Triumph of the Darksword (6 page)

“What do we talk about?” Simkin asked, pausing a moment as if to get his bearings, though how he could tell where he was in the blinding storm was more than Mosiah could figure. “Ah, yes. We’re headed in the right direction. Just a few more steps. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, I regale our statuesque friend with the latest gossip from court. I exhibit my newest fashions, though I do find it depressing that his responses to them are definitely what one might call stony. And I read to him.”

“What?” At this startling statement, Mosiah stopped floundering through the sand, partly to catch his breath and recover his strength and partly to stare at Simkin in amazement. “You
read
to him? What? Texts? Scriptures? I can’t imagine you—”

“—reading anything so boring?” Simkin lifted an eyebrow. “How right you are! Gad! Scriptures!” Growing pale at the thought, he fanned himself with the orange silk. “No, no. I read him jolly things to keep up his spirits. I found a large book of plays written by this frightfully prolific chap back in the old days. Quite entertaining. I get to act out all the characters. Listen, I have some of it memorized.” Simkin assumed a tragic pose. “‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet has fallen through the glass. Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth….’” He frowned. “Is that how it goes? Doesn’t quite scan.” Shrugging, he continued. “Or, if we’re not in a scholarly mood, I read him this.”

With a wave of his hand, he produced a leather-bound book and handed it to Mosiah. “Open it, any page.”

Mosiah did so. His eyes widened. “That’s disgusting!” he said, slamming the book shut. He glared at Simkin. “You don’t mean you read that … that filth to … to—”

“Filth! You peasant! It’s art!” Simkin cried, snatching the book away from Mosiah and consigning it to the ethers. “As I said, it
helped
keep up his spirits—”

“Helped? What do you mean ‘helped’?” Mosiah interrupted. “Why past tense?”

“Because I am afraid our catalyst is now in the past tense,” Simkin said. “Move the shield over a fraction of an inch. There, at your feet.”

“My god!” Mosiah whispered in horror. He glanced back up at Simkin. “No, it can’t be!”

“I’m afraid so, dear boy,” Simkin said, shaking his head sadly. “There is no doubt in my mind that these blocks, these stones, these worse than senseless things are all that is left of our poor bald friend.”

Mosiah knelt down. Protected by the magical shield, he brushed away the sand from what appeared to be the statues head. He blinked back sudden tears. He had been hoping, praying that Simkin had made a mistake, that this was one of the other Watchers, perhaps. But there was no denying that it was Saryon—the mild, scholarly face; the gentle, loving expression he remembered so well. He could even see, as Garald had said, the look of infinite peace carved forever in the stone.

“How could this happen?” Mosiah demanded angrily. “Who could have done such a thing? I didn’t know it was possible to break the spell—”

“It isn’t,” said Simkin with a strange smile.

Mosiah rose to his feet. “It isn’t?” he repeated, regarding Simkin suspiciously. “How do you know?
What
do you know about this?”

Simkin shrugged. “Simply that this spell is not reversible. Stop and think. The Watchers have been here hundreds of years. During that time, nothing and no one has been able to alter them or return them to life.” He gestured at the broken pieces on the sand. “I’ve stood here and watched while Xavier and his merry band hacked and hammered at the rock hands of our friend, trying to free the Darksword. All they got for their pains was gravel. I saw the warlock shoot spell after spell at Saryon, and beyond setting fire to a few pigeons—nothing. And yet we find the stone statue now, shattered into pieces when not even the most powerful spells of one of the strongest warlocks in the world could touch it.”

Mosiah shivered. Despite the magical shield, he could feel the temperature of the air dropping. His mouth was parched and dry and the longer he stayed the stronger his feelings of uneasiness grew. “What else do you—”

“Over there. I’ll show you,” Simkin said, gesturing insistently.

“How far away is it?” Mosiah asked hesitantly. “I’m not sure how much longer….”

“You’re doing fine. The shield’s holding. Just a ways. Keep going, straight ahead.”

