Legacy of the Darksword (10 page)

Saryon appeared very stern,
considering this sacrilegious.

“At the very least,” said King
Garald in mollifying tones, “we must keep the Darksword out of the hands of the
Techno-mancers.”

Saryon now appeared troubled, as
if he were rethinking an already-thought-out determination. The other two would
have pressed him further, had not an enormous black limousine rolled up at that
moment.

General Boris put his hand to his
ear.

“I see it,” he said, speaking to
an aide through a communicator. The General looked around grimly at us, adding,
“Smythe is here.”

“This is my magic,” said Joram,
his gaze going to the sword lying on the floor.

FORGING
THE DARKSWORD

‘
aryon
and I had watched a performance of Gounod’s
Faust
on the BBC recently
and Mephistopheles was much in my mind as I waited to meet the head of the
Technomancers. Smythe certainly did not look the part of Mephistopheles, being
of medium height with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles across his
nose. But in the light blue eyes,
that were
glittering
and changeable and cold as diamond, was the reputed charm which the devil
purportedly possesses and which he uses to tempt mankind to its downfall.

Smythe was witty and effervescent
and brought light and air into our house, which seemed gloomy and suffocating
by contrast. He undoubtedly knew what terrible things the King and the General
had been saying about him and he didn’t care. Smythe spoke no word in his own
defense,
he said nothing against either of them. In fact, he
greeted them both with deference and pleasure. In their cold and stilted
greeting of him, they seemed, by contrast, ungracious, bitter, twisted.

“Father Saryon.” Kevon Smythe
took my master’s hand and
a radiance
shone from him
that engulfed Saryon, who actually blinked, as if looking into a blinding
light. “I am honored to meet you at long last. I have heard much of you, all
good, and of Joram. It is a subject that fascinates me. Tell me, Father,” he
said as he accepted a proffered seat in a chair, not on the couch where sat the
other two, stiff and upright. “Tell me the story of Joram and of the Darksword.
I know bits of it, but I would like to hear it from your own lips.

“I am sorry to say, Reuven,” he
added, looking at me, “that I have not read your account, of which I’ve had the
most favorable reports. My time is such that it does not give me leisure to
read as much as I would like. Your books are in a prominent place in my
library, and someday, when the pressures of leadership are removed, I look
forward to reading them.”

It was very odd, but I felt a
glow of pleasure suffuse me, as if he had paid my books the best of
compliments, when—in bald truth—part of me knew perfectly well that he had
undoubtedly received distilled accounts of what was in the books from his
subordinates and that, though he might indeed own them, he had no intention of
ever looking at them.

What was even stranger was that
he was aware of the dichotomy of feelings he produced in others and that he did
so on purpose. I was fascinated and repulsed at the same time. In his presence,
all other men, including the King and the General, appeared petty and ordinary.
And although I liked and trusted them and I did not like and did not trust him,
I had the uneasy impression that if he called me, I would follow.

Saryon felt the same. I knew
because he was talking about Joram, something he was always very reluctant to
do with any stranger.

“. . . Thimhallan was founded by
the wizard Merlyn as a land where those blessed with the art of magic could
live in peace, using that art to create beautiful things. There were Nine
Mysteries of Life present in the world, then. Each person born into that world
was gifted with one of these mysteries.”

Kevon Smythe’s lips parted, he
whispered beneath his breath the number “thirteen” and a chill went over me.
The Four Dark Cults, who had remained behind, would have made the number
thirteen.

Saryon, unconscious of the
interruption, continued on. “There are Nine
Mysteries,
eight of them deal with Life or Magic, for, in the world of Thimhallan, Life
is
Magic. Everything that exists in this land exists either by the will of the
Almin, who placed it here before even the ancients arrived, or has since been
either ‘shaped, formed, summoned, or conjured,’ these being the four Laws of
Nature. These Laws are controlled through at least one of the eight of the
Mysteries: Time, Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Life. Of these
Mysteries, only the first five currently survived at the time of the Darksword’s
creation. The Mysteries of Time and Spirit were lost during the Iron Wars. With
them vanished the knowledge possessed by the ancients— the ability to divine
the future and the ability to communicate with those who had passed from this
life into Beyond.

“As for the last Mystery, it is
practiced, but only by those who walk in darkness. Known as Death, its other
name is Technology.”

“
Quaint.”
Kevon Smythe was amused. “I was told you people believed something along those
lines. And the other two . . . um . . . Mysteries, you called them. Time
and—what was it— Spirit? They are lost? Perhaps just as well. As Macbeth
discovered, looking into the future is dangerous. Are we doing what was truly
destined or is it a self-fulfilling prophecy? I think it is safer—and more
honest—to be guided by one’s
vision
of the future. Don’t you agree,
Father Saryon?”

My master was thoughtful,
introspective. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “The tragedy that befell Joram
and all of Thimhallan was, in a way, brought about by a vision of the future—a
vision which terrified. Would we have caused our own destruction if we’d never
heard the Prophecy concerning the Dead child?”

“Yes, we would have. So I
believe,” said King Garald. “Our downfall began long before Joram was born, as
early as the Iron Wars. Intolerance, prejudice, fear, blind faith, greed,
ambition— these would have destroyed us eventually, with or without Joram and the
Darksword.”

He looked pointedly at Kevon
Smythe as he spoke, but if His Majesty meant those words for the edification of
Smythe, His Majesty wasted his breath. Smythe’s attention—and perhaps his
magic, if that was what he used to charm—was focused on Saryon, to the
exclusion of all else.

“To me, Thimhallan was symbolized
by Joram’s mother, the Empress,” said Saryon softly, sadly. “Her husband
refused to admit that she was dead, though all in court knew it. He kept her
corpse animated by magicks. The courtiers bowed, paid homage, gossiped with her
. . . reveled with a lifeless and corrupt shell of something that had once been
alive, vibrant, beautiful. Such a dreadful charade could not have gone on
forever.

