Triumph of the Darksword (40 page)

What about Joram? Would he cooperate? Entering the Temple, the Sorcerer allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. His plan was foolproof. Joram was known to be devoted to his mad wife. Once realizing that Menju had Gwendolyn captive, Joram would be only too happy to cooperate. Insane though the woman may be, at least she was capable of some form of rational thought. Better that than seeing her mental capacity reduced to the level of a rotting tomato.

Menju switched the setting on his phaser from “kill” to “stun.” Crouching down in the darkness behind a column of the ruined Temple, conscious of a breathless hush that had settled over the top of the world, the Sorcerer waited.

M
enju’s instincts were right. He
was
being watched. And though most of the eyes watching him belonged to the dead, one pair did not. One pair belonged to the living. Someone else had arrived at the Temple of the Necromancer. Someone else was waiting.

The presence of the humans disturbed the dead, who had not seen living bodies on their hallowed ground in centuries. But it was not just the presence alone of these two men that caused the spirits restless agitation. Clustered about their Temple, they watched with unseeing eyes, listened with deaf ears, spoke with dumb mouths. For there was no one to understand them, no one to hear them, and their sense of frustration was great. The dead—who were one with the mind of Almin—knew the danger but were helpless to act. All they could do was watch with those watching and wait with those waiting.

This second Watcher was, in reality, the first. He had arrived at the Temple of the Necromancer very early in the
morning, just as the pale, cold sun was struggling up over the mountain peaks, creeping sluggishly into the sky as if wondering why it bothered to rise at all. Even the eyes of the dead—who see time moving not second by second as do the living, but as one vast, everchanging ocean—nearly missed noticing this man. Emerging from the Corridor, he vanished again instantly, disappearing almost in the second of his appearance.

It took some doing, but the dead located him, or at least part of him, for this man was good at his calling. No human eye could pierce his shield of invisibility, and it was all the spirits could do to keep his image in their minds. The man they saw was dressed formally for the commission of Justice, wearing gray robes decorated with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries. Many of the dead recognized him—the Executioner—and they either trembled or cursed him.

One of the most powerful warlocks in Thimhallan, the Executioner dwelled within the Font. His services belonged exclusively to the catalysts in general, and Bishop Vanya in particular. In return for performing such deeds for them as the Turning to Stone and the Banishment to Beyond, the Executioner was given unlimited Life and freedom to use that Life as he chose. Thus he had been able to develop his skills in the discipline of magic far beyond those of his peers.

This day, however, the Executioner was not going to rely upon magic. As did the other Watcher in the Temple, he carried in the pocket of his gray robes a Tool, a demonic device created by the Dark Arts of Technology.

Intrigued by the device, which he had spent the night studying, the Executioner withdrew it and examined it intently. The dead, drawn by curiosity, crowded around, gazing at the device in shock and horror. What it was and what it did they had some idea, since they were one with the Creator of All. They found the terrible device difficult to understand, however, as perhaps did the Creator, who must have, on occasion, regretted giving mankind intelligence that was turned so often to malevolent pursuits.

The night previous, Bishop Vanya had called the Executioner to his office. Giving him his orders, he had made certain that the warlock knew exactly what was required of him.

“For returning to this realm and bringing upon it untold danger, the sentence of death is placed upon this man Joram,” pronounced the Bishop’s sonorous voice. “He has tricked the people into naming him Emperor; therefore, the rest of the
Duuk-tsarith
are bound by strict oaths to protect him You—the Executioner—are to consider yourself above these laws, since the Church—the highest authority in the land, existing by the blessing of the Almin—has decreed Joram’s death. Once the sentence has been carried out, you will retrieve the Darksword and bring it immediately to me to prevent its presence in the world from causing further harm.”

The Bishop had stopped here for breath and to carefully scrutinize the Executioner in order to make certain that he understood what he was meant to understand and didn’t what he wasn’t.

“Further,” the Bishop had continued, sucking in a noseful of air, “although the execution of Joram is undeniably justified, we consider that it will be best—the people being in a nervous and unsettled state—to allow the populace to believe that their Emperor has met his death at the hands of the enemy. A man called Menju the Sorcerer, a criminal you yourself cast into Beyond, is meeting with Joram at the Temple of the Necromancers—clear proof, by the way, that our Emperor intends to betray his people. It would be quite beneficial to all concerned if the two, Joram and this Sorcerer, were to have a falling out that would result in the Emperor’s death…”

The Executioner, understanding perfectly, had bowed in acquiescence and removed himself from the Bishop’s presence without uttering a word.

Entering a Corridor, the warlock left the Font, traveling through time and space until he arrived at the secret, subterranean chambers of the Order of
Duuk-tsarith.
Making his needs known to those in charge, the Executioner was immediately given access to certain rooms kept sealed off from the rest. In these rooms, the personal effects confiscated from the bodies of the strange humans were being studied.

Various members of
Duuk-tsarith
, engaged in sorting and cataloging the effects, bowed in homage to one so high-rank
ing in their Order, and stood aside from their work to allow him to examine the objects. He was not interested in the remarkable timekeeping devices or the ugly jewelry or the pieces of parchment that had captured images of other strange humans, mostly females and children. The Executioner passed over these without a glance. He was interested only in the weapons.