Mosiah walked forward, trying as best he could to avoid the sand-covered mounds that he assumed were parts of the broken stone statue. That Saryon was dead, he had no doubt. He supposed he should feel grief or relief, but right now all he felt was a numbness and a growing fear that something was terribly wrong.

“There,” Simkin said, coming to a halt, his hands on his hips.

Mosiah followed his gaze, staring straight ahead of him and his blood congealed in his veins, the chill causing him to shudder from head to toe.

Garald had described the Border as gently shifting, swirling patches of mist. Mosiah saw a whirling mass of ugly greenish black cloud. Lightning flickered on the fringes, the wind sucked the sand up in twisting funnels, then spewed it out of its boiling maw, alternating inhaling and exhaling like a living thing. Mosiah felt his magical shield begin to give way.

“My Life’s drained!” He gasped. “I can’t hold the shield much longer!”

“Corridor!” Simkin said coolly. “Run for it!”

Turning, they stumbled back through the sand; Simkin leading the way or Mosiah would have been instantly lost in the storm.

“We’re nearly there!” Simkin cried, grasping hold of Mosiah as the young man collapsed onto the beach. With Simkin’s help, Mosiah staggered to his feet, but the shield vanished. Sand blasted them. The wind roared and shrieked around their ears, beating at them with gigantic fists, tugging them backward into the maw, then pitching them forward onto their knees.

Mosiah couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. All was noise and tumult, darkness and stinging sand.

And then there was blessed quiet.

Opening his eyes, Mosiah looked around him in astonishment. He hadn’t even experienced the sensation of being in the Corridor and here he was, back in Radisovik’s study
along with Simkin, looking particularly ludicrous with the orange silk tied around his nose and mouth.

Rising from his seat, Cardinal Radisovik stared at the two in amazement.

“What is the matter?” he asked, hurrying forward to help Mosiah, pale and trembling, to a chair. “Calm yourself Where have you been? I’ll send for some wine …”

“The Border Borderlands?” Mosiah stammered, trying unsuccessfully to stop shaking. He jumped to his feet, rebuffing the Cardinals attempts to soothe him. “I must see Prince Garald? Where is he?”

“In the War Room, I believe,” said Radisovik. “But why? What’s wrong?”

“This cravat,” said Simkin, regarding himself critically in a mirror on the Cardinal’s wall. “The mauve absolutely wretched with gray…”

T
he War Room was, in actuality, a large ballroom located in one wing of the king’s palace in the city-state of Sharakan. Unlike the magnificent floating Crystal Palace of Merilon, the palace at Sharakan stood on firm ground. Constructed of granite, it was as unpretentious, stalwart, and matter-of-fact as its citizens and their rulers.

The castle had once been a mountain—a small mountain but a mountain nonetheless—that had been magically altered by stone shapers of the
Pron-alban
class of wizards into a sturdy, exceedingly grim fortress. Later rulers of Sharakan had added their own touches to the palace, softening the harsh lines of the battlements, adding a garden in the center courtyard that was considered one of the loveliest in all of Thimhallan, and generally making it a more pleasant place in which to dwell.

But the palace was a fortress still; its one major distinction in the world being that it had never fallen in battle, not
even during the terrible and destructive fights of the Iron Wars, which had leveled the palaces of Zith-el and Merilon, among others. Thus it had been an easy matter for Prince Garald to convert the palace of Sharakan into an armed camp, bringing in warlocks and catalysts from the city and its surrounding environs to tram them in the art of warfare. Into the city of Sharakan itself he brought the Sorcerers from their exile in the Outland, setting them to work manufacturing weapons, siege machines, and other dark, technological implements of destruction.

The inhabitants of Sharakan were gearing up for war as well. The Illusionists ceased wasting their energies creating living paintings or enhancing the colors of the setting sun and turned their attention to creating illusions more terrifying and horrible, illusions that would penetrate the mind of the enemy, causing as much or more destruction than an arrow tip penetrating the body.

