Legacy Of The Darksword Part 22

Mosiah watched us with a faintly sardonic smile on his lips, though he said nothing, merely sending the raven back with the message, "Next!"

Father Saryon arrived, his movements so awkward and ungainly upon the ledge that we thought more than once he must topple over. He would always manage to save himself, however, his hands snagging an outcropping of rock when his foot slipped or his feet maintaining a toehold when his hands could not find purchase.

He reached us at last and wiped dirt from his palms. "That was much easier than the first time I made that trip," he said, keeping his voice low. Though the dragon was far down in the very bottom of the cavern, we dared not take a chance on its hearing us. "I did not have a wizard with me to provide light." He nodded his thanks to Mosiah. "And I was carrying the Dark-sword at the time."

"What drove you to make the trip at all, Father?" Mosiah asked, his eyes visible in the shadows of his hood only by their reflection of the red-glowing stalact.i.te. He had sent the raven back for Scylla. "Were you pursued?"

Saryon was silent a moment, his face pale and haggard at the memory. "I think, on reflection, that I probably was not, but I had no way of knowing that at the time. Besides, to be safe, I had to believe that they were in were in pursuit. What led me into this cave? Instinct, maybe, the instinct of the hunted to seek a dark place in which to hide. Or maybe the hand of the Almin." pursuit. What led me into this cave? Instinct, maybe, the instinct of the hunted to seek a dark place in which to hide. Or maybe the hand of the Almin."

Mosiah lifted an eyebrow, turned away, and watched the path. We heard the clash of steel against rock and Mosiah muttered, "So much for stealth."

The sound was immediately m.u.f.fled. A short wait, and then Scylla appeared, rounding that same treacherous bend, the red of the stalact.i.te burning like flame in her silver armor.

She was having a difficult time of it. The breastplate prevented her from flattening her back against the wall, as the rest of us had done. She was inching her way along, clinging to the wall with her hands. And then she came to a halt, leaned her head back against the wall, and closed her eyes.

"Tell her," Mosiah said to the raven, "that this is no time for a nap!"

The raven floated raven floated over, hovered over, hovered near Scylla. near Scylla. We could not We could not hear what she said, hear what she said, but the words seemed forced out in but the words seemed forced out in a gasp that was audible a gasp that was audible from where we stood. from where we stood.

"She says says she she can't can't move," the move," the raven raven reported. Landing on the reported. Landing on the path path beside Mosiah, it began to clean its beak with beside Mosiah, it began to clean its beak with a a clawed foot. "She knows she's going to fall." clawed foot. "She knows she's going to fall."

Frozen in terror, Scylla clung to the wall. My heart ached for her. I had known the same fear and the Almin only knew what had kept me going. The sight of Eliza, I think.

"She needs help," said Father Saryon, gathering up the skirt of his robe.

"I'll go," said Mosiah. "I don't want to have to drag both of you out of the river!"

He returned along the treacherous path. Facing the wall, he edged his way forward, until he was within an arm's length of Scylla.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Scylla could not move her head to look at him. She could barely move her lips. "I ... I can't swim!"

"Bless the girl!" Mosiah said in exasperation. "If you fall into the water, you won't have to worry about swimming. You'll sink like a boulder in that armor."

At this, Scylla gave a brief, mirthless laugh. "You're such a comfort!" she said through clenched teeth.

"I have my magic," Mosiah told her. "I don't want to use it, unless I have to. But I will not let you fall. Look at me. Look at me, Scylla."

Scylla managed to twist her head, looked at Mosiah.

He extended his hand. "Here, take hold."

She raised her arm, the armor sc.r.a.ping against the rock, and slowly reached toward Mosiah, her hand outstretched. He clasped his hand over hers, and held on to her tightly. Her face smoothed in relief. She ventured forward. He drew her along the path, holding her steady.

At the end, when they reached safe ground, Scylla gave a great shuddering sob and covered her face with her hands. I think Mosiah would have put his arms around her, but for her armor.

Hugging her would have been tantamount to embracing an iron stove.

"I have shamed myself," Scylla whispered fiercely. "Before my queen!"

"By what? Proving you're human like the rest of us. I, for one, was happy to see it. I was beginning to wonder."

Scylla uncovered her eyes and looked at Mosiah, as if she suspected there might be more to this statement than appeared. He was half-amused, half-sympathetic, nothing deeper.

"Thank you," Scylla said, her voice husky. "You saved my life, Enforcer. I am in your debt." Subdued, she walked over to Eliza and knelt before her on one knee. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, for my cowardice in the face of danger. If you wish to remove me from the position of trust in which you have placed me, I will readily understand."

"Oh, Scylla!" cried Eliza warmly. "We are of Mosiah's opinion. We are glad to see that you are flawed, like the rest of us. It's very difficult to love a paragon."

Scylla was overcome and, for a moment, could not speak. At length, wiping her hand across her nose and eyes, she stood up and threw back her head, faced us proudly, if somewhat defiantly.

"Which way do we go now, Father?" Eliza asked.

We had been concentrating so hard on the path behind us that we had given no consideration to the path before us. The river veered off to the right. Our ledge ended, but we could see the shadowy opening of what appeared to be a tunnel.

