Forging the Darksword (27 page)

“I am in the hands of the Almin,” he whispered to himself feverishly. But the words brought no comfort. Instead, they sounded stupid, meaningless. What was he to the Almin but just one of many wretched people in this world? Just one tiny being, not even as worthy of attracting the Almin’s notice as one of those bright, gleaming stars. For he, poor mortal that he was, shed no light. Even some illiterate peasant could ask for the Almin’s blessing with more sincerity than His catalyst! Saryon clenched his fists in despair. His Church, once as mighty and strong to him as the mountain fastness itself, was shaking apart and crumbling around him.

His Bishop, the man nearest his god, had lied to him. His Bishop was using him, for some dark, unseen purpose.

Shaking his head, Saryon sought to recall his studies in theology, hoping to catch hold of the faith that was slipping away from him. But he might as well have tried to stop the outgoing tide by putting his hand in the water and catching hold of a wave. His faith was bound up in men, and men had failed him.

No, be honest, Saryon told himself, quaking as the dreadful sounds of the night leaped out at him, dragging all the fears of his subconscious with it, your faith was bound up in yourself. It is
you
who have failed!

The catalyst covered his head with his arms in bleak hopelessness. Huddling beneath the tree, he listened to the horrible noises that were getting nearer and waited to feel sharp teeth sink into his flesh or to hear the harsh laughter of the centaurs. Slowly, however, the noises began to fade away. Or perhaps
he
was fading away. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

Lost and wandering in a darkness vaster and more terrifying than the Outland, Saryon resigned himself to his fate. Worn out and despairing, no longer caring whether he lived or died, he slept.

Found

L
ifting his head and blinking in the bright morning sunlight, Saryon stared around at his surroundings. Completely disoriented, he had the confused thought that something had spirited away his cabin in the night, leaving him to sleep upon the ground.

Then he heard a growling sound and everything came back to him in a rush, including his fear and the knowledge that he was alone in the wilderness. Panicked, Saryon leaped to his feet. At least—that’s what he intended to do. As it was, he barely managed to move into a sitting position. Pain knotted his back muscles, his joints were stiff, and he seemed to have lost all feeling in his legs. His robes were wet with the morning dew, he was chilled and aching and thoroughly miserable. Groaning, Saryon laid his head back down on his knees and considered how easy it would be to stay here and die.

“I say,” said a voice in admiration, “I know warlocks who don’t dare spend a night in the Outland without ringing
themselves round with fiery demons and such like, and here you are, a catalyst, sleeping like a babe in its mother’s arms.”

Starting up and staring around wildly, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes, Saryon focused on the source of the voice—a young man sitting upon a tree stump, his eyes regarding Saryon with the same undisguised admiration as heard in his voice. Long brown hair curled upon his shoulders, matched by a soft brown beard and a sleek mustache. He was dressed to blend in with the wilderness in plain brown cloak and trousers and soft, leather boots.

“Who—who are you?” Saryon stammered, endeavoring, not very successfully, to stand up. Confused thoughts of the Field Magi having sent someone after him came into his half-asleep brain. “You’re not from the settlement?”

“Let me give you a hand,” the young man said, coming over and helping the catalyst rise stiffly to his feet. “Rather an elderly chap to be out wandering about in the woods, aren’t you?”

Saryon jerked his arm out of the young man’s solicitous grip. “I repeat, who are you?” he asked sternly.

“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” the young man inquired, looking at Saryon anxiously. “Fortyish?”

“I demand—”

“Early forties,” said the young man, studying the catalyst. “Right?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Saryon said, shivering in his damp robes. “Either answer my question or be on your way and let me go on mine …”

The young man’s face grew solemn. “Ah there, that’s just it. I’m afraid your age
is
a bit of concern to me, you know, because your way
is
my way. I’m your guide.”

Saryon stared, too startled to reply. Then he recalled Jacobias’s words:
There are some people who’ve been making inquiries about you. They’re in need of a catalyst, so likely they’ll be takin’ an interest in you above the ordinary.

