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    TRIUMPHOFTHEDARKSWORDABantamSpectraBaokfSefteMierI9XIAcknowledgmen
tsAllright*reserved

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  A  Bantam Spectra  BaokfSefteMier  I9XI
Acknowledgments All right* reserved.

    Copyrykt ©  1988 by  Margaret  Was am)  Trmey Hitkman.  Cover  art
fOfy^bt © 1988 by I*rry BJmort.

    Map by Steve SmUirmm. Interior art by Voter* Kdustk.

    No fart of tbu font may  bf rtpraAieed or tntmiaiittrf m any  form
or by  any  meant,  elettronic or  mecbameai,  ateiodmf  ftotfetfjmay,
retarding, or by any information storage and retrieval systam, mtlttmt
ftrmission in  wiling  from  the  publisker.  Far  utformatim  aUrtft:
{tamtam Bogkj,  ISBN 0-553-2740^6  Pitblubei) Jumiltaneaujty  iti  tbe
United State* ami Canada Bantam Book* are published by Bantam B+*ks, a
dititia* «f Bantam DenHiday Deti Puttubing Group, lac. It*  trademark,
ousting of the *vr&> 'Bantam B00ks" and tbe portrayal of a rooster, is
Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Offiet and at timer commtrits.
Marca Rtgit-trada. Bantam Books. 666 fifth A*ea*e, Nt* York, New  York
10103 PRINTED  IN  THE UNITED  STATES  OF AMERICA  098765432  wish  to
gratefully acknowledge the help and  support of the following  people:
Our agent, Ray Peuchner, who died  tragically of cancer in the  summer
of 1987. A  kind and loving  man, Ray was  our friend as  well as  our
agent and we  mourn his  passing even  as we  celebrate his  beautiful
life.

    Laura Hickman, for advice, support, and putting up with Tracy.

    Cover artist and friend, Larry Elmore, who makes our visions  come
to life.

    Interior artist. Valeric Valusek,  and map-maker, Steve  Sullivan,
both friends as well and both valued members of our creative "team."

    Darryl Viscenti, Jr., for portraying Joram in the cover paintings.

    Patrick Lucien Price for sharing  his knowledge and advice on  the
tarot cards and the art of divination.

    John Hefter  for  providing us  with  our Latin  phrases  and  for
insight into the nature of  the quest for spiritual understanding.  It
is to  John that  we dedicate  the character  of the  wise and  gentle
priest, Saryon.

    Our editor, Amy Stout, who  will probably remove this credit,  but
we hope she doesn't because she deserves it.

    And finally, to you -  our readers - whose continued  enthusiastic
support and kind words make this so much fun.

    THE FIELD  OF  GLORY TheVteteher  T-  • po  he  thirty-foot  stone
Watcher, . posting guard  on the Border of  Thimhallan, had seen  with
his eyes of rock many strange sights over the last nineteen years.  He
had been  here only  nineteen years,  this Watcher.  Once a  human,  a
catalyst, his crime  had been one  of passion. He  had loved a  woman,
committed the unpardonable  sin of  physically joining  with her,  and
produced a child. He  had been sentenced to  the Turning, wherein  his
living flesh was transformed to living stone. He was destined to stand
forever at the Border, staring into the realm of Beyond - the realm of
death whose sweet peace and rest he would never know.

    This Watcher thought back to the  first six years of his  Turning.
Six years of  unendurable emptiness,  of rarely seeing  a human,  much
less hearing a human voice. Six  years of mind and sout raging  inside
their stone prison.  These six  years passed,  and a  woman brought  a
child to his feet. The child  was beautiful, with long black hair  and
large, dark brown eyes.

    THE WATCHER  "This is  your  father," the  woman told  the  child,
pointing up at the stone statue.

    Did the Watcher know this wasn't  true? Did he know his child  had
died at birth? He knew. Deep in  his heart, he knew the catalysts  had
not lied when  they foretold that  no living issue  would come of  his
union with this woman.  Whose child was this?  That was something  the
Watcher did not know, and he wept for the child and still more for the
poor woman he had  once loved who  now stood at  his feet, dressed  in
rags, looking up at him with crazed eyes.

    Long years after that,  the Watcher remained standing  undisturbed
without, his soul  tormented within.  Sometimes he saw  others of  his
Order - the catalysts - changed to stone for some infraction they  had
committed. Sometimes he watched as a magus of the land was sent Beyond
- the punishment inflicted  upon those who have  the gift of Life.  He
saw the Executioner drag the victim to the edge of the sandy shore. He
saw the victim  hurled into  the ever-shifting mists  that marked  the
Border of the World. He heard  with his stone ears the last  horrified
scream that came back from those swirling gray fogs, and then nothing.
The Watcher envied these  victims. He envied  them bitterly, for  they
were at rest, while he must go on living.

    But the strangest sight the Watcher  ever saw had occurred only  a
year before. Why should it have touched him? he wondered often in  the
dark hours of the night that were  the hardest to bear. Why should  it
have left a  sorrowful mark upon  his stone heart  when none of  these
others had?  He  didn't know,  and  he pondered  it  for days  on  end
sometimes, reliving the scene over and over in his mind.

    It  was  another  Turning.  He  recognized  the   preparations-the
twenty-five catalysts appearing from the Corridors, ^he mark drawn  in
the sand where the victim was to stand, the Executioner dressed in his
gray robes of justice. But this  was no ordinary Turning. The  Watcher
was surprised  to see  the Emperor  arrive with  his wife.  Then  came
Bishop Vanya  -the Watcher  cursed him  silently -and  Prince  Xavier,
brother to the Empress.

    At last they  brought in  the prisoner. The  Watcher was  stunned.
This young man with long black hair and strong, muscular body was  not
a catalyst! And, so far as the Watcher knew, only catalysts were  ever
sentenced to the Turning.

    THE WATCHER Why was this young man different? What was his crime?

