Doom Of The Darksword Part 10

"No, a bed by the fire is fine. Much better than what I am accustomed to, in fact, Your Grace." Saryon bowed wearily. "Besides, I am suddenly so tired that I will probably never know whether I am lying on swan's down or pine needles."

"Very well, Father. I bid you good-night. And, Father" - Garald rested his hand on the older man's arm - "erase your conscience of the guilt of Blachloch's death. The man was evil. Had you allowed him to live, he would have killed Joram and taken the darkstone. It was by the Almin's will that Joram acted, the Almin's justice that Joram meted out."

"Perhaps." Saryon smiled wanly. "To my mind, it was still murder. Killing has become easy for Joram - too easy. He sees it as his way to gain the power he lacks in magic. I bid you good-night, Your Grace."

"Good night, Father," said Garald, considering his words thoughtfully, "May the Almin watch over you."

"May He indeed," Saryon murmured, turning away.

The Prince of Sharakan did not retire to his own tent until far into the starlit hours of early morning. Back and forth he walked over the gra.s.s in the cold night air, cloaked in furs that he caused to appear without thinking about it. His thoughts were occupied by the strange, dark tale of madness and murder, of Life and Death, of magic and its destroyer. At last, when he knew himself to be tired enough that he could banish the tale into the realm of sleep, he stood looking down at the slumbering group fate had cast into his path.

Or was it fate?

"This isn't the way to Merilon," he said to himself, the fact suddenly occurring to him. "Why are they traveling this route? There are others to the east far shorter and safer....

"And who has been their guide? Let me guess. Three who have never traveled in the world. One who has been everywhere." His eyes went to the figure in the white nightshirt. No babe in his mothers arms slumbered more sweetly than Simkin, though the ta.s.sel of the nightcap had fallen down over his mouth and there was every likelihood that he would inhale it and swallow it before the night was ended.

"What game are you playing now, old friend?" muttered Garald. "Certainly not tarok. Of all the shadows I see falling across this young man, why is yours, somehow, the darkest?"

Musing on this, the Prince retired to his tent, leaving the unmoving, watchful Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith to rule the night. to rule the night.

But Garald's sleep was not unbroken as he had hoped. More than once, he found himself waking with a start, thinking he heard the gleeful laughter of a bucket.

12.

The Fencing Master "Get up!"

The toe of a boot struck Joram in the ribs, not gently. Startled, half-asleep, his heart pounding, the young man sat up from his blankets and shoved the tangled black hair back from his eyes. "What -".

"I said, get up," repeated a cool voice.

Prince Garald stood above Joram, regarding him with a pleasant smile.

Joram rubbed his eyes and glanced about. It was just before dawn, he supposed, although the only indication was a faint brightening of the sky above the treetops to the east. Otherwise, it was still dark. The fire had burned low; his companions lay asleep around it. Two silken tents, barely visible in the prelight, stood at the edge of the clearing, flags fluttering from their pointed tops. These had not been there the day before and were, presumably, where the Prince and Cardinal Radisovik spent the night.

In the center of the clearing, near the dying fire, stood one of the black-robed Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith in what Joram could swear was the same position he had seen him standing in last night. The warlock's hands were folded before him, his face lost in shadow. But the hooded head was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes. in what Joram could swear was the same position he had seen him standing in last night. The warlock's hands were folded before him, his face lost in shadow. But the hooded head was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes.

"What is it? What do you want?" Joram asked. His hand crept to the sword beneath his blanket.

"'What do you want, Your Grace Your Grace,'" corrected the Prince with a grin. "That does stick in your craw, doesn't it, young man. Yes, bring the weapon," he added, though Joram had supposed he was making his move un.o.bserved.

Chagrined, Joram drew the Darksword from beneath the blanket, but he did not stand up.

"I asked what you wanted ... Your Grace," he said coldly, his lip curling.

"If you are going to use that weapon" - the Prince glanced at the sword in amused distaste - "then you had better learn how to use it properly. I could have skewered you like a chicken yesterday instead of merely disarming you. Whatever powers that sword possesses" - Garald regarded it more intently - "won't do you much good if it is lying on the ground ten feet away from you. Come on. I know a place in the woods where we can practice without disturbing the others."

Joram hesitated, studying the Prince with his dark eyes, searching for the man's motive behind this show of interest.

Undoubtedly he wants to learn more about the sword, Joram thought. Perhaps even take if from me. What a charmer he is - almost as good as Simkin. I was duped by him last night. I won't be today. I'll go along with this, if I can truly learn something. If not, I'll leave. And if he tries to take the sword, I'll kill him.

