly. By the bye, Joram, dear fellow,” said Simkin, reclining among an abundance of silk pillows, “did I say that I am delighted to see you?” He waved the orange silk. “You’re looking well, though I must say you have
not
aged the least bit gracefully.”

“If
you were in the enemy’s camp, tell us what you saw!” Joram persisted.

“Oh, I was there,” said Simkin, smoothing his mustache with a slender finger. “Shall I prove it to you, my King? I am, after all, your fool. Do you remember? Two Death cards.” You dying twice? They laughed at me then”—he glanced slyly at Mosiah and Saryon—“but I don’t see them laughing now. I had a devil of a time getting into camp Corridor is crawling with black and creepy things”—a scathing glance at the
Duuk-tsarith—
“all lurking about the enemy …

“That’s going to end, by the way,” Simkin added nonchalantly. “An old friend of yours who calls himself Dog Doo the Sorcerer or something like that has sealed off the Corridors—”

Joram went white to the lips, becoming so pale that Saryon went to his side, resting a supportive hand on his arm. So this is it, Saryon thought. What he’s feared all along has come to pass.

“Menju.” Joram said in a barely audible voice.

“What did you say? Menju? That’s it! Beastly name! Charming fellow, however. Travels about with a crude sort—a short, thick-necked military type who doesn’t drink tea. Nevertheless, there I sat, a perfect teapot upon his desk. Crude fellow sent me out with a heavy-handed sergeant, a dim-witted man, fortunately. It was simplicity itself for me to return while he wasn’t looking. I say, dear boy, are you listening?”

Joram didn’t answer. Gently putting aside Saryon’s hand, he walked blindly to the fireplace, his white robes brushing the floor. Gripping the edge of the mantelpiece, he stared
into the embers of the dying fire, his face drawn and troubled.

“He is here!” he said at last. “Of course, I was expecting it. But how? Did he escape or did they free him?” He turned, staring at Simkin with eyes that burned more brightly than the smoldering coals. “Describe this man. What does he look like?”

“A handsome devil. Sixty if he’s a day, though he pretends he’s thirty-nine. Tall, broad-shouldered, gray hair, lovely teeth. I don’t think the teeth are his, by the way. Dressed in the most fearfully drab clothes ….”

“It’s him!” muttered Joram, slamming his fist into the mantel in sudden anger.

“And he’s in charge, dear boy. It seems this Major Boris was all for clearing out and—Ha, ha! There was one highly amusing incident, must mention in passing. Sorcerer … ha, ha … mutated the Major’s hand … turned it into a chicken foot! The look on the wretched man’s face … priceless, I assure you! Ah, well,” Simkin said, wiping his eyes, “I suppose you had to be there. Where was I? Oh, yes. Major was going to chuck it all and call it quits, but this—what did you say his name was? Menju? Yes. This Menju fellow changed poor old Boris’s hand into a drumstick, causing the Major to “chicken” out if you’ll forgive the expression.”

Simkin appeared quite pleased with his joke.

“And?” persisted Joram.

“And what? Oh, that. The Major’s not leaving.”

“Joram—” Garald began sternly.

“What do they plan to do?” Joram asked, silencing the Prince.

“There was a word they used,” Simkin said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “A word that described it quite aptly. Let me think…. Ah! I have it! Genocide!”

“Genocide?” Garald repeated in perplexity. “What does that mean?”

“Extermination of a race of people,” Joram answered grimly. “Of course. It makes sense. Menju must kill us all.”

J
oram, keep your voice down!” Mosiah ordered.

It was too late The door between the rooms opened, but Lady Rosamund appeared. Her face was livid. She and Marie had obviously both overheard Joram. Only Gwendolyn remained unaffected, sitting in the parlor and chatting calmly with the late Count Devon.

“I’m certain they’ll move the china cabinet back to the north wall, since I’ve explained,” she was saying. “Is there anything else? Mice, you say, in the attic? They’re eating your portrait that’s stored up there? I’ll mention it, but—”

Distractedly, Lady Rosamund gazed from her daughter to her husband “Mice? China cabinets… Now … what I heard him say in here? They’re going to kill us? Why? Why is this happening?” Putting her head in her hands, she began to sob.

“My dear, calm yourself,” said Lord Samuels, hurrying to his wife’s side. Taking her in his arms, he laid her head upon
his chest, smoothing her hair with his hand. “Remember the children,” he murmured, “and the servants.”

“I know!” Biting on her handkerchief, Lady Rosamund sought to hush her weeping. “I’ll be strong. I will!” she said, choking. “It’s just … all too much! My poor child! My poor child!”

“Gentlemen, Your Grace,” said Lord Samuels, looking back into the study, “please excuse me. Come, my dear,” he said, helping his wife stand. “I’ll take you to your room. Everything’s going to be all right. Marie, stay with my daughter.”

“Gwendolyn will be fine, my lord.” Father Saryon intervened. “I will stay with her. Marie should be with her mistress.”

Lord Samuels led his wife upstairs, Marie attending her. Father Saryon sat down in a chair near Gwendolyn, looking anxiously at her to see if this news disturbed her as well. Apparently not. Perfectly at home in the world of the dead, she was oblivious to anything transpiring in the world of the living.