    The Watcher  watched with  avid curiosity,  thankful for  anything
that relieved the terrible boredom of his existence. He saw a catalyst
arrive next. As the Priest took his place beside the Executioner,  the
Watcher saw  that the  catalyst  carried a  sword, a  strange  looking
sword. The Watcher had never seen one like it before, and he  shivered
as he gazed upon the black, ungleaming metal.

    A hush fell over the crowd. Bishop Vanya read the charges.

    The young man  was Dead. He  had committed murder.  Worse, he  had
lived among the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts and there he had created  a
weapon of demonic evil. For  this, he was to  be Turned to Stone.  The
last sight  his eyes  would behold,  as their  vision froze,  was  the
terrible weapon he had brought forth into the world.

    The Watcher did not recognize the  young man as the child who  had
crouched at his feet all those years before. Why should he? There  was
no bond  between them.  Still,  he pitied  him.  Why? Perhaps  it  was
because a golden-haired girl  - not much older  than the woman he  had
once loved - was being forced to  stand and watch, as his beloved  had
once been forced to watch. The Watcher pitied both of them - the young
man and the girl;  especially when he  saw the young  man fall to  his
knees before the catalyst, crying unashamedly in fear and terror.

    The Watcher saw the catalyst embrace the young man, and his  stone
heart wept for them both. He watched as the young man stood - straight
and tall - to face his punishment. The catalyst took his place  beside
the Executioner, sword in his hand. The twenty-five catalysts drew the
magic, the Life, from the world,  focused it within their own  beings,
then opened conduits to  the Executioner. Magic  arced from them  into
him. The Executioner  drew upon it  and began to  cast the spell  that
would transform the young mans flesh to stone.

    But suddenly the catalyst sacrificed himself, hurling his own body
in the path of the magic. The catalysts limbs began to harden to rock.
With His last strength, he tossed the sword to the young man.

    "Escape!" he cried.

    There was no escape. The Watcher felt the dread power THE  WATCHER
of the sword even  from where he stood,  some twenty feet distant.  He
felt the sword  began to absorb  the Life  from the world.  He saw  it
destroy two warlocks  in a  burst of flame.  He watched  it bring  the
Executioner to  his knees,  and if  his lungs  had been  able to  draw
breath, the Watcher would have let out a howl of victory and triumph.

    "Kill!" he longed to shout. "Kill them all!"

    But there was one thing the powerful sword could not do. It  could
not reverse the spell of the  Turning. The young man saw the  catalyst
change to stone before his eyes. The Watcher felt his grief and looked
forward with a heart filled with hatred to the young mans revenge.

    It did not come. Instead, the young man took the sword and laid it
reverently in the catalysts stone hands. The young man bowed his  head
upon the stone breast  of his friend; then  he turned and walked  into
the mists of  Beyond. The  golden-haired girl, calling  out his  name,
followed him.

    The Watcher stared in amazement. He  waited to hear the last  wail
of horror, but in vain. Only silence came from those shifting mists.

    The Watchers stone  gaze went to  those left behind  and saw  with
grim satisfaction that the young mans revenge was enacted without him.
Bishop Vanya fell to the ground as though struck by a thunderbolt. The
Empress's body decomposed. It was  then that the Watcher realized  she
must have been  dead for some  time, existing on  magic alone.  Prince
Xavier ran to the stone statue of the catalyst and tried to wrest  the
sword from its grip, but the catalyst held it fast.

    Soon the living left the Border,  left it once more to the  living
dead. Left it  to a new  statue -a new  Watcher. But it  was not  made
thirty feet tall like the others. Its face was not frozen in fear,  or
hatred, or resignation as were the faces of its fellow Watchers.

    The stone statue of the catalyst holding the strange sword in  his
hands stared out into the Realm of Beyond, and upon the stone face was
a look of sublime peace.

    And there was one other unusual thing about this living statue. It
had one more,  unique visitor.  Now, from around  the catalysts  stone
neck, there fluttered gaily a banner of orange silk.

    o O K O N  And Live Again •he W,  HBorde |he Watchers had  guarded
the ler  of Thimhallan  for  centuries. It  was their  enforced  task,
through sleepless  night  and dreary  day,  to keep  watch  along  the
boundary that separated the magical realm from whatever lay Beyond.

    What &? lie Beyond?

    The ancients knew. They had come to this world, fleeing a homeland
where they were no longer wanted, and they knew what lay on the  other
side of  those shifting  mists. To  protect themselves  from it,  they
encompassed their  world  in a  magical  barrier, decreeing  that  the
Watchers be placed on its Border - eternal, sleepless guards. But  now
it was forgotten. The tides of centuries had worn away the memory.  If
there u>aj a threat from beyond  the Border, no one worried about  it,
for how could it pass the magic barrier?

    The Watchers kept their silent vigil  still - they had no  choice.
And when the  mists parted  for the first  time in  centuries, when  a
figure stepped out of  the shifting gray fog  and •7 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN
put his foot upon the sand,  the Watchers were appalled and cried  out
their warning.

    But there  were none,  now, who  knew how  to listen  to words  of
stone.

    Thus the man's  return was  unheralded, unannounced.  He had  gone
forth in silence and  in silence he  returned. The Watchers  shrieked,
"Beware, Thimhallan! Your doom has come! The Border has been crossed!"

    But no one heard them.

    There were those who might have  heard the silent cries, had  they
been attentive.  Bishop Vanya,  for one.  He was  the highest  ranking
catalyst in the land and, as such, it seemed likely that his god,  the
Almin, would have called His  ministers attention to such a  calamity.
But it  was dinner  time. His  Holiness was  entertaining guests  and,
though the  Bishop  prayed beautifully  and  devoutly over  the  meal,
everyone had the distinct  feeling that the  Almin realty hadn't  been
invited.