Antic.i.p.ating the chili air, Joram reached for his cloak, but the Prince stepped on it with his foot. "No, no, my friend," Garald said, "you'll be warm enough soon. Very warm indeed."

An hour later, laying flat on his back on the frozen ground, the breath knocked from his body and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Joram thought no more of his cloak.

The steel blade of the Prince's sword slammed into the ground near him, so close that he flinched.

"Right through the throat," Garald remarked. "And you never saw it coming...."

"It wasn't a fair fight," Joram muttered. Accepting the Prince's hand, he heaved himself to his feet, swallowing a groan. "You tripped me!"

"My dear young man," said Garald impatiently, "when you draw that sword in earnest, it is - or should be - a matter of life and death. Your life and your opponent's death. Honor is a very fine thing, but the dead have little use for it."

"A pretty speech, coming from you," mumbled Joram, ma.s.saging his aching jaw and spitting out blood.

"I can afford honor," Garald said with a shrug. "I am a skilled swordsman. I have trained in the art for years. You, on the other hand, cannot. There is no way, in the short time we have together, that I can teach you even a part of the intricate techniques of sword fighting. What I can teach you is how to survive against a skilled opponent long enough to permit you to call upon the sword's ... um ... powers to defeat him.

"Now" - more briskly - "you try it. Look, your attention was concentrated on the sword in my hands. Thus I was able to bring my foot around, catch you behind the heel, drag you off balance, and clout you in the face with the hilt like this -" Garald demonstrated, stopping just short of Joram's bruised cheek. "Now you try it. Good! Good!" the Prince cried, tumbling down. "You're quick and strong. Use that to your advantage." He rose to his feet, taking no note of the mud on his fine clothes.

Stepping into a fighting stance, he raised his sword and grinned at Joram.

"Shall we have a go at it again?"

Hours pa.s.sed. The sun rose in the sky and, though the day was far from warm, both men soon stripped off their shirts. Their labored breathing misted the air about them; the ground soon looked as though a small army had fought over it. The forest rang with the sound of blade against blade. Finally, when both were so exhausted they could do nothing but lean upon their weapons and gasp for breath, the Prince called a halt.

Sinking down on a boulder warmed by the sun, he motioned for Joram to sit beside him. The young man did so, panting and wiping his face. Blood seeped from numerous cuts and scratches on his arms and legs. His jaw was swollen and aching, several teeth had been knocked loose, and he was so tired that even breathing seemed an effort. But it was a good kind of tiredness. He'd held his own against the Prince in their last few pa.s.ses and had, once, even knocked the sword from Garald's hand.

"Water," the Prince muttered, glancing about. A waterskin lay near their shirts - far across the clearing. With a weary gesture, Garald motioned for the waterskin to come to them. It obeyed, but the Prince was so tired that he had little energy to expend in magic. Consequently, the waterskin dragged itself across the ground, rather than flying swiftly through the air.

"It looks like I feel!" Garald said, panting.

Catching hold of the skin as it came near, he lifted it and drank a few sips, then pa.s.sed it to Joram. "Not much," he cautioned. "Cramps the belly."

Joram drank and pa.s.sed it back. Garald poured some in his hand and splashed it on his face and chest, his skin shivering in the biting air.

"You're doing ... well, young man ..." Garald said, drawing deep breaths. "Very ... well. If ... we're not both dead ... at the end of the week ... you should be ... ready...."

"Week? ... Ready?" Joram saw the trees blur before his eyes. Talking coherently at the moment lay beyond his capacity. "I ... leave ... Merilon...."

"Not for a week." Garald shook his head, and took another pull at the waterskin. "Don't forget ..." he said with a grin, resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head down to breathe more easily, "you are my prisoner. Or do you think ... you could fight me ... and the Duuk-tsarith?" Duuk-tsarith?"

Joram closed his eyes. His throat ached, his lungs burned, his muscles twitched, his cuts stung. He hurt all over. "I couldn't ... fight ... the catalyst ... right now...." he admitted with almost a smile.

The two sat upon the boulder, resting. Neither spoke, neither felt the need for speech. As he grew more rested, Joram relaxed, a warm and pleasant feeling of peace stole over him. He took note of the surroundings - a small clearing in the center of the forest, a clearing that might have been formed magically, it was so perfect. In fact, Joram realized, it probably had had been carved from the woods by magic - the Prince's magic. been carved from the woods by magic - the Prince's magic.