“My name’s Simkin,” said the young man, reaching out his hand in a friendly manner. Weak with relief, Saryon returned the handshake, grimacing as he moved and bitterly regretting his night spent under the tree.

“If you feel up to traveling,” Simkin continued placidly, “we really should be moving along. Centaurs caught two of Blachloch’s men here a month ago. Ripped them into small pieces not fifty feet from where we’re standing. Ghastly sight, I assure you.”

The catalyst blenched. “Centaurs?” he repeated nervously. “Here? But we’re not across the river ….”

“Pon my honor,” said Simkin, regarding Saryon with amazement, “you
are
a babe in the woods, aren’t you? Here I thought you were incredibly brave and it turns out you’re just incredibly stupid. This is a centaur hunting trail you’ve been sleeping on! And now, we’ve really wasted enough time. They hunt by day, you know. Well, I guess you
don’t
know, but you’ll learn. Let’s be off.” He stood looking at Saryon expectantly.

“What are you staring at me for?” Saryon asked shakily, the phrase
ripped them into small pieces
having made him go cold all over. “You’re the guide!”

“But you’re the catalyst,” Simkin said ingenuously. “Open a Corridor for us.”

“A C-corridor?” Saryon put his hand to his head, rubbing it in perplexity. “I can’t do that! We’d be discovered. I—I’m desperate”—falling back on his script—“I’m a renegade …”

“Oh, come,” Simkin said with a shade of coolness in his voice, “the farmers may believe that but I know better, and if you think I’m going to travel
months
through this godforsaken forest when you could get us where we’re going in moments, then you are sadly mistaken.”

“But the Enforcers …”

“They know when to look away,” Simkin said, eyeing Saryon shrewdly. “I’m certain Bishop Vanya’s given them their orders.”

Vanya! Saryon’s suspicions, doubts, and questions—momentarily forgotten in his predicament—flooded back. How did this young man know about Vanya? Unless he was the spy ….

“I—I have no idea what you are talking about,” Saryon stammered, with an attempt at a perplexed frown. “I’m a renegade. A court of the catalysts sent me to this wretched village for my punishment. I’ve never spoken to Bishop Vanya—”

“Oh, this is such a complete waste of time,” Simkin interrupted, stroking his brown curls with his hand and staring moodily down the trail. “You’ve talked to Bishop Vanya.
I’ve
talked to Bishop Vanya—”

“You’ve … talked … to Bishop Vanya?” Feeling his knees start to give way, Saryon grabbed hold of a tree branch to keep from falling.

“Look at you,” Simkin said scornfully. “Weak as a cat. And this is the man you sent alone into the Outland!” he cried, appealing to some unseen being. “Of course I’ve talked to Vanya,” Simkin said, turning back to Saryon. “His Tubbiness laid his plans out quite clearly before me. ‘Simkin,’ he said, ‘I would be grateful, eternally grateful, if you would assist me in this little matter.’ ‘Bishop, old chap,’ I replied, ‘I’m yours to command.’ He would have hugged me, but there are some things I draw the line at, and being hugged by fat bald men is one.”

Saryon stared at the young man in amazed confusion, feeling dizzy and only half comprehending what he’d said. This is insane, was the first clear thought that came to him. This … Simkin talking to Bishop Vanya? His Tubbiness! Yet Simkin knew …

“You must be the spy!” Saryon blurted.

“I must, must I?” Simkin said, regarding him with a look both cool and mysterious.

“You’ve as much as admitted it!” Saryon cried, grasping hold of the young man’s arm. Aching, frightened, and exhausted, the catalyst had reached his limit. “Why is Vanya sending me? I must know! You could bring him Joram, if that’s all he wants! Why did he lie to me? Why the tricks?”

“Now look here, old boy, calm down,” said Simkin soothingly. Suddenly serious, he laid his hand over Saryon’s and drew him near, “If what you say is true and I
am
working for Vanya, and, mind you, I’m not saying I am—”

“No, of course not,” Saryon muttered.

