Legacy of the Darksword (6 page)

“What is it?” he asked, puzzled.

“Death,” said Mosiah.

Like a Living being, the sword
sucked the magic from him, drained him.
dry
, then used
him to continue to absorb magic from all around it.

FORGING
THE DARKSWORD

“D
eath!”
Saryon tried to snatch the
object from me, but I was too quick for him. I clasped my hand over it tightly.

“I do not mean for any of us,
here and now,” Mosiah said. His voice held a note of gentle rebuke. “I would
not have allowed this to remain in this room if it had been dangerous.”

Saryon and I exchanged glances,
both considerably ashamed.

“Of course, Mosiah,” Saryon said.
“Forgive me—forgive
us
—for not trusting you. . . . It’s just ... it has
all been so strange. . . . Those dreadful people. . . .” He shivered and drew
his robe closer around his tall, spare form.

“Who were they?” I gestured. “And
what is this?”

I opened my palm. In it lay a
round medallion about two inches in diameter made of very hard, heavy plastic.
The medallion had what appeared to be a sort of magnet on the back. One side
was clear. I could see inside and what I saw was very strange. Encased in the
medallion was some sort of bluish-green, thick, and viscous sludge. As I held
the medallion in my hand the sludge began undulating, surging against the sides
of the medallion, as if it
were
trying to escape. It
was not a pleasant sight and made me feel queasy to watch it.

I was loath to hold on to the
medallion longer and I fidgeted with it in my hand.

“It ... it looks as if it’s
alive!” Saryon said, frowning in disgust.

“They are,” Mosiah answered. “Or
rather they were. Most are already dead, which is why the
D’karn-darah
gave
this up. The rest will be dead shortly.”

“The rest of what! What’s trapped
in there?” Saryon was horrified and looked about
vaguely,
as if for something he could use to crack the medallion open.

“I will explain in a moment. I am
first going to remove the listening devices which the
D’karn-darah
placed
in your living room and in the phone. They made their presence known. There is
no longer any reason to keep up the pretense.”

He left the room, returned a
moment later. “There. Now we may speak freely.”

I handed over the medallion,
thankful to be rid of it.

“A very elemental organism,”
Mosiah said, holding it to the light. “A sort of organic soup, if you will.
Single-celled creatures,
who
are born and bred by the
Technomancers for one purpose— to die.”

“How terrible!” said Saryon,
shocked.

“But not much different from
calves,” I pointed out, “who are born only to become veal.”

“Perhaps,” Saryon said with
a
smile
and a shake of his head.

The only disagreements—I can’t
even call them arguments— he and I have ever had have been over the fact that I
am a vegetarian, while he enjoys a bit of chicken or beef on occasion. Early in
my arrival, I made the attempt—in my zeal—to convert him to my way of thinking.
I made life very unhappy for us both, I am sorry to say, until we reached an
agreement to respect each other’s opinions. He now views my bean curd with
equanimity and I no longer stage a protest over a hamburger.

“The living always feed off the
dead,” said Mosiah. “The hawk kills the mouse. Big fish eat their smaller
cousins. The rabbit kills the dandelion it devours, if it comes to that. The
dandelion feeds off the nutrients in the soil, nutrients which come from the
decomposing bodies of other plants and animals. Life thrives on death. Such is
the cycle.”

Saryon was quite struck by this. “I
never looked at it that way.”

“Nor have I,” I signed,
thoughtful.

“The Dark Cultists have, for
generations,” Mosiah continued. “They carried their beliefs one step further.
If death was the basis for life—”

“Then Death would be the basis
for Life!” Saryon said, suddenly understanding.

It took me a moment longer to
understand, mainly because I did not, at the time, hear the capital letters in
his words.

Of course, when he spoke of Life,
he was referring to magic, for the people of Thimhallan believe that magic is
Life and that those born without the ability to use magic are
Dead
. And that, one might say, was the beginning of the
story of Joram and the Darksword.

The magic—or Life—is present in
all things living. The dandelion possesses its tiny share, as do the rabbit and
the hawk, the fish, and we humans ourselves. In very ancient times certain
people discovered how to take the Life from things around them and used it to
perform what others considered miracles. They termed such miracles “magic” and
those who could not use the magic feared and distrusted it immensely. Wizards
and witches were persecuted and slain.

“But who are the Dark Cultists?”
Saryon asked.

“Recall your history lessons,
Father,” Mosiah said. “Recall how the magi of ancient times came together and
determined to leave Earth and find another world—a world where magic could
flourish and grow, not wither and die as it was bound to do on this one.

“Recall how Merlyn, the greatest
of us all, led his people into the stars and how he founded the new world,
Thimhallan, where magic was concentrated, trapped, so that it seemed to have
disappeared from Earth completely.”

“ ‘Seemed to have’?” Saryon
repeated.

“Excuse me,” I signed, “but if we
are going to stay up for the rest of the night, may I suggest that we move to
the kitchen? I’ll turn up the heat and make tea for everyone.”

We had been standing,
shivering—at least Saryon and I were shivering—in Saryon’s bedroom. He looked
haggard and weary, but neither he nor I could sleep now, after so many
astounding and puzzling events.

“That is,” I added, “unless you
think those terrible beings will return.”

Saryon translated my gestures,
but I had the feeling that wasn’t necessary. Mosiah understood me—either my
thoughts or the sign language.

“The
D’karn-darah
will not
come back this night,” Mosiah said with confidence. “They thought to ambush me,
to take me by surprise. They know now that I am aware of them. They will not
face me in direct battle. They would be forced to kill me and they do not want
my death. They want to capture me—they
must
capture me—alive.”