Joram and the Prince were alone, something else Joram wondered about. They had been making noise enough for a regiment, and the young man expected at any moment to see the snooping catalyst come to find out what was going on, or at least Mosiah and the ever-curious Simkin. But Garald had spoken to the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith before they left, and Joram a.s.sumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away. before they left, and Joram a.s.sumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away.

"I don't mind," Joram decided. He liked it here - peaceful, quiet, the sun warm upon the rock where he was sitting. He couldn't remember, in fact, ever having felt this content. His restless mind slowed its frenetic pace and glided easily among the treetops, listening to the steady breathing of his companion, the pumping of his own heart.

"Joram," said Garald, "what do you plan to do when you get to Merilon?"

Joram shrugged, wishing the man had not spoken, willing him to be quiet and not break the spell.

"No, we need to discuss this," Garald said, seeing the expressive face grow shadowed. "Perhaps I'm wrong, but I have the feeling 'going to Merilon' is like some child's tale with you. Once you get there, you expect your life to be 'all better' just because you stand in the shadows of its floating platforms. Believe me, Joram" - the Prince shook his head - "it won't happen. I've been to Merilon. Not recently, of course." He smiled sardonically. "But in the days when we were at peace. And I can tell you that - right now - you won't get within sight of the city gates. You are a savage from the Outland. The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith will have you" - he snapped his fingers - "like that!" will have you" - he snapped his fingers - "like that!"

The sun disappeared, shrouded by clouds. A wind came up, whistling mournfully among the trees. Shivering, Joram stood up and started to walk across the clearing to where his shirt lay on the gra.s.s.

"No, stay. I'll get it," Garald said, putting a restraining hand on Joram's arm. With a gesture, he caused both shirts to take wing, flitting through the air toward them like fabric birds. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting you are Dead. We have so few Dead in Sharakan, I've never met anyone like you."

Joram scowled, feeling the swift, sharp pain he always experienced whenever reminded of the difference between himself and everyone else in this world. He glared at the Prince angrily, certain the man was mocking him. But Garald wasn't watching, he had his head in his shirt. "I have always envied Simkin his ability to change his clothes at a whim. Not to mention," the Prince grunted, pulling the fine cambric shirt down over his shoulders, "changing himself at a whim. Bucket!"

His head emerging from the collar, Garald smoothed his hair, grinning over the remembrance. Then, growing more serious, he continued on his original topic of thought. "There are many Dead born in Merilon, or so we've heard," he said, his casual acceptance of the fact slowly smothering Joram's fiery anger. "Particularly among the n.o.bility. But they try to get rid of them, putting the babies to death or smuggling them into the Outland. They are rotting inside" - his clear eyes grew shadowed, darkening with his own anger - "and they would spread their disease to the entire world if they had their way. Well" - he drew a deep breath, shaking it off - "they won't have it."

"We were talking about Merilon," Joram said harshly. Sitting back down, he grabbed a handful of gravel from the ground, and began tossing rocks at a distant tree trunk.

"Yes, I'm sorry," Garald said. "Now, as to getting inside the city -"

"Look," Joram interrupted impatiently, "don't worry about it! We'll have fancy clothes, if that's all it takes. The castoffs from Simkin's wardrobe alone could last us for years...."

"Then what?"

"Then - then...." Joram shrugged impatiently. "What does it matter to you anyway ... Your Grace?" he said, his lip curling in contempt. Glancing around, he saw Garald regarding him with a calm and serious expression, the clear eyes delving deep into dark, murky parts of Joram's soul that Joram himself had never dared explore. Instantly the young man reinforced the stone wall around himself.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded angrily, gesturing at the Darksword that lay on the ground near him. "What do you care whether I live or die? What's in it for you?"

Garald regarded Joram silently, then he smiled slowly; a smile of sadness and regret. "That's all there is for you, isn't there, Joram?" he said. "'What's in it for me?' It doesn't matter to you that I've heard your story from the catalyst, that I pity you ... Ah, yes, that makes you furious, but it's true. I pity you ... and I admire you."

Joram turned away from the Prince, turned away from the intense gaze of those clear, clear eyes, his own dark eyes staring into the tangled boughs of the bare, dead trees.

"I admire you," the Prince continued steadily, "I admire the intelligence and perseverance you showed in discovering what has been lost to the world for centuries. I know the courage it took to face Blachloch, and I admire you for standing up to him. If nothing else, I owe you something for saving us - if inadvertently - from the double-dealings of the warlock. But, I see that doesn't satisfy you. You You want my 'ulterior motive.'" want my 'ulterior motive.'"

