Legacy of the Darksword (4 page)

Saryon shrugged. “The Darksword no
longer exists. When Joram thrust the sword into the altar in the Temple , the
sword was destroyed. Joram could not give you the sword if he wanted to.”

Mosiah did not appear astonished
or chagrined; nor did he rise to his feet and apologize for having disturbed us
over nothing.

“A Darksword exists, Father. Not
the original. That, as you say, was destroyed. Joram has forged a new one. We
know the truth of this, because an attempt was made to steal it.”

This is what the
Duuk-tsarith
are trained for
—
to
be aware of everything going on around them, to be in control of everything,
yet manage to keep themselves above and apart from it.

FORGING
THE DARKSWORD

S
aryon was angry. His hand
clenched, his anger flickered in his eyes. “You had no right! If Joram did
forge a new sword, it must have been because he felt threatened. Was King
Garald behind this? His own law clearly forbids—”

“What care do they have for the
law?” Mosiah interrupted impatiently. “They know no laws but their own.”

“They?”

“The Technomancers.
Don’t you understand yet,
Father?” Slowly, Saryon’s hand unclenched. Fear replaced his anger. “Is Joram
safe? He was supposed to send the boy to me to be educated. I’ve heard nothing
and I feared—”

“Joram is alive, Father,” Mosiah
said, smiling slightly. “And he is well and so is Gwendolyn. As for Joram not
sending his son to you, he did not do so because he and Gwen did not have a
son. They have a daughter. His only child, she is precious in his sight. He is
loath to send such a jewel to this world—and I can’t say that I blame him.”
Mosiah sighed.

“How do you know this?” Saryon
demanded,
his voice sharp. “You are spying on him!”

“Protecting him, Father,” said
Mosiah softly.
“Protecting him.
He doesn’t know of our
watchfulness. He doesn’t suspect. How could he know, who has no magic Life
within him? We are careful not to disturb him or his family.
Unlike
others.

“Just recently, an arm of the
Technomancers known as the
D’karn-darah
defied the law which prohibits
any person from traveling to Thimhallan. They had read Reuven’s book”—he gave
me a wry smile—”and they went to the altar at the Temple of the Necromancers to
try to recover the Darksword. They found what one might have expected. As you
know, Father, the altar itself was made of darkstone. The sword had fused with
the stone.

“The Technomancers used every
device known to man to try to free the sword, from the most sophisticated laser
cutting tools to old-fashioned blowtorches. They attempted to cut the altar
itself into pieces, to haul it back to their laboratories. They did not even
scratch its surface.”

Saryon appeared relieved. “Good.”
He nodded. “Excellent. Thank the Almin.”

“Don’t be so quick to thank Him,
yet, Father,” Mosiah said. “Failing to make a dent in the altar, the
Technomancers went to Joram.”

“They were wasting their time. He
would have been furious,” Saryon predicted.

Mosiah’s smile twisted. “He
was
furious. The Khandic Sages had never seen such fury. His anger astonished
them, and they are not easily astonished. Kevon Smythe himself talked to Joram,
though now Smythe denies that he did so. He thought to win Joram with his
charm, but, as you know, Father, our friend is not easily charmed. Smythe
offered Joram vast wealth, power, whatever he wanted in exchange for the
location of raw darkstone and the secret of the forging of Darkswords.

“Smythe barely escaped with his
life. Joram threw Smythe— literally picked him up and threw him—out the door
and warned him that the next time he returned he could count his life as
nothing. By this time, the Border Patrol had arrived. You ask what took them so
long?
How the Technomancers evaded their defenses?
Easily.
Several of their own had managed to get themselves
assigned to the duty. They shut down the alarm signals, permitted their
brethren to cross the Border without notice.