Although not born to the Ninth Mystery himself, the Executioner was familiar with the tools of the Dark Arts, having studied them as he had studied much else in this world. Carefully he went over the cache of weapons, examining each one he came to, being careful not to touch any of them. Occasionally he asked a question of one of the
Duuk-tsarith
standing respectfully nearby. The Executioner discovered, however, that he knew as much, or in some cases more, about these weapons than they did.

Although he had not participated in the battle, he had watched it with interest, noting the lethal swiftness with which the weapons casting the beams of light could kill. He studied these first. Small enough to fit in the palm of the hand, the metal devices gave absolutely no indication, at least outwardly, of how they were operated.

The Executioner was just beginning to think he might have to trust his luck to one of these anyway, hoping he would not accidentally incinerate himself while endeavoring to figure out how it worked, when he came to something that suited him much better.

A projectile weapon.

He had read of these in the ancient texts of the Dark Arts. Although as far as anyone knew, none of these devices had ever been constructed on Thimhallan, they had been theorized and a few crude renderings of how they might work still existed. This weapon was, of course, much more complex than any of the drawings the Executioner had seen, but he assumed it operated along the same principles.

Wrapping it gingerly in a cloth, the Executioner placed the weapon and a large number of what appeared to be its projectiles in a box. He sealed the box with strong runes of protection against fire and explosion, then, carrying the box carefully, he left the dark and secret chambers of the
Duuk-tsarith
, and traveled the Corridors to Merilon.

The blacksmith, nearly on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, was considerably startled to see a gray-robed figure emerge from the Corridor outside his makeshift forge in Merilon. Everyone on Thimhallan knew of the Executioner, by legend if not by sight. Strong and stalwart man though he was, the blacksmith could not help shuddering with fear when the warlock approached him.

A panicked thought entered the smiths weary mind. “I’m going to be blamed for the enemy’s attack and executed without benefit of a trial.” Lifting a hammer, the smith prepared to sell his life dear.

But the Executioner, speaking in his cool, deep voice, assured the smith at once that it was his brains the warlock sought, not his head.

Bringing the box out of the folds of his robes, the Executioner rubbed out the runes, unwrapped the cloth, and exhibited the weapon to the blacksmith.

Sighing in awe, the smith lifted the weapon and ran his hands over it lovingly. The ingenuity and perfection of its workmanship and design caused his eyes to mist over with tears. The Executioner abruptly cut short the smith’s rapturizing, however, by demanding to know how the thing worked.

It is possible that the Executioner cringed slightly when the smith began to dismantle the weapon. Possible … but doubtful. The Executioner was a highly disciplined individual who, if he had emotions, never revealed them to anyone. To all outward appearance, he stood unmoved and unmoving, his face concealed by his gray hood the entire time the smith worked on the weapon.

The blacksmith spent an hour in intense examination of the tool and, at last, after reverently reassembling the components, announced bluntly, “I know
how
it works, my lord, though how they captured all that power is beyond me.”

“That,” answered the Executioner, “is more than sufficient.”

The blacksmith, holding the weapon. In his hands and stroking it fondly, explained matters clearly and concisely.

“Aim the weapon at your target. When you press against this small lever with your finger”—the blacksmith pointed—
“the weapon will shoot forth the projectile with such force that it should go through damn near anything.”

“Flesh?” asked the Executioner offhandedly.

“Flesh, rock, iron.” The blacksmith looked at the weapon with wistful longing. “I don’t suppose you’d care to see it demonstrated, my lord?”

“No,” the warlock replied. “Your explanation is satisfactory.”

Retrieving the weapon, the Executioner stepped into the Corridor and vanished. With a heavy sigh, the smith hefted his hammer and began pounding on a crude spear tip, all the joy having gone out of his work.

Returning to the safety and privacy of his own chambers in the Font—chambers far underground, studiously avoided by everyone, and the only place where, it was said, the eyes of the Font were blind and the ears stopped up—the Executioner demonstrated the weapon himself. Pointing it at a wall, he wrapped his finger around the small lever as the blacksmith had indicated and squeezed.

The concussive blast nearly deafened him, the weapons recoil staggered him. He all but dropped the thing and his hand stung with the shock for minutes afterward. Going to examine the target on the wall, once he had recovered himself, the Executioner was frustrated to find no trace of the projectile. The wall was smooth and undamaged. Further investigation revealed, however, that this was not the fault of the tool but the fault of the one using the tool. The Executioner had missed his target by, if not the proverbial mile, then certainly a city block.

Undaunted, the Executioner cast a temporary spell of deafness over himself. Holding the weapon with both hands, he finally managed, after an hour, to at least come close to hitting his target. Measuring the holes he had made in the wall, the Executioner saw that they fit well within a space large enough to accommodate a human’s upper body. This was good enough. It was nearly dawn anyway and he had to make certain he took up his position unseen and unsuspected.

When he arrived at the Temple, the Executioner stationed himself near the altar stone, protected from all eyes except those of the dead by his shield of invisibility. From
this vantage point, he observed the Sorcerer’s arrival (the Executioner could have reached out and touched the man) and watched with keen interest as Menju selected his own hiding place.

The Executioner glanced at the sun. Not too much longer. Standing in the bright sunlight, conscious of a breathless hush that had settled over the top of the world, the Executioner waited.