    Prince  Xavier  should  have  heard  the  warnings  of  the  stone
Watchers. He was a warlock, after all - DKarn-duuk, a War Master,  and
one of the most powerful magi in  the land. But he had more  important
matters to  consider. Prince  Xavier -  pardon, Emperor  Xavier -  was
preparing for war with the kingdom of Sharakan and there was only  one
thing more important  to him  than that. Or  rather, it  was all  tied
together. How to retrieve  the Darksword, held fast  in the arms of  a
stone statue. If  he possessed  this powerful  sword -  a weapon  that
could absorb magic - Sharakan must fall to his might.

    And so Bishop \£mya sat in his elegant chambers at the top of  the
mountain fastness of the Font, dining on boar's head and piglet  tails
and pickled shrimp,  discussing the  nature and  habits of  marsupials
with his guests, and  the warnings of the  Watchers were swallowed  up
with the wine.

    Prince Xavier  paced about  his laboratory,  occasionally  darting
over to read the text in some musty, brittle-paged book, consider  it,
then shake his head with a bitter snarl. The warnings of the  Watchers
were lost in his curses.

    Only one person in  all of Thimhallan heard  the warnings. In  the
city of Sharakan,  a bearded young  man dressed in  purple hose,  pink
pantaloons, and a bright  red silken waistcoat,  was wakened from  his
afternoon nap. Cocking his head TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 5 toward  the
east, he cried out  irritably, "E'gad! How do  you expect a fellow  to
get any sleep? Stop that fearful racket!" With a wave of his hand,  he
slammed shut the window.

    Beware, Thimhallan!  Your<loom  has  come!  The  Border  has  been
crossed!

    The man who  stepped out  of the mists  was m  his late  twenties,
though he appeared older. His body was  that of a young man -  strong,
muscular, firm, and  upright. His face,  was the face  of a man  whose
sufferings might have spanned a century.

    Framed by thick black hair, the face was handsome, stern, and - at
first glance - appeared  as cold and unfeeling  as the stone faces  of
those who watched him.  Lines of care and  of grief had been  chiseled
into that face  by a  Masters hand, however.  The fires  of anger  and
hatred that had once  burned in the brown  eyes had died out,  leaving
behind cold ash.

    The man was dressed in long white robes of fine wool, covered by a
wet, mud-stained traveling  cloak. Standing upon  the sand, he  looked
about him with the slow and deliberate gaze of one who looks about the
home he has not  seen in many, many  years. The expression of  sadness
and of  sorrow on  his face  did not  change, except  to grow  deeper.
Turning, he reached back into the mists. A hand took hold of his,  and
a woman with long, golden hair stepped out of the shifting gray fog to
stand beside him.

    She glanced about her with a  dazed air, blinking her eyes in  the
rays of  the setting  sun  that stared  at  them from  behind  distant
mountains -  its  red, unblinking  eye  seeming to  regard  them  with
amazement.

    "Where am I?" the woman asked calmly, as if they had walked down a
street and taken a wrong turn.

    "Thimhallan," the man replied in an even tone of voice that spread
like salve over some deep wound.

    "Do I know this place?" the  woman questioned. And though the  man
replied and  she accepted  his answers,  she did  not took  at him  or
appear to be talking to him but continually sought out and spoke to an
unseen companion.

    The woman was younger than the man, about twenty-seven. The golden
hair, parted in the center  of her head, was  6 WE1S AND HICKMAN  tied
loosely m two  thick braids that  hung down to  her waist. The  braids
gave her a childish look, making her seem younger than her years.  Her
pretty blue eyes enhanced this childish appearance as well - until one
looked into  them closely.  Then it  could be  seen that  their  eerie
brilliance and wide-open  stare were  not expressive  of the  innocent
wonder of childhood. This  woman's eyes saw things  that could not  be
seen by others.

    "\bu were born here,"  the man said quietly,  "\bu were raised  in
this world, as was I."

    "That's odd," said the woman.  "I would think I'd remember."  Like
the mans, her cloak was splattered with mud and wet through. Her hair,
too, was wet, as was  his, and clung damply  to her cheeks. Both  were
weary and appeared to have traveled a long distance through a  soaking
rainstorm.

    "Where are my friends?" she asked, half-turning and staring behind
them into the mists. "Aren't they coming?"

    "No," the man said in the same calm tones. "They cannot cross  the
Border. But you will find new  friends here. Give them time. They  are
probably not accustomed  to you yet.  No one in  this land has  talked
with them in a long, long while."

    "Oh, really?" The woman brightened.  Then her face grew  shadowed.
"How lonely they must be." Lifting  her hand to her forehead to  block
out the beaming  rays of the  sun, she  peered up and  down the  sandy
shore. "Hello?" she called, holding out her other hand as she might to
a wary cat. "Please, its all right. Don't be frightened. You can  come
to me."

    Leaving the  woman talking  to the  empty air,  the man  - with  a
profound sigh -  walked up to  the stone statue  of the catalyst;  the
statue that held the sword in its rock hands.

    As he stared at the  statue in silence, a  tear crept from one  of
his clear, brown eyes, disappearing into the deep lines that cut  into
the stern,  clean-shaven face.  Its mate  slid down  the other  cheek,
falling in the thick, black hair that curled upon the mans  shoulders.
Drawing a deep, shuddering  breath, the man reached  out his hand  and
gently caught  hold of  the  orange silk  banner  - now  tattered  and
torn-that fluttered bravely in the  winds. Taking it from the  statue,
he smoothed  the silk  in his  hands,  then folded  it and  placed  it
carefully m a  TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD / pocket  of the long,  white
robes he wore. His slender fingers  reached out to stroke the  statues
careworn face.

    "My friend," he whispered,  "do you know me?  I have changed  from
the boy you  knew, the boy  whose wretched soul  you saved." His  hand
pressed against the cool rock.  "Yes, Saryon," he murmured, "you  know
me. I feel it between us."

    He smiled, a half-smile. This smile was not bitter, as his  smiles
once had  been. This  smile  -was sad  and  filled with  regret.  "Our
situations are reversed. Father. Once I  was cold as stone, warmed  by
your love and  compassion. Now  it is  you whose  flesh is  icy to  my
touch. If only my love - learned too late - could warm you!"