"Don't tell me you haven't got one," muttered Joram bitterly.

"Very well, my friend, I'll tell you 'what's in it for me.' You take your sword, your Darksword as you call it, and you go to Merilon. And with it or without it" - Garald shrugged - "you win back your inheritance. You conceal the fact that you are Dead - as you are well capable of doing so long as you have the catalyst to cover for you. Never thought about that, did you? Good idea, consider it. Up until now, it hasn't mattered whether or not you called upon a catalyst to give you Life. There weren't any catalysts in the Sorcerers' village to call. But it will be different in Merilon. You will be expected to use your catalyst, to have one with you. With Saryon at your side, you can keep up your pretense of having Life.

"But now, where was I? Oh, yes. You find your mother's people and you convince them that they should accept you into the bosom of their family. Who knows, they may be grieving still over the misguided daughter who ran away before they could show her how much they cared and were willing to forgive. Or perhaps the family has died out, perhaps you can prove your claim and gain their lands and t.i.tle.

"No matter," Garald continued archly. "Let us suppose that all this has a happy ending and you are a n.o.bleman, Joram; a n.o.bleman of Merilon, complete with t.i.tle and land and wealth. What do I want from you, n.o.ble gentleman? Look at me, Joram."

The young man could not help but turn at the compelling sound of the voice. There was no lightness, no archness in it now. "I want you to come to Sharakan," the Prince said. "I want you to bring your Darksword and to fight with us."

Joram stared at him incredulously. "What makes you think I'll do that? Once I have have gained my rightful holdings, I'll do nothing but -" gained my rightful holdings, I'll do nothing but -"

"- watch the world go by?" Garald smiled. "No, I don't think you will, Joram. You couldn't do that among the Sorcerers. Fear for yourself didn't prompt you to fight the warlock. Oh, I don't know the details, but - if that had been the case - you could have always fled on your own, leaving someone else to face him. No, you did it because there is something deep inside you that feels the need to protect and defend those weaker than yourself. That That is your birthright; you were born is your birthright; you were born Albanara Albanara. And because of that I believe you will see Merilon with eyes that are not blinded by the pretty clouds among which its people dwell.

"You have been a Field Magus. By the Almin!" Garald continued more pa.s.sionately as Joram, shaking his head, turned away again. "You have lived under the tyranny of Merilon, Joram! Its rigid traditions and beliefs caused your mother to be cast out, your father to be sentenced to living death! You will see a city of beauty, certainly, but it is beauty covering decay! It is even said that the Empress -" Garald stopped abruptly. "Never mind." He spoke in a low voice, clasping his hands together. "I can't believe that that is true, not even of them." is true, not even of them."

The Prince paused, drawing a deep breath. "Don't you see, Joram?" he continued more calmly. "You - a n.o.ble of Merilon - come to us, prepared to fight to restore your city's ancient honor. My people would be impressed. And, most importantly, you would help influence the Sorcerers, whom you have lived among. We hope to ally with them, but I am certain they would follow my father's guidance much more readily if he could point to you and say, 'Look, here is one you know and trust, fighting on our side as well!' The Sorcerers do know and like you, I suppose?" the Prince asked offhandedly.

Had Joram been knowledgeable about such things as verbal parry and thrust, he would have recognized that the Prince was maneuvering him into position.

"They know me, at least," Joram said briefly, not giving the matter much thought. He was considering the Prince's words. He could see himself riding into Sharakan, resplendent with the trappings of his rank, to be welcomed by the King and his son. That would be a fine thing. But going to war with them? Bah! What did he care....

"Ah!" Garald said casually. "'They know me, at least,' you say. Which means, I suppose, that they know you but don't particularly like you. And, of course, you don't give a d.a.m.n about that, do you?"

Joram raised his dark eyes, on his guard at once. It was too late.

"You will fail in Merilon, Joram. You will fail anywhere you go."

"And why is that ... Your Grace?" Sneering, Joram never felt the point of the verbal blade pressed against his heart.

"Because you want to be a n.o.ble, and perhaps by rights you are are a n.o.ble. But unfortunately, Joram, there isn't one ounce of n.o.bility within you," answered Garald coolly. a n.o.ble. But unfortunately, Joram, there isn't one ounce of n.o.bility within you," answered Garald coolly.