“When the Border Patrol arrived,
they escorted Smythe and his
followers
off-planet. To
our relief, the Technomancers lost interest in the Darksword after that. Their
scientists studied the reports brought back from Thimhallan and made the
determination that the original sword could never be removed from the altar and
it was therefore useless to them. Without Joram’s assistance, and without
permission to take teams of workers to Thimhallan—permission that would never
be granted—the search for raw darkstone would be too difficult and too costly
to undertake.

“King Garald hoped that this
incident would be an end of the Technomancers’ desire for the Darksword and it
might have been, Father, except that Joram did a very foolish thing.”

Saryon looked as pained and
unhappy as if he himself had been responsible for Joram’s behavior. “He forged
a new sword.”

“Precisely.
We are not certain how. Smythe’s
visit had made Joram suspicious and paranoid—”

“Made him feel as if he were
being watched,” Saryon interrupted.

Mosiah paused a moment, then
slightly smiled. “I have never known you to be sarcastic, Father.
Very well.
I grant that Joram had some basis for his
feelings. But if he had only gone to King Garald or General Boris instead of trying
to fight the whole world all by himself!”

“Battling life alone was always
Joram’s way,” Saryon said, and his voice was filled with affectionate sorrow
and understanding. “His blood is that of Emperors. He comes from a long line of
rulers who held the fate of nations in their hands. To ask for help would be a
sign of weakness. You recall the effort it took him to ask me to help him
create the Darksword. He was—”

Saryon paused. I had been
wondering when this would occur to him.

“Joram could
not
have forged
a Darksword,” he said excitedly. “Not without a catalyst. I drew Life from the
world, gave Life to the Darksword, which in turn used that Life to drain Life
from those who possessed it.”

“He didn’t need you to forge the
sword itself, Father. He only needed you to enhance its abilities.”

“But without a catalyst to do
that, the sword is no more dangerous than any other sword. Why would the
Technomancers still want it?”

“Consider the number of catalysts
among our people, Father. Catalysts living in poverty in the relocation camps,
who would be more than willing to exchange their gifts for the promise of
wealth and power from the Technomancers. Though the corrupt Bishop Vanya is now
dead, his legacy lives on among some of his followers.”

“Yes, I can see how that could be
true,” said Saryon sadly.
“How did Joram manage to escape the
watchful eye of the
Duuk-tsarith
long enough to forge the sword?”

Mosiah shrugged and spread his
hands. “Who knows? Such a feat would be relatively simple, especially if he had
an amulet made of darkstone. Or, for all we know, he forged this sword years
ago, before we began to keep watch. None of that matters now, however. We
attempted to keep word of this new Darksword secret, but the Technomancers
found out. Their interest has been rekindled.”

“Are Joram and his family in
danger?” Saryon asked anxiously.

“Not for the moment, mainly
because of the efforts of the
Duuk-tsarith.
Ironic, isn’t it, Father.
Those who once sought Joram’s death now risk death themselves to guard his life.”

“
You?”
Saryon asked. “You’re risking death?”

“Yes,” Mosiah replied, very
calmly. He gestured around the darkened room.
“Thus the
reason for these precautions.
The
T’kon-Duuk
are
eager to get their hands on me. I know too many of their secrets, you see, Father.
I am a great danger to them. I have come to warn you of them, of the techniques
they will try to use to persuade you to take them with you to Joram—”

Saryon raised a hand to halt the
flow of words. Mosiah ceased speaking instantly, with a quiet respect for the
elderly catalyst which did much to increase his favor with me. I could never
trust him completely, not while he wore the black robes of the Enforcers. The
Duuk-tsarith
never worked for just one end. They worked for several and sought to gain the
middle into the bargain.

“I will not go,” Saryon said
firmly. “Have no fear of that. I would be of no use. I don’t know what you or
they or anyone else thinks I could do.”

“Joram respects and trusts you,
Father. Your influence with him is—” Mosiah broke off.

He was staring at me. They were
both staring at me. I had made a noise. It must, I realize, have sounded very
strange—a guttural sort of croak in my throat. I made a signal to my master.