"We go down," said Saryon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

"Perhaps the killer's gone. ..." ..."

"I doubt it. He didn't get what he came for."

JORAM; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD.

We went down. And down. And down. A flaming brand lit our way. Mosiah had been going to expend more of his magical Life to provide light, but that proved unnecessary.

"You will find a brand, tinderbox, and flint in a small chamber near the entrance to the tunnel," Saryon advised us. "I left them there myself, on the chance that someday I would return."

"Tools of the Dark Arts," Mosiah said, with a slight smile, barkening back to a time on Thimhallan when the use of such "tools" as a tinderbox and flint was prohibited. Such objects gave Life to that which was Dead.

Scylla carried the brand, walked in front with Saryon. I remained at Eliza's side, our hands twined together. From this point on, our lives would be changed for good or ill. Perhaps, in a short time, we would be dead. It didn't matter anymore that she was a queen and I was her house catalyst. Our love, a love that had sent down its roots in early childhood, had grown strong like the oak, and though the tree might be cut down, it could never be uprooted.

Mosiah followed behind alone, the raven having refused to accompany us anywhere near the dragon.

The path ran smooth, cutting down through the rock in a steep spiral that was almost a corkscrew. It was easy to walk, almost too easy. It seemed to be hurrying us downward-a circ.u.mstance which we found ominous.

"This was never formed by nature," Mosiah observed.

"No," Saryon agreed. "So I thought when I first discovered it."

Mosiah came to a halt. "And you descended this all unknowing, Father? When anything from griffins to darkrovers could have been at the bottom? Forgive me, Father, but you were never the adventurous sort. I think you should tell us how you first found this cave. Before we go on."

"We will not have this!" Eliza was angry. "You have insulted Father Saryon for the last time, Enforcer-"

"No, child," Saryon said. Looking about, he found an outcropping of rock and sank down upon it. "Mosiah is right. Don't tell me, Daughter," he added with a smile for her, "that you yourself are not curious about what we will find when we reach the dragon's lair. I could use the rest. We must not be long, though. We must reach the dragon's lair before night falls, while it is still sleepy and lethargic."

"Amen to that," Mosiah said.

What I write now is Father Saryon's story, in his own words.

I have sometimes wondered what would have happened if Simkin had not tricked Menju the Sorcerer into sending him to Earth. I think matters might have turned out much differently. Had Simkin been here, I am certain that he might have saved Joram's life. Emperor Garald does not agree with me and I must admit that I see his view. There is no doubt that Simkin set Joram up for the ambush, for it was Simkin who suggested that Joram find help for your poor mother in the Temple of the Necromancers. And it was there the Executioner waited for him and killed him.

I will never forget that terrible day.

I had gone to the Temple with Gwen and Joram, at his request, though I feared traveling to such a dreadful place. Joram was desperate. Gwendolyn was drifting further from us every day, it seemed. She spoke only to those who were dead and gone. She had no care for the living, not even for her own husband, whom she had once dearly loved. Her parents were sick with grief. When Simkin told us his fool story about having a little brother who was cured by the dead, Joram grasped it as a drowning man grasps at a bit of wood.

I tried to dissuade him, but he refused to listen. Simkin told us to be at the Temple at noon, when the power of the Temple would be greatest. The Emperor believes that Simkin knew in advance that the Executioner would be there waiting for Joram, but I don't think so. I think Simkin merely wanted Joram out of the way, so that he-Simkin-could pretend to be Joram and so travel to Earth, which is exactly what he did.

I don't suppose it matters now, one way or the other. Your father and I went to the Temple . I remained with Gwen, who Was exceedingly troubled by the voices of the dead. Joram stood by the altar. I heard four sharp, distinct cracks, one after the other.

I was paralyzed with fear, not knowing what dread fate these awful sounds portended.

The cracking sounds stopped. I looked about and saw nothing amiss, at first. I was about to take Gwendolyn into the Temple , where she would be safe, when I saw Joram slump against the altar.

His hand was pressed over his chest and blood welled from between his fingers.

I ran to him and caught him in my arms. I lowered him to the ground. I did not know then what had happened to him. Later I learned that he had been killed by a heinous tool of the Dark Arts, a weapon known as a "gun."

All I knew then was that he was dying and there was nothing I could do except hold him.

"The Darksword . . ." he said, his voice coming in painful gasps. "Take it, Father. . . Hide it ... from them. My child!" He clasped my hand with his dying strength, and I believe that he willed himself to live the few moments longer it took him to impart this message. "If my child is in need . . . you must give the sword. . ."

I had not known then that Gwen was pregnant. Joram knew, and that was another reason he had wanted so desperately to find a way to help her.

"Yes, Joram!" I promised, through my tears.

He looked past me, to Gwen, who stood above him.

"I am coming," he said to her, and closed his eyes and slipped away to join the dead.

She reached out her hand, not to the body, but to his soul. "My beloved. I have waited for you a long, long time."

You know what happened after that. The forces of Menju the Sorcerer attacked Thimhallan. Our armies were crushed, utterly defeated. If Menju had had his way, we would have been exterminated into the bargain, but the man we know now as General Boris protected us.