    He bowed his  head, overcome  by grief, and  his tear-dimmed  gaze
fell upon the statue's hands that held the sword in their stone grip.

    "What is this?" he muttered.

    Examining the statues  hands more  closely, the man  saw that  the
stone flesh of  the palms on  which the sword  rested was cracked  and
gouged as though it had been  struck by hammer and chisel. Several  of
the stone fingers were broken and twisted.

    "They tried to take  the sword!" he realized.  "And you would  not
give it up!"

    Stroking the  statue's injured  hands with  his own,  he felt  die
anger that he  thought was  dead flickering  to life  within him  once
more. "What suffering  you must have  endured! And they  knew it!  You
stood there, helpless,  while they  gouged your flesh  and broke  your
bones! They knew you would feel every blow, yet they didn't care.  Why
should they?" he questioned bitterly. "They couldn't hear your cries!"
The man's  own  hands  went  to the  weapon,  touching  it  haltingly.
Reflexively, his hand closed over the hilt of the stone sword. "I have
come upon a fool's errand it seems- "

    The man  stopped  speaking  abruptly.  He  felt  the  sword  move!
Thinking he might  have imagined it  in his anger,  he gave the  stone
weapon a tug, as though  to draw it out of  its rock scabbard. To  his
amazement, the  sword  slid  out  easily;  he  nearly  dropped  it  in
surprise. Holding it, he felt the cold WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF THE
DARKSWORD stone warm at his touch and, as he watched, astonished,  the
rock turned to metal.

    The man lifted the Darksword to  the light. The rays of the  dying
sun struck it,  but no flame  blazed from its  surface. Its metal  was
black, absorbing the sun's light, not reflecting it. He stared at  the
weapon for long moments. One part of him was attentive to the  woman's
voice; he could  hear her moving  farther down the  beach, calling  to
person or persons  unseen. He  did not watch  her. He  knew from  long
experience that, although  she never acknowledged  his existence,  she
would not stray far from him. His gaze and his thoughts focused on the
sword.

    "I thought I  had rid  myself of you,"  he said,  speaking to  the
weapon as if it were alive. "Just  like I thought I had rid myself  of
life. I gave you  to the catalyst, who  accepted my sacrifice, then  I
walked - walked gladly - into death." His eyes shifted to the gray fog
that rolled upon the white sand shore. "But death is not out there.  .
. ."

    He fell  silent, his  hand gripping  the hilt  of the  sword  more
firmly, noticing how much better it suited him, now that he was older,
with  a  mans  strength.  "Or  maybe   it  is,"  he  remarked  as   an
afterthought, his thick, black eyebrows  drawing together in a  frown.
His gaze came back  to the sword,  then his eyes  shifted to meet  the
unseeing eyes of the statue. "You  were right. Father. It is a  weapon
of evil. It brings pain and suffering to everyone who comes in contact
with it. Even I,  its creator, - do  not understand or comprehend  its
powers.  For  that  reason  alone  it  is  dangerous.  It  should   be
destroyed." The mans  gaze turned  once again, frowning,  to the  gray
fog. "\et now it has been given to me again . . ."

    As if in answer  to some unspoken  question, the leather  scabbard
fell from the statue's hands and landed in the sand at the man's feet.
He bent down to pick it up, then started as something warm dropped  on
his skin.

    Blood.

    Aghast, the man  looked up.  Blood oozed  from the  cracks in  the
statues hands, dripped out of the deep gouges in the stone flesh,  ran
down the broken stone fingers.

    "Damn them!" the man cried in fury.

    Standing up, he faced the statue  of the catalyst, seeing now  not
only blood running  from the hands  but tears failing  from the  stone
eyes.

    "You gave me my life!" the man cried. "I can't return that to you,
Father, but at least I can give you the peace of death! By the  Almin,
they won't torment you anymore!"

    The man lifted the Darksword and the weapon tegan to glow with  an
eerie, white-blue  light.  "May  your  soul rest  in  peace  at  last,
Saryon!" the man prayed,  and, with all the  strength of his body,  he
drove the sword into the statues stone breast.

    The Darksword felt itself wielded.  Blue light twined and  twisted
along the blade,  surging up the  man's arms as  the weapon  thirstily
drank the magic of the  world that gave it  life. Deep, deep into  the
rock it plunged, striking the statues stone heart.

    A cry escaped the statue's cold, unmoving lips- a cry heard not so
much with the ears as with the soul. The stone around the sword  began
to shatter and  crack. Jagged  lines spread through  the statues  body
with  snapping,  rending  sounds   that  obliterated  the   catalyst's
pain-filled voice. An arm broke at the shoulder. The torso split  into
shards and toppled from  the trunk. The head  cracked at the neck  and
tumbled to the sand.

    The man yanked the sword free. Blinded by his tears, he could  not
see, but he heard the shattering of  the stone and he knew the man  he
had learned too late to love was dead.

    Hurling the Darksword to  the sand, he  pressed his hands  against
his eyes, fighting to stop the tears of rage and pain. He drew a deep,
shuddering breath.

    "They will pay," he vowed thickly. "By the Almin, they will-"

    A hand touched his arm. A  voice, deep and low, spoke  hesitantly,
"My son? Joram?"

    Lifting his head, the man stared.

    Saryon stood amidst the ruins of the stone body.

    Reaching out a trembling hand, Joram grasped the catalysts arm and
felt warm, living flesh beneath his fingers.

    "Father!" he  cried  brokenly, and  was  clasped fast  in  Saryons
embrace.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKS WORD And In Mis Hand •he tv Mclose ie two men
held each other ,  then separated. Each  regarded the other  intently.
Joram's eyes went to the  catalyst's hands, but Saryon hastily  folded
them one over  the other, keeping  them hidden in  the sleeves of  his
robes.