“Joram’s story is really very
simple. A Prophecy was given immediately following the Iron Wars, which stated:
‘There will be born to the royal house one who is dead but will live, who will
die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the
destruction of the world.’ Joram was a child of the royal house, born to the
Empress and Emperor of Merilon. He was born
Dead—
that
is, he had no magic in him at all. I know,” said Saryon, with a sigh. “I was
present when they performed the tests on him.

“Bishop Vanya, knowing of and
fearing the Prophecy, ordered that the baby be refused all sustenance. Vanya
took the baby away to die. But the Almin is not so easily thwarted. A madwoman
named Anja found the baby and stole him, took him to the farms near the
Outlands, raised him as her own child.

“Anja knew Joram was deficient in
magic. She knew that if
this deficiency were
discovered, the
Duuk-tsarith
would seize him and that would be the end
of him. She taught him sleight-of-hand tricks so that he could keep up a
pretense of possessing magic.

“Joram was raised as a field
magus, a peasant. It was here he met Mosiah, who became Joram’s one true
friend. It was also here that, when he was a teenager, Joram killed a man, a
harsh overseer, who had discovered Joram’s secret. In an effort to protect her
son, Anja attacked the overseer, who killed her in self-defense. Furious, Joram
killed the overseer.

“Joram fled to the Outlands,
where he was found by the Order of the Ninth Mystery, who were also living out
there—the Technologists. They had broken the laws of Thimhallan, used
Technology to supplement their magic. It was here, among them, that Joram
learned the art of forging metal. It was here he discovered darkstone and its
ability to nullify magic. Joram developed the idea of forging a weapon made of
darkstone, a weapon that would compensate for his lack of magic, a weapon that
would give him the power he craved.

“For reasons of my own, I
assisted him in making the Dark-sword,” Saryon said, adding pointedly, for
Smythe’s benefit, “Darkstone must be given magical Life through the
intercession of a catalyst. Otherwise, its properties are those of any other
metal.”

Smythe was gracious.
“How interesting.
Please continue, Father.”

Saryon shrugged. “There is not
much more to tell. Rather, there is, but the story is a long one. Suffice to
say, through a series of circumstances, Joram came to learn who he was. He came
to learn of the Prophecy. He was sentenced to death. He could have destroyed
his attackers, but he chose instead to leave the world. He crossed the Border
into what we all thought was the realm of Death. Instead, he traveled to
another part of the planet we know as Thimhallan. Here, he and the woman who
loved him were found by a member of Earth’s Border Patrol. He was taken to
Earth and dwelled there for ten years with his wife, Gwendolyn.

“Discovering that there were some
on Earth who were plotting to travel to Thimhallan and conquer it, Joram
returned, bringing the Darksword, to fight those who sought to destroy our
people, our way of life. He was betrayed and would have been assassinated, but
for another strange twist of fate. Realizing that Earth Forces”—Saryon glanced
at General Boris, who was red-faced and extremely uncomfortable—”were winning
and that our people were going to be either enslaved or slaughtered, Joram
chose to end the war. He plunged the Darksword into the sacred altar, released
the magic that was pent up in the Well. The magic flowed back into the
universe. The war ended.

“The magical shell that had been
cast protectively over Thimhallan was broken. The terrible storms that had once
swept the land returned. The people had to be transported to a place of safety,
and so they were brought here, to Earth, and placed in relocation camps. Only
two remained behind: Joram and his wife, Gwendolyn. Now the most hated man in
the universe, Joram knew that his life would be in danger if he ever returned
to Earth. He chose to stay alone on Thimhallan, the world he had destroyed, as
the Prophecy predicted.”

Saryon’s tale had gone on rather
longer than the half hour Kevon Smythe had allowed for this business. He made
no motion to interrupt, however, nor even glanced at his timepiece, but sat
immovable, completely immersed in the catalyst’s story. King Garald and General
Boris, who had lived parts of the story, glanced at their own watches and
fidgeted, yet they would not leave Smythe alone with us and so they were forced
to sit and wait. Looking outside, I saw their aides speaking into handheld
phones, undoubtedly rearranging schedules.

I was just thinking that if they
stayed much longer, we would be expected to offer them something to eat and
drink, and wondering if there were enough biscuits to go around, when Saryon
ended his tale.

“Truly,” said Kevon Smythe, and
he appeared to be much affected by the story, “the Darksword is an interesting
object. Its properties should be analyzed, to see of what benefit it may be to
mankind. I know that several theories have been advanced concerning it. It
seems to me important that these theories be tested.

“In one of my corporations, I
have a team of scientists—top professionals in their fields—who are even now
making preparations to study the weapon. They understand”—Smythe glanced
smilingly at the irate King, who was on his feet—”that this artifact is
extremely valuable. These scientists would treat it with the utmost respect,
removing only small portions as necessary for study. Once the testing was
completed, the weapon would be returned to the people formerly of Thimhallan—”

“Like hell you would!” General
Boris stood up as well.

King Garald was livid. “Of
course, we all know that the testing would never
be
completed, would it,
Smythe? There would always be one more test to
perform,
one more theory to either support or deny. Meanwhile you would be using the
Dark-sword’s power—”

“For good,” said Kevon Smythe
quietly, “as opposed to those, such as your black-robed Enforcers, who would
use it for evil.”

King Garald’s face muscles
contracted and stiffened, so that when he tried to speak, no words would come
through his fury. Smythe was able to continue.

“Father, it is your duty as one
of the brotherhood of men to persuade Joram of his duty in these troubled and
dangerous times. He used the Darksword to destroy. Let him now redeem himself
and use it to create. Create a better life for us all.”