Menju did not insist on our destruction. He had what he wanted. He sealed up the Well of Life so that magic no longer flowed into the world of Thimhallan. Bereft of their magic, most of the people in Thimhallan said bitterly that they might as well be dead. Many did kill themselves. It was a terrible time.

Fortunately, Garald, who was then King of Sharakan, following the death of his father, was able to act quickly and take control. He brought in the Sorcerers, the pract.i.tioners of the Dark Arts, and they taught our people how to use tools to do what magic had always done for them in the past. Gradually, as the years went by, we rebuilt the cities, though the buildings were crude and ugly, compared with what they had once been.

But all that would come later. Joram was dead. I had two responsibilities now, or rather three. The Darksword, Gwen, and the child she bore. Whoever had killed Joram must still be in the Temple and, indeed, I saw the Executioner rise and start to move toward us.

He was a powerful Duuk-tsarith. Duuk-tsarith. I could not hope to escape him. Suddenly, however, he was pushed backward, almost to the edge of the cliff. I saw him struggling, but he fought an invisible foe! I could not hope to escape him. Suddenly, however, he was pushed backward, almost to the edge of the cliff. I saw him struggling, but he fought an invisible foe!

And then I knew-the dead were giving us a chance to escape.

Picking up the Darksword, I grabbed Gwen's hand. She came with me docilely. We fled that sorrowful place. Later, when the Emperor sent to recover Joram's body, it was found laid out in state inside the Temple of the Necromancers. The hands of the dead tended him, who had been Dead in his lifetime.

All of Thimhallan was in confusion, as you can imagine. Bad as that was for some, it was good for me, for no one cared about a middle-aged catalyst and a young woman they took for my daughter. My first thought was to go to the Font. I am not sure why, except that it had been my home for so long. Arriving there, I realized my mistake, for though the place was in an uproar, there were people who knew me and connected me with Joram. In order to be truly safe, I would have to take Gwen and travel to a part of the country where neither of us were known.

It was while I was at the Font, however, that I came across a child, a little boy of about five years of age. He was an orphan, they said. His parents were catalysts, and had been killed in the first a.s.sault. The boy was mute. He could not speak, and whether that was due to the shock of seeing his parents slain before his eyes or if he had been born mute, none could say.

I looked at that silent boy and I saw in his eyes the same emptiness, the same grief, the same loss I felt in my own heart. I took him with me. I named him Reuven.

We started our journey. I chose to relocate to Zith-el. Although I had heard that the city was heavily damaged in the war, it was one place where I was certain that no one would know me.

The magical wall that guarded the city was gone. The Zoo creatures had mostly escaped and returned to the wild. The inhabitants were dazed and disbelieving. All of the tall buildings had been destroyed, but Zith-el is also a city of tunnels, and the survivors moved underground.

We found a small place for ourselves, little more than a niche in one of the tunnels. Here Gwen and little Reuven and I dwelt, living on the sustenance that was brought to us by our conquerors.

Gwen never did return to the world of the living. She was happy with the dead, for Joram was with her. She remained with me only long enough to bring her child into this world, and then she died. Reuven and I were left alone with the baby. I named her Eliza.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I had carried with me, all this time, the Darksword. And not a day dawned but that I feared someone would find me and then they would find it. Menju the Sorcerer was searching for the Darksword, so I heard. Fearing the use he might make of it, I determined to hide the sword in a place where it would never be discovered.

I prayed to the Almin for guidance and that night I dreamed I was walking in the Zoo. The next morning I wrapped the Darksword in a blanket and carried it to the Zoo. This was dangerous, even foolhardy, you might say, for though many of the Zoo's creatures had run off, others had stayed behind. I might run into a centaur or worse.

But it seemed to me that the Almin guided me and though my faith had wavered in the days before Joram's death, when I saw the rest and peace he found in death-a peace he had never known in life-I could only believe that all had happened for the best.

I wandered through the forest, searching for something, though I didn't know what. And then, coming down the same path we walked, I saw this cave.

I saw something else, too. A black dragon.

The dragon was lying outside the cave and my first thought was that it was sunning itself, for it lay stretched out full-length, with its head upon a rock, basking in the sunlight.

As Mosiah has said-I am not much of an adventurer. My impulse was to flee, but I turned in such haste that I lost my footing. I dropped the Darksword. It fell among the rocks on the riverbank, landing with a clang that must have been heard by the dead back in my small house.

I froze, terrified, and waited for the dragon to rear up its head and attack me.

But the dragon never moved.

Of course, you are all laughing at me, because you know that a black dragon-a Dragon of the Night-would never be out taking a sunbath. The creatures loathe the sunlight, which burns into the eyes, causing such intense pain that the dragons lose consciousness.

At last, I remembered what I should have known all along. This Dragon of the Night was either unconscious or dead.

Cautiously, I approached the dragon, and as I drew near I saw its body rise and fall with its breathing. It was not dead.

I knew then why the Almin had sent me this way. A comatose Dragon of the Night can be easily controlled by means of the charm on its forehead. Here was the perfect guardian for the Darksword, the dragon's cave the perfect hiding place.