    "What has happened to you, my son?" The catalyst studied the stern
face that was familiar, yet  vastly different. "Where have you  been?"
His puzzled gaze went  to the deep lines  carved near the firm  mouth,
the fine lines around the eyes. "I have lost track of time, it  seems.
I could have sworn that only one  year has passed - only once has  the
winter chilled my blood, only once  the sun beaten down upon my  head.
Yet I see the marks of many years upon your face!"

    Joram s lips parted to speak, but a wail interrupted him. Turning,
he saw the woman slump down In the sand, frustrated and disconsolate.

    "Who is this?" Saryon asked,  following Joram as he walked  toward
the woman.

    Joram glanced at his friend.

    "Do you  remember what  you told  me, Father?"  he asked  harshly.
"About the grooms gift. 'All I could  ever give her, ' you said,  'was
grief. '"

    "Blessed Almin," Saryon  breathed in sorrow,  recognizing now  the
golden hair of the woman who sat, weeping, on the shore.

    Walking over to her, Joram leaned  down and placed his hands  upon
her shoulders. Despite his grim  expression, his touch was gentle  and
loving and the  woman yielded to  him as  he lifted her  to her  feet.
Raising her head, she looked directly  at the catalyst, but there  was
no recognition in her wide, too-bright eyes.

    "Gwendolyn!" Saryon murmured.

    "Now my wife," said Joram.

    "They are here." Gwen spoke sadly, seeming to pay no attention  to
Joram. "They are all around me, yet they will not speak to me."

    "Who is she  talking about?"  Saryon asked. The  beach was  empty,
except for themselves and, in the far distance, another stone Watcher.
"Who Is all around us?"

    "The dead," Joram answered,  holding the woman  to his breast  and
soothing her as she leaned her golden head upon his strong chest.

    "The dead?"

    "My wife no longer communicates with the living," Joram explained,
his voice expressionless as though he had long ago accustomed  himself
to this pain. "She  talks only with  the dead. If I  were not here  to
watch her and care for her," he added softly, stroking the golden hair
with his hand, "I think  she would join them. I  am her one link  with
life. She follows me,  she seems to  know me, yet  she will not  speak
directly to me or call  me by name. She has  not spoken to me  -except
once - in these past ten years."

    "Ten years!"  Saryon's  eyes  opened wide,  then  narrowed  as  he
studied Joram intently. "Yes,  I might have  guessed. So wherever  you
have been, ten years have passed for you to one of ours."

    "I did not know that would  happen," Joram said, his thick,  black
brows drawing together. "Yet I might have, if I had considered it." He
added, after a moment's  thought, 12 WEIS AND  HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD "Time slows here in the center, moving faster and faster  as
it expands outward."

    "I don't understand," Saryon said.

    "No." Joram shook his head. "And neither will many others. . .  ."
His voice died. Absently, he smoothed Gwendolyns hair, his brown  eyes
staring far off into the land of Thim-hallan. The sun had disappeared,
leaving behind only a  rapidly fading pale light  in the sky.  Shadows
gathered on the beach, hiding those  who stood there from the view  of
the Watchers, whose silent, frantic shouts were going unheard anyway.

    No one spoke. Gazing intently into the distance, as if endeavoring
to see beyond the sands, beyond the plains, the forests, and the  rims
of the mountains, Joram appeared to be mulling over some decision.

    Saryon kept quiet, fearing to  disturb him. Though many  questions
crowded into his mind, one question alone blazed with the bright light
of a fiery forge, and he knew it would shed light upon all the others.
But that question Saryon dared not ask, fearing as he did the answer.

    He waited in silence, his eyes on Gwendolyn, who looked around the
gathering gloom from the shelter of her husbands strong arm, her  face
sad and wistful.

    Finally, Joram shook his  head, the black  hair falling about  his
face, his thoughts returning from whatever world in which he had  been
wandering to the beach where they stood.

    Feeling Gwendolyn shivering in the chill night air, Joram drew her
wet cloak more closely around her. "Another thing I might have  known,
had I thought about  it," he said, speaking  to Saryon, "was that  the
Darksword would  break  the  spell holding  you  prisoner.  I  didn't,
however. I wanted only to give you rest. …"

    "I know, my son. And I welcomed it. You cannot imagine the  horror
-" Saryon shut his eyes.

    "No, I cannot!" said Joram, anger burning his voice. At the  sight
of his dark  face scowling in  the gloom, Gwen  shrank away from  him.
Seeing her fear, he  made an obvious effort  to master himself. "I  am
thankful that  you  are here  with  me,  Saryon," he  added  in  cold,
measured tones. "You will stay with me, won't you?"

    "Of course," Saryon said firmly. His fate was bound up in Joram s.
No matter what he intended.

    Joram smiled  suddenly;  the  brown  eyes  warmed,  his  shoulders
relaxing as  though a  burden had  been lifted  from them.  "Thankyou.
Father," he said. Looking down at Gwen, he put his arm around her and,
hesitantly, she huddled against  his side. "I ask  this favor of  you,
then, my old friend. Watch over my wife. Take her in your care.  There
is much I must do and I may  not always be able to stay close by  her.
Will you do this for me?"

    "\es, my son,"  Saryon said, though  inwardly he asked  fearfully,
What miut you do?

    "Will you stay with  this Priest, my dear?"  Joram said gently  to
his wife. "You knew him once, long ago."

    Gwendolyn's blue  eyes  went  to Saryon,  a  mystified  expression
clouding them. "Why won't they talk to me?" she asked.

    "My lady," the catalyst said helplessly, not knowing quite how  to
reply, "the dead of  Thimhallan are not accustomed  to talking to  the
living. No one has been able to  hear them in many hundreds of  years.
Perhaps they have lost their voices. Be patient."

    He smiled at her  reassuringly, but it was  a sad smile. He  could
not help thinking  of the merry,  laughing girl of  sixteen who  stood
before Him at the gates of Merilon, a bouquet of flowers in her  hand.
Looking into the blue eyes, he remembered the dawn of first love  that
had made them radiant. Now the only light in Gwen's eyes was the eerie
light of madness. Saryon shuddered, wondering what terrible thing  had
happened to her to cause her to  retreat from the world of the  living
into the shadowy realm of the dead.