“—then you must know that my life would be worth less than that truly slovenly looking garb you’re wearing if anyone back at”—he nodded in what Saryon presumed was the direction of the coven’s settlement—“found out. Not that I care about myself,” he added in a low voice, “but it’s my sister.”

“Sister?” Saryon asked weakly.

Simkin nodded. “They’re holding her captive,” he whispered.

“The Coven?” Saryon was growing more confused.

“The
Duuk-tsarith
hissed Simkin. “If I fail …” Shrugging, he grasped himself around the neck and twisted his hands. “Snap,” he said gloomily.

“That’s dreadful!” Saryon gasped.

“I could turn Joram over to them,” Simkin continued with a sigh. “He trusts me, poor lad. I’m his best friend, in fact. I could tell them all they wanted to know about the negotiations with the Emperor of Sharakan. I could help expose these Technologists for the murderers and black-hearted Sorcerers that they are. But that’s not what we’re after, is it?”

Saryon deemed it safer not to reply, since he wasn’t at all certain what he was after. He could only stare at Simkin dumbly. How did he
know
all of this? Vanya
must
have told him …

“It is a deep game we play, brother,” said Simkin, clutching Saryon’s arm. “Deep and dangerous. You are in it with me, the only one I can trust.” He caught his breath in a choking sob. “I am thankful, thankful not to be alone anymore!”

Throwing his arms around the catalyst, Simkin laid his head on Saryon’s shoulder and began to weep.

Taken aback by this unexpected development, Saryon could only stand helplessly in the middle of the forest, patting the young man awkwardly on the back.

“There, I’m all right,” Simkin said bravely, straightening up and wiping his face. “Sorry for falling apart. It’s this beastly strain. It will be better now that I have somebody to talk to. For the nonce, however, we really
must
be running along!”

“Yes,” muttered Saryon, still feeling vastly confused, “but first please tell me why they sent
me—”

“Listen!” said Simkin in a tense voice, grabbing hold of Saryon’s arm again. “Did you hear that?”

Saryon froze, every sense alert. “No, I—”

“There it was again!”

“I didn’t hear—”

“Centaurs! Not a doubt of it!” Simkin was pale, but controlled. “I was born in these woods! I can hear a squirrel’s breath at fifty paces. Come on! Open the Corridor. Here, use my Life force. I know where we’re going. I’ll visualize the destination.”

Saryon hesitated, still uncertain about using the Corridor when he knew the
Thon-Li
, the Corridor Masters, would certainly be monitoring it. He didn’t trust this young man or his wild tales, although he had no other explanation for Simkin’s extraordinary knowledge than that he must be a spy. Still, before he opened the Corridor—

Suddenly, Saryon
did
hear something, or thought he did! A crashing sound, as of hooves galloping down the trail! There seemed no choice now. Gripping Simkin’s arm, the catalyst drew on the young man’s Life force—never noticing, in his excitement, that it was unusually strong—and stammered out the words that opened the Corridor. The void opened, a patch of stark nothingness gaping in the middle of the trail. Simkin leaped inside, dragging the catalyst with him.

The void elongated, condensed, and shut, leaving the forest to murmur and rustle in peaceful, morning tranquility behind them.

“Where are we?” asked Saryon, stepping cautiously out of the Corridor.

“Deep, deep in the Outland,” said Simkin softly, keeping his hand on Saryon’s arm as he stepped out. “Watch every step, guard every word, search every shadow.”

The Corridor closed behind them. Saryon glanced back at it nervously, half expecting the
Thon-Li
to leap out and apprehend them. Perhaps he was
hoping
someone would come out and apprehend them, he admitted to himself miserably. But no one did.

The two had reached their destination safely—that destination being, as far as Saryon could see, a swamp. Around them, tall trees with thick, black trunks rose up out of murky black water. The catalyst had never seen such trees in his life. Shining wet with slime, the trees’ twisted limbs curled round and about each other until one tree was so entangled in the
arms of another that it was impossible to tell where a single tree left off and its cousin began. The strange trees had no leaves, only twisting tentacles that shot out from the branches and dipped down into the water, like long, thin tongues.