The Guilds of the
Pron-alban
, including Stone Shapers, Wood Shapers, Fabric Shapers, and so forth, turned their attention from mundane domestic duties to war. The Stone Shapers strengthened the walls of the city in case the unthinkable happened—that Xavier should break his sworn word and refuse to accept the decision determined on the Field of Glory, in which case he would undoubtedly attack the city itself. The Wood Shapers joined forces with the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts to create spears, arrows, and the siege engines.

Working thus closely with the Sorcerers proved difficult for some of the Shapers to accept. Although more liberal in their views of Technology than most people in Thimhallan (carts with wheels could actually be seen in use in the city), the magi of Sharakan had been raised to believe that the extensive use of Technology was the first step on the path to the realm of Death. Only their love and loyalty for their Prince and King and their belief that this war was necessary for the continuance of their life-style caused the people of Sharakan to grit their teeth and perform what was considered a mortal sin—give life to that which was Lifeless.

The Guildsmen worked with the Sorcerers, therefore, many discovering with a certain amount of pleasure and astonishment that Technology had definite advantages and
that, when combined with magic, it could be used to create many functional and useful objects—the brick houses that so impressed Cardinal Radisovik, for example. While the Guildsmen and the Sorcerers worked, the
Sif-Hanar
made certain that the weather in the city was generally fine, while still providing rain for the crops in the outlying farming villages to insure a bountiful harvest. In case the city itself was besieged, the warlocks and catalysts would have no energy to spare conjuring food.

The nobility of Sharakan—the
Albanara—
were preparing for war in their own way as well. Those who owned and managed the farmlands made certain that their Field Magi were working to the fullest. Those with some smattering of skill in Shaping volunteered to assist the Guildsmen at their work. This notion quickly caught on and became much the fashion in Sharakan. Soon it was not unusual to see a Marquis expending his magical energies repairing a crack in the city wall or a Baron merrily pumping the bellows of the forge. The nobles had an extremely good time, working at these arduous tasks for an hour or so each week, then returning home to collapse with fatigue, soak in a hot bath, and congratulate themselves on contributing to the war effort. Unfortunately, they were more of a hindrance than a help to the Guildsmen, who, however, could do nothing but put up with it and endeavor to repair the bungled jobs as best they could after the nobles tired of them.

The aristocratic ladies of Sharakan were no less enthusiastic than their husbands about supporting the war, many contributing their own catalysts and House Magi to the cause. This involved considerable sacrifice. To have “done one’s own hair” became quite the rage, whereas the Baroness who could sigh and say she “simply did not have Life enough to play Swan’s Doom today as her catalyst had been summoned to the palace to learn to fight” was looked upon with envy by those less fortunate ladies whose catalysts had been pronounced unfit for duty and sent home.

Prince Garald knew of these absurdities and overlooked them. The Marquis who had spent three hours shaping one small rock had contributed half his wealth to the war. The bellows-pumping Baron gave enough food to keep the city stocked for a month. Garald was well satisfied with the way
his people were preparing for the forthcoming conflict. He himself worked untiringly at it, spending long hours in either training or study.

If Garald had one secret wish in his life, it was his desire to be a warlock. Since he could not—having been born
Albanara—
he did the next best thing, throwing himself into the war body and soul. Having studied warfare extensively, he was nearly as knowledgeable in it as were the War Masters, those warlocks who spent their lives training for battle. Garald garnered the respect of these men and women—not an easy task—and, unlike some kingdoms where the War Masters were only too happy to hustle the king out of their way, those of Sharakan were only too happy to have the Prince’s help and advice. Prince Garald worked with them to teach the novice warlocks and their catalysts how to fight. He developed a strategy for the war and announced that he would take on the role of Field Commander at the Gameboard when the battle started—a decision that was not disputed by the War Masters, who recognized natural talent when they saw it.