    "I think they're  frightened of something,"  she said, and  Saryon
realized she was  not talking to  him or  to her husband  •but to  the
empty air, "and they want desperately to tell some-one, to warn  them.
They want to speak, but they can't re-inember how."

    Saryon glanced at Joram, somewhat  taken back by the  ^Earnestness
of her discussion.

    £ "Does she really - "

    •;?. "See them? Talk to them? Or is she insane?" Joram 'I was told
by"-he paused, the dark brows com- 14 WE1S AND HICKMAN ing together  -
"by  someone  experienced  in  these  matters  that  she  might  be  a
Necromancer, one  of the  ancient  wizardesses who  had the  power  to
communicate with the dead. If that is true, it's fitting"- Jorams lips
twisted in a bitter half-smile - "since she married a Dead man."

    "Joram," said  Saryon,  at last  able  to give  utterance  to  the
terrible question burning in his mind,  "why have you come back?  Have
you returned  to …  to …"  He faltered,  seeing by  the expression  in
Jorams brown eyes that the question was anticipated.

    But Joram did not  answer. Leaning down,  he lifted the  Darksword
from the sand and carefully slipped it into the leather scabbard.  His
hands lingered on the soft leather, caressing it, thinking undoubtedly
of the man whose gift it had been.

    "Your Grace," Saryon  thought he heard  Joram murmur, shaking  his
head.

    "Joram?" Saryon persisted.

    Still Joram did not answer  the unspoken question that echoed  all
around them like the silent cries  of the Watchers. Stripping off  his
robes and his wet cloak, he  strapped the leather scabbard around  his
bare chest, positioning the  sword on his back  where it would  remain
hidden beneath his clothes. When it was comfortably in position -  the
magic of the scabbard causing the sword to shrink in size -Joram  drew
his white robes back  T) n, secured  them tightly with  a belt at  his
waist, and flung his cloak over his shoulders.

    "How do you feel. Father?" he asked abruptly. "Are you well enough
to travel? We have to find shelter, build a fire. Gwendolyn is chilled
through."

    "I am well enough," answered Saryon, "but -"

    "Fine. Let's be off." Joram took  a step forward, then stopped  as
he felt Saryons  hand on  his arm.  He did  not turn  around, and  the
catalyst was forced to draw near to see his averted face.

    "Why have you returned, Joram?  To fulfill the Prophecy? Have  you
come to destroy the world?"

    Joram did not look at the catalyst. His eyes were on the mountains
before him.

    Night had fallen. The first  bright evening stars sparkled in  the
sky and the  jagged peaks  were visible  against them  TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD 15 ony y their darkness. Joram stood in silence so long that
-jfae moon rose from behind the black  rim of the world - its  single,
white, uncaring eye glaring down at the three figures Standing on  the
shores of Beyond.

    At the  sight of  the  moon, Saryon  saw the  twisting  half-smile
darken Jorams lips.

    "Ten years have  passed for me,  my friend, my  father, if I  •may
call you such? "

    The catalyst nodded, unable to speak. Reaching out, Joram  grasped
Saryons hands in  his own, though  it seemed the  catalyst would  have
stopped him if he could. But  Joram gripped them firmly. Looking  down
at the hands held  fast in his,  he continued. "For  ten years I  have
lived in another world. I have lived another life. I never forgot this
world, but when I looked back on it,  I seemed to see it as through  a
mist. I remembered its beauty, its wonder and I came back to … to -  "
He stopped abruptly.

    "To what?"  Saryon urged,  trying  unobtrusively to  withdraw  his
hands.

    "No matter," Joram answered. "Someday I'll tell you. Not now."

    His eyes were on Saryons hands.

    "How does that Prophecy read,  Father?" he asked softly.  "Doesn't
it say something like this-'And when  he returns, he will hold in  his
hand the destruction of the world'?"

    Suddenly, without warning,  Joram roughly  shoved Saryons  sleeves
back. Pushing, Saryon attempted to cover fais hands, but too late. The
moonlight shone on long  white scars on his  wrists and his palms,  on
the broken fingers that had healed crooked and misshapen. Jorams  lips
pressed together grimly.

    "Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.". Releasing the  Priest
from his grasp,  Joram walked  away, moving across  die sand,  heading
inland toward the mountains.

    Saryon remained standing beside Gwendolyn, who was calling on  the
night to talk to her.

    "The destruction  is not  in my  hand," Joram  said bitterly.  The
darkness closed around him, the rising wind obliterating Jttt trace of
his footsteps in the sand. "It is not in my hand but in theirs!"

    Half-turning, he glanced behind him. "Coming?" he impatiently.

    The Anniversary G; • ardinal Radisovik? "

    kThe Cardinal raised  his head from  the book he  was reading  and
turned to see who called him. Blinking in the bright sunlight of early
morning that beamed through the intricate patterns of the shaped glass
window, he saw only  a dark figure silhouetted  in the doorway of  his
study.

    "Its me,  Mosiah, Holiness,"  the young  man said,  realizing  the
catalyst did not recognize him. "I  hope I'm not disturbing you. If  I
am, 1 can come back another- "

    "No, not at all, my son." The Cardinal closed his book,  beckoning
with his hand. "Please, come in. I haven't seen you around the  palace
lately."

    "Thank you. Holiness. I'm living  with the Sorcerers now,"  Mosiah
replied, entering the room. "It was easier to move in with them, since
my work keeps me at the forge most of the time."

    "Yes." Cardinal  Radisovik  nodded,  and if  there  was  a  slight
darkening of his face at the mention  of the forge, its It TRIUMPH  OF
THE DARKSWORD 17 g shadow quickly passed. "Just yesterday I was in the
new , ^ part of the city the Sorcerers have built. I am impressed with
ji the work they have accomplished in  such a short length of i  time.
Their homes are snug and comfortable. They can be ; shaped quickly and
at a reduced cost of Life expenditure.  What is the name of the  stone
of which they are built?"