“Father,” said Joram abruptly, turning from where he stood beside the fireplace in milord’s study, “please move closer, where you can hear us. I need your counsel.”

What counsel can I offer? the catalyst wondered bitterly. Joram brought this doom upon the woman who loved him, upon her parents, upon the world. Upon himself.

Did he have a choice? Did we?

Patting Gwendolyn’s hand, Saryon left her discussing the need for acquiring a cat with the Count. Moving his chair nearer the door that separated the parlor from milord’s study, he sat down, his heart a burden almost too heavy to bear. What will he do now? Saryon asked himself, his eyes on Joram. What will he do?

Raising his head, almost as though he had heard the unspoken question, Joram faced him. The lead weight of Saryon’s heart sank, his fears bearing it down. The pain-filled, anguished lines carved in the sculptured face had been ground out, leaving it smooth, hard, and unyielding. The bleeding soul had crept into its stone fortress and was hiding there, nursing its wounds.

“Genocide. This explains everything,” Joram said coolly. “The murder of the civilians, the disappearance of the catalysts—”

“Joram, listen to me!” interrupted Prince Garald sternly. The Prince gestured at Simkin who was lounging, eyes closed, on the fainting-couch. “How did
he
know what they were saying?”

“By the Almin!” Joram swore softly. “That’s true!” He turned from the mantelpiece. “How did you understand what they said, Simkin? You can’t speak their language.”

“I can’t?” Simkin’s
eyes flared
open wide. He appeared no end astonished. “By Jove, I wish someone had told me! Here I wasted all this time, sitting on the Major’s desk, allowing that ham-fisted sergeant to run off with me, listening to them talk of sending for reinforcements, hearing that the reinforcements will be unable to get here for seventy-two hours…. Now you tell me that I didn’t understand a single word they said? I’m quite put out!” Simkin glared round at them indignantly “The least you could have done was tell a chap beforehand!”

Sniffing, wiping his nose with orange silk, Simkin flung himself back on the couch pillows and stared gloomily at the ceiling.

“Seventy-two hours,” Joram muttered to himself “That’s the time from the nearest starbase.

“You believe him?” Garald demanded.

“I must!” Joram flashed back. “And so must you,” he added grimly. “I don’t know how to explain it, but he’s seen the Sorcerer. He’s described him
and
Major Boris! And what he claims he overheard makes sense. Boris
didn’t
come here with orders to slaughter us! He came, undoubtedly, to intimidate us with a show of force, figuring we’d surrender. But Menju doesn’t want that.” Joram shifted his gaze from Garald back to the flickering embers. “He wants the magic. He is of this world. He wants to return to it and gain its power. And he wants everyone in it who could be a threat to him dead!”

“That’s why he has taken the catalysts prisoner,” said Saryon in sudden understanding. “He is using them to give him Life—”

“—and he is using that Life to intimidate Major Boris and to seal off the Corridor.”

“I don’t believe it! This is ridiculous!” Standing in the shadows of the study, practically forgotten, Mosiah had listened to Simkin’s story in disbelief. Now, coming forward, he looked from the Prince to Joram to Saryon pleadingly. “Simkin’s made this all up! They couldn’t kill us all—
everyone
in Thimhallan! That’s thousands, millions of people!”

“They can and they will,” Joram said flatly. “They have committed genocide before on their own world, back in ancient times, and when they went forth into the stars and found life there, they did it again—slaughtering large numbers of beings whose only crime was that of being different. They have developed highly efficient methods of killing—weapons that are capable of wiping out entire populations within minutes.

“They won’t use those here on this world, however,” Joram added thoughtfully. “Menju needs the magic in this world to remain intact, undisturbed. He couldn’t risk using a high-energy weapon, one that might disrupt Life….”

Garald shook his head, frustrated, obviously not understanding. “I agree with Mosiah. It’s impossible!”

“No it isn’t!” Joram cried angrily. “Get that out of your mind! Admit the danger! There are millions of people here, yes! But there are hundreds of thousands of millions in Beyond! Their armies are enormous. They can bring in soldiers numbering three times the population of Thimhallan if they choose!

“We fight. We defend our cities.” Joram shrugged. “In the end we must lose, overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers alone. Those that survive the sieges and the battles will be systematically rounded up and put to death: man, woman, and child. The Sorcerer will keep a few hundred catalysts or so, to make certain their kind doesn’t die out, but that will be all. He will gain control of this world, of its magic, and he and those few like him in the world Beyond will become invincible.”

“The end of the world….” Garald spoke before he thought. Saryon saw his face flush, and he cast a swift glance at Joram. “Damn it!” the Prince said suddenly, slamming his
hands on the desk. “We’ve got to stop them! There must be a way!”

Joram did not immediately answer. The fire flared and,
for an instant, Saryon saw
by its light the man’s lips twist in a dark half-smile and suddenly the catalyst was no longer in Lord Samuels’s home, in the snow-bound city of Merilon. Once again, Saryon stood in the forge in the Sorcerer’s village; he saw the fire of the hot coals shine in dark eyes, he saw a young man hammering a strangely glowing metal, once again, he saw the bitter, vengeful youth forging the Darksword.

Someone else saw that youth, too. Someone else in the room saw and remembered. Mosiah looked at the man who had a year ago been his best, his only friend.