“Reuven says that there is
something out there,” Saryon said.

The words had not yet left Saryon’s
lips before Mosiah was standing next to me. This sudden movement of his was at
least as startling as the apparition I thought I had seen outside the window.
One moment he was across the room from me, sitting in the darkened
hallway,
and the next instant he was by my side, peering out
the window. In his fluid, silent motion, he was one with the shadows. Imagine
my astonishment when, glancing back at my master to be certain he was all
right, I caught a glimpse of Mosiah, seated in his chair!

I realized, then, that the
Enforcer next to me was insubstantial. Mosiah’s shadow, so to speak, had been
sent on an errand by its master.

“What did you see? Tell me!
Immediately!” he demanded. The words blazed in my mind.

I signaled with my hands. Saryon
translated.

“Reuven says he thinks he saw a
person dressed all in silver—”

Mosiah—the Mosiah seated in the
chair—was on his feet. His shadow had returned to its body.

“They are here,” he said.
“The
D’karn-darah.
Blood-doom
knights.
Either they followed me or they have come for their own
reasons. I fear it is the latter. You are not safe here, either of you. You
must come with me.
Now!”

“
We’re not dressed!” Saryon
protested.

It must be a very real and
present danger which sends an elderly man dashing out into the cold winter
night clad only in his nightshirt and bedslippers.

“You don’t need to be,” Mosiah
replied. “Your bodies aren’t going anywhere, except to bed. Follow my
instructions exactly. Father, remain where you are. Reuven, go upstairs to your
room and climb into your bed.”

I was not happy at the thought of
leaving my master, though what I could have done against the power of the
Duuk-tsarith
was open to question. Saryon indicated with a nod that we were to obey
Mosiah and that is what I did. I urged Mosiah to care for my master and left to
go upstairs to my small room.

Saryon always waited until he
heard me in the bedroom, which was on the level above his, before turning out
the downstairs light. Tonight was the exception since his light was already
off. As I have said, it was usually my practice to spend some time writing,
but—acting on Mosiah’s orders—I abandoned this custom and retired immediately
to my bed. I turned out my light and the house was dark.

Lying alone in the darkness, I
began to be afraid. It is easy to frighten oneself at this time of night. I
recalled childhood terrors of monsters lurking in the closet. The fear I
experienced could not be banished by a flashlight, however. I wondered why I
was experiencing this feeling of dread and I realized it was because I felt
Mosiah’s fear.

Whatever is out there in the
night must be terrible, I thought, to have frightened someone as powerful as
the
Duuk-tsarith.

I
lay in my bed, ears
stretched to catch every sound. The night had its usual noises, I suppose, but
they were all alarming to me, who had never before paid them much heed.
The bark of a dog, the whine and snarl of fighting cats, a lone
automobile traveling up the street.
I invested these with such sinister
meanings that when Mosiah’s words again lit up my mind, I was so startled that
my shudder shook the bed frame.

“Come to me,” said Mosiah. “Not
your body. Leave that behind. Let your soul rise from its shell and walk with
me.”

I had no idea what the man was
talking about.

I think I would have laughed—in
fact, I am afraid that I did giggle, perhaps from nervous tension—except that I
felt his dire urgency. Bewildered, I lay in my bed, wondering what I was supposed
to do, wondering if my master knew what to do. Mosiah—or perhaps I should say
the “shadow” of Mosiah—took form in the darkness, standing at the foot of the
bed.

He held out his hand to me. “It
is quite simple,” he said.
“You
are coming with me. Your body is staying
behind. My body is downstairs right now. Yet here I stand before you. Picture
yourself
rising up out of bed and walking with me. You are a
writer. You must have traveled like this in your imagination many times. When I
read your description of Merilon, I could see it again in my mind, it was so
vivid. You are a professional day-dreamer, one might say. Simply concentrate a
little bit more.”