    "Brick, Holiness," Mosiah  said, smiling inwardly.  "And it  isn't
stone. It's made of mud and straw,  formed in a mold, then baked  hard
in the sun."

    "Yes, I know," the Cardinal replied. "I saw them forming these . .
. bricks .  . .  when I  was in their  village last  year with  Prince
Garald. For some reason, the term brick refuses to stick in my  head."
His gaze went  from Mosiah to  the palace garden  outside his  window.
"You will be interested to know," Cardinal Radisovik continued,  "that
I have advised the nobility to utilize this method to build homes  for
their Field  Magi. Several  of the  Atbanara were  with me  yesterday,
inspecting the dwellings, and  at least two have  agreed with me  that
they are far superior to existing structures."

    "What about the others, Holiness?" Mosiah asked. As a former Field
Magus himself,  who  had  lived  with  father,  mother,  and  numerous
brothers and sisters in the magically  enlarged trunk of a dead  tree,
he knew what a blessing warm,  dry brick buildings would be for  those
forced to endure the vagaries of natural weather patterns.

    "They will agree, I believe,"  Radisovik said slowly. Rubbing  his
eyes, which were overstrained from reading, he shook his head, smiling
wryly. "I will be  honest, Mosiah. They  were . . .  shocked … at  the
sight of the so-called Dark Arts of Technology and found it  difficult
to accustom  themselves to  thinking of  it rationally.  But with  the
Sorcerers dwelling now within the city walls of Sharakan, their skills
On display for all to see,  the people will become more ac-.  customed
to technology in time, I believe, and will accept it as a part of mans
nature."

    Mosiah saw the Cardinal  frown again as he  said these words,  and
they were followed with a sigh.

    "A part of man's nature  that leads to war.  Is that what you  «re
thinking, Holiness?" Mosiah said softly. His hand absently opened  the
covers of another  book that  lay near him  on a  table magically  and
lovingly shaped of walnut.

    18 WEIS AND  HICKMAN TRIUMPH  OF THE  DARKSWORD 19  "Yes, I  was,"
Radisovik said,  glancing sharply  at Mosiah.  "You are  a  perceptive
young man.

    Mosiah flushed,  pleased  but  embarrassed. He  closed  the  book,
smoothing the leather  binding with  his hand.  "Thank you,  Holiness,
though I don't  deserve the  compliment. I've thought  the same  thing
myself .  . ."  He Faltered,  unaccustomed to  speaking his  feelings,
"Especially when I'm working. I forge the tip of a spear and I  think,
as I'm making it, that it will . . . will kill someone.

    "Oh, I  know  Prince Garald  says  not," Mosiah  added  hurriedly,
fearing that his words might imply criticism of his ruler. "The spears
are intended to intimidate or -at  most - to be used against  centaur.
Still, I can't help but wonder."

    "You are not alone in your wondering, Mosiah," Cardinal  Radisovik
said, rising to his feet and walking over to stare, unseeing, out  the
window. "Prince Garald is a fine young  man. The finest I know, and  I
speak from the vantage point of one  who has seen him grow from  child
to manhood. He is all that is  best and noble in the Albanara. He  has
an immense amount of wisdom for one so young. Sometimes I forget he is
only twenty-nine. I often think"  -the Cardinals voice softened -  "of
the light he brought to  the dark soul of  that friend of yours.  What
was his name?"

    "Joram," said Mosiah.

    Hearing the pain  in the  young man's voice,  the Cardinal  turned
from the window.  "I am sorry,"  he said  gently. "I did  not mean  to
reopen old wounds."

    "No, it's  all right.  Holiness," Mosiah  said. "I  know what  you
mean. Joram could never have done . . . what he did if it hadn't  been
for Garald showing him the true meaning of honor and nobility."

    "Garald showed him that, yes. But  it was the catalyst who  opened
his heart to love  and sacrifice. A strange  man, Father Saryon,"  the
Cardinal said, speaking more to himself than to Mosiah. "And a strange
and tragic turn  of events. I  am not  satisfied yet that  I know  the
truth about Joram. Are you, Mosiah?"

    The question  was  asked quietly.  It  was unexpected  and  caught
Mosiah unaware. He answered that yes, of course he was satisfied,  but
his voice was  low and he  kept his eyes  averted from the  Cardinal's
penetrating gaze. Nodding to himself,  Radisovik looked back out  into
the beautiful garden.

    "But we have strayed off the original path," he said, resuming the
conversation and smiling to himself at the sound of nervous,  restless
shifting behind him. "We were talking of Garald and of this war. If my
prince has one fault, it is that he glories in this upcoming battle  -
to the point even of forgetting  the goals we are fighting to  obtain.
To marshal  his  troops,  to  place  his  warlocks  at  their  correct
stations, to train them and their catalysts, to pour over the Board of
Contest •- this is all that occupies his mind these days.

    "Yet wars, when they are ended, are either won or lost, and  plans
must be  made for  the eventuality  of either  victory or  defeat.  He
refuses to discuss the subject  with His Majesty, however."  Radisovik
frowned, and Mosiah realized with a  start that he was hearing  things
never intended for the ears of a lowly subject of Sharakan. "The  king
is blind when it comes to Garald. He is proud of him - deservedly so -
but he cannot  see the  real man for  the radiant  halo. Garald  plays
happily with his shining toy soldiers, refusing to stop long enough to
consider such mundane  issues as what  we will do  with Merilon if  we
manage to  conquer  it.  Who  will  rule the  city?  Will  it  be  the
now-deposed Emperor, although I've heard rumors that he is mad? Who is
to take Bishop Vanyas  place as head  of the Church?  What will we  do
with those nobles  who refuse to  extend their allegiance  to us?  The
other city-states have kept carefully clear  of this war, but what  if
they - seeing us grow more powerful - decide to attack us?