“Why?” Saryon asked.

“Because I infiltrated their
organization.
I am the only disciple of the blood-doom knights to have ever escaped their
clutches alive. I know their secrets. The
D’karn-darah
want
to find out how much I know and, most importantly, who
else knows. They hope, by capturing
me, that
I will
tell them. They are wrong,” he said simply, but with firm conviction. “I would
die first.”

“Let us have some tea,” Saryon
said quietly.

He put his hand on Mosiah’s arm,
and I knew now that my master trusted this man implicitly. I wanted to, but it
was all so strange. It was hard for me to trust my own senses, let alone trust
another person. Had what happened really happened? Had I truly left my body?
Had I hidden away in a fold of time?

I filled the teakettle with
water, put it on the burner,
brought
out the teapot
and cups. Mosiah sat at the table. He declined to have tea. He held, in his
hand, the medallion. None of us spoke, the entire time we waited for the water
to boil, the tea to steep. When, at last, I poured my master’s tea, I had begun
to believe.

“Start at the beginning,” said
Saryon.

“Do you mind,” I indicated, “if I
take notes?”

Saryon frowned and shook his
head, but Mosiah said he did not mind and that our experiences might, someday,
make an interesting book. He only hoped people would still be left alive on
Earth to read it.

I retrieved my small computer
from my bedroom, and seated with the computer in my lap, I wrote down his
words.

“The Dark Cultists have existed
down through time, although we, in Thimhallan, had no record of them. What we
knew as the Council of Nine on Thimhallan, representing the nine magical arts,
was once the Council of Thirteen here on Earth. At that time the Council
believed that all magi should be represented, even those who held diverse
ethical views, and so those who practiced the dark side of magic were included.
Perhaps some of the more naive members hoped to turn their brothers and sisters
who walked in the shadows back to the light. If so, they did not succeed and,
in fact, they incorporated their own eventual downfall.

“It was the Dark Cultists who
poisoned the mundane of Earth against magi. Life did not come from life, for
them. Life—or magic—came from death. They engaged in human and animal
sacrifice, believing that the deaths of others enhanced their power. Cruel and
selfish, they used their arcane arts only to indulge themselves, to further
their own ambition, to enslave and seduce, to destroy.

“The mundane fought back. They
held witch trials, inquisitions. Magi were rounded up, tortured until they
confessed, and were burned or hanged or drowned. Among these were many members
of the Council who had used their magic for good, not evil. Shocked and
saddened by their losses, the Council of Thirteen met to consider what to do.

“The Four Dark Cults—the Cult of
the White Steed, the Black Steed, the Red Steed, and the Pale Steed—all
advocated war and conquest. They would rise up and destroy those who opposed
them, enslaving all who survived. The Nine Cults of Light refused even to
consider this option. Furious, the
Four
members
stormed out of the meeting. In their absence, the other members made their
decision. They would leave Earth forever. Realizing now the danger the Dark
Cultists represented to their order, the Council took care that the Dark
Cultists were excluded from all their plans.

“In A.D. 1600, when Merlyn and
the Council of Nine left this world, the Dark Cultists found out about the
exodus, but—so well kept was the secret—they were too late either to impede the
exodus or to force their way along. They were left behind on Earth.

“At first, they welcomed the
change, for the Council of Nine had long curtailed the activities of the Dark
Cultists. They saw themselves as rulers of the people of Earth and so they set
out to advance their goals. But during this time on Thimhallan, Merlyn
established the Well of the World, which drew magic from Earth and concentrated
it within the boundaries of Thimhallan. The Dark Cultists found themselves
bereft of their magical power.

“They were enraged, but helpless.
They knew well what had happened, that magic was being kept within Thimhallan.
Their powers dwindled, except for times of famine or plague or war, when Death
stalked the world and increased their power. Even then, they could perform only
small magicks, mostly for their own personal benefit. They never lost their
ambition,
nor
their memory of how powerful they had
once been. They believed that there would come a time when they would rise
again.

“And so, down through the ages,
the Four kept their loose-knit organization. Parents would pass on this dark
inheritance to their children. Worthy recruits were brought into the circle.
Fearful of discovery, the Four worked their Dark Arts in isolation, keeping
apart from others. Yet they always knew each other, one mage recognizing a
fellow mage by certain secret signs and countersigns.

“A central organization existed,
run by the Khandic Sages. So secret was this that few of the members ever knew
who was in control. Once a year the
Sol-huena,
the Collectors, appeared
at the door of every Dark Cultist, demanding a tithe, which was used to keep
the Council operational. The only time members ever came together was if one of
their own had been lax in payment of funds or had broken one of their strict
rules. The wizards of the Black Steed, the
Sol-t’kan
or Judges, sat in
judgment and passed sentence. The
Sol-huena
carried out that sentence.

“Eventually, as time passed, the
modern world no longer believed in witches and warlocks. The Dark Cultists were
able to leave their cellars and their caves, where they had once practiced
their arts, move into apartments and town houses. They entered politics, became
government ministers and rulers of nations, and when it suited their purposes,
fomented war and rebellion. They delight in suffering and death, for by such is
their power enhanced.

“And then came the day when the
Darksword was created.”

Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who
smiled gently and sighed softly and shook his head. For though he did not
regret his part in the creation of the Darksword and the eventual downfall of
Thimhallan and often said that he would do it again, he as often added that he
wished change could have been accomplished with much less pain and suffering.