The words struck home. Torn and bleeding inside, Joram made a clumsy attempt to return the blow. "Forgive me, Your Grace!" he whined in mockery. "I don't have fine clothes, like you. I don't bathe in rose petals, or perfume my hair! People don't call me 'milord' and beg to kiss my a.s.s! Not yet they don't! But they will!" His voice shook in anger. He sprang to his feet, facing Garald, his fists clenched. "By the Almin, they will! And so will you, d.a.m.n you!"

Garald rose to face the enraged young man. "Yes, I should have guessed that is your idea of a n.o.bleman, Joram. And this is precisely why you will never be one. I'm beginning to think that I mistook you, that you belong in Merilon, because this is exactly what many of them think!" The Prince glanced eastward, in the direction of the faraway city. "They will soon learn they are wrong," he said earnestly, "but they will pay dearly for their lesson. And so will you." He focused his attention on the quivering, angry young man standing before him. "The Almin teaches us that a man is n.o.ble, not by some accident of birth, but by how he treats his fellow man. Strip away the fine clothes and the perfume and the gilt, Joram, and your body is no different from that of your friend, the Field Magus. Naked, we are all the same - nothing more than food for the worms.

"The dead have little use for honor, as I said before. They have little use for anything else, either. What are t.i.tle, wealth, breeding to them? We may walk different paths through this life, Joram, but they all lead the same place - to the grave. It is our duty - no, it is our privilege, as fellow travelers who have been blessed more than others - to make the way as smooth and pleasant for as many as we can."

"Fine words!" Joram retorted furiously. "But you're quick enough to lap up 'Your Grace' and 'Your Highness'! I don't see you you dressed in the coa.r.s.e robes of the peasants. 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! That's what I think of your words!" Joram made an obscene gesture, laughed, and began to walk away. dressed in the coa.r.s.e robes of the peasants. 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! That's what I think of your words!" Joram made an obscene gesture, laughed, and began to walk away.

Reaching out, Garald caught hold of him by the shoulder and spun him around. Joram shook free. His face distorted by rage, he struck at the man, swinging his fist wildly. The Prince countered the blow easily, catching it on his forearm. With practiced skill, he grabbed Joram's wrist, gave it a twist, and forced the young man to his knees. Gagging in pain, Joram struggled to stand up.

"Stop it! Fighting me is useless. With one word of magic I could tear your arm from its socket!" Garald said coldly, holding the young man fast.

"d.a.m.n you, you - !" Joram swore at him, spitting filth. "You and your magic! If I had my sword, I'd -" He looked around for it, feverishly.

"I'll give you your cursed sword," the Prince said grimly. "Then you can do what you want. But first, you will listen to me. 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. Why? Because it shows you care what people think of you. As for my t.i.tle, people call me 'milord' and 'Your Grace' as a mark of respect for my station. But I hope it is a mark of respect for me as a person as well. Why do you think I don't force you to do it? Because the words are empty for you. You don't respect anybody, Joram. You don't care for anybody. Least of all yourself!"

"You're wrong!" Joram whispered huskily, looking for the sword. But it was hard to see, a green-tinged, blood-red pool of rage blinded him. "You're wrong! I care -"

"Then, show it!" Garald cried. Grabbing hold of the long black hair, the Prince jerked Joram's head back, forcing the young man to look up at him. Joram did so, he had no choice. But the pain-filled, defiant eyes glared at the Prince in bitter hatred.

"You were willing to give your life for Mosiah last night, weren't you?" Garald continued relentlessly. "Yet, you treat him as if he were some mongrel slouching at your heels. And the catalyst - a man learned and gentle, who should be spending his middle years in peace, pursuing the study that he loves. He fought the warlock with you, and now he follows you through the wilderness, weary and aching, when he could have turned you over to the Church. For what reason, do you suppose? Ah yes, of course, I forgot. His 'ulterior motive.' He wants wants something from you! What? Insults, gibes, sneers?" something from you! What? Insults, gibes, sneers?"

"Bah!" Garald sent Joram sprawling facedown on the frozen ground. Lifting his head, Joram saw the Darksword lying right in front of him. Lunging forward, he grasped the hilt. He scrambled to his feet, twisting around to face his enemy. Garald stood staring at him coldly, a smile of amused contempt on his lips.

"Fight! d.a.m.n you!" Joram shouted, leaping at the man.

The Prince spoke a word of command, and his own sword rose from the gra.s.s where it lay and flew into his hand, the blade shining silver in the gray light of sunless sky.

"Use your magic against me!" Joram challenged. He could barely speak; froth covered his lips. "I'm Dead, after all! Only this sword makes me Alive! And I'm going to see you die!"