    "You  understand  the  problems?"  Cardinal  Radisovik   demanded,
turning around to face the discomfited Mosiah. "Yet whenever I try  to
talk to Garald about them, he waves  his hand and says, 'I don't  have
time for this.  Discuss it with  my father.  ' And the  king tells  me
brusquely, 'I have worries enough  with this realm. Refer all  matters
of war to my son! '"

    Mosiah shifted from one foot to another, wondering if he had  Life
enough to  sink  quietly through  the  floor. Seeing  the  young  mans
discomfort and realizing  what he had  been saying, Radisovik  checked
himself "1 do not mean to burden you with my problems, young man,"  he
said.

    Leaving the window, he crossed the room to stand near Mosiah,  who
watched him  with a  kind of  awe.  Everything 20  WEIS AND  HICK  MAN
TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD  21  about  the  minister  spoke  of  court
intrigue; even  the  skirts  of his  gold-trimmed  robes  appeared  to
whisper secrets  as he  walked. "With  the help  of the  Almin,  these
things will work themselves out. Now, you came here for a reason and I
have kept you  talking of inconsequential  matters. I apologize.  What
can I do for you?"

    It took Mosiah  a moment  to gather  his thoughts,  all the  while
noting and appreciating  Radisovik's skillful handling  of what  could
have been an awkward situation. Very neatly, the Cardinal reduced  his
criticism of his Prince to  an "inconsequential matter" and dumped  it
in the lap of the Almin,  subtly instructing Mosiah to forget what  he
had heard and put his trust in god.

    This Mosiah  was  only too  willing  to  do. Sharakan  was  not  a
dangerous court, as was  Merilon rumored to be  these days. Still,  no
royal court was truly safe and Mosiah had learned early on that it did
not pay to know either too much or too little.

    "I apologize  in  advance  for bothering  you  with  something  so
trivial as what I'm about to  ask, Cardinal Radisovik," the young  man
said. "But . .  . it's important  to me … and  no other catalyst  will
perform it without obtaining your clearance,  since we are in a  state
of war."

    "What is it  you want, my  son?" Radisovik asked  in a mild  voice
that had yet grown suddenly cool and cautious.

    "I … I came to ask if you would open a Corridor to me.

    Holiness."

    "You want to leave Sharakan," Radisovik said slowly.

    "Yes, Holiness."

    "You are aware that travel outside the magical boundaries of  this
city is forbidden for the good of our citizens. All travel is perilous
these days, especially for  the citizens of our  city. Our own  Thon-U
currently control our Corridors, with the help of the Duuk-tMtritbf of
course, put it  is possible that  the warlocks of  Merilon may  always
attempt to gain entry."

    "1 know.  Holiness," Mosiah  said respectfully  but firmly.  "This
trip is important to me, however, and  I am willing to take the  risk.
I've informed Prince Garald," he continued, seeing Radisovik hesitate.
"He gave  me his  permission to  leave. I  have a  message from  him."
Fumbling in his  tunic, Mosiah  produced a small  crystal globe  that,
when activated a spoken word of magic, would produce the image of  the
young and handsome prince of Sharakan.

    "That will not be necessary," Radisovik said, smiling. "If •.  you
have discussed  this  with  Prince  Garald and  he  has  given  V  his
permission, then I  will certainly open  a Corridor and  ; - wish  you
godspeed. Now, where is it you want to go?"

    "The Borderlands," Mosiah answered.

    Radisovik started, looking  at the young  man with a  nvys- •:  -.
ttfied expression. "Why do you - " Then his brow cleared. ! <*Ah,"  he
said softly. "Today is the anniversary."

    "Yes, Holiness," Mosiah replied in  a low voice. "I've never  been
there. When the Sorcerers found me in the Out- • land, I was more dead
than alive. I didn't hear what had happened until . . . long after.  I
wanted to go,  but I couldn't  make myself." He  looked at the  floor,
ashamed. "I know I should have, but I couldn't bear to see Saryon … to
see him changed. …" Coughing, he cleared his throat.

    "I know, my son. I understand."  Radisovik laid his hand upon  the
young man's shoulder. "I heard about your ordeal and it must have been
a terrible one. None can blame you  for not wanting to travel to  that
awful place until you were stronger."

    "I must  go. I  need to  go," Mosiah  said stubbornly,  as  though
arguing with himself. "I need to make myself realize that it was real.
That it all truly happened. Then maybe I can accept it, or  understand
it."

    "I doubt if we will ever understand," said Radisovik, watching the
young man intently, his eyes noting every nuance of expression in  the
open, guileless face. "But certainly we  must come to accept what  has
passed, lest rage and bitterness gnaw at us and prevent us from living
out our own lives."

    He paused, waiting to see if Mosiah said anything more. The  young
man, struggling  with  his  emotions, appeared  incapable  of  speech,
however. The Cardinal shrugged imper-ceptively and, speaking a word of
prayer, caused a Corridor to open  in the room, creating an oval  void
of nothingness in the air.

    "Go with the Almins blessing, Mosiah," Radisovik said as the young
man, with a flushed face, mumbled  and coughed : his thanks. "May  you
find the peace you seek."

    22 WEISANDHJCKMAN The  Corridor elongated. The  young man  stepped
inside, and the pathway through space and time formed by the  ancients
long ago closed around him. Mosiah vanished from the room.

    Staring after him, his brow creased. Cardinal Radisovik shook  his
head. "What secret gnaws  at your heart, young  man?" he murmured,  "I
wonder. , . ."

    The Corridor  closed around  Mosiah  with its  familiar  squeezing
effect, as though he were being dragged through a small, dark  tunnel.
The young  man experienced*a  'terrifying moment  of panic,  recalling
with horrible vividness the last time he had traveled this route. .  .
.

    Her face expressionless, the witch spoke a word and Mosiah  caught
his breath in fear as the thorns began to grow on the Kif vines again,
this time merely pricking his flesh but not digging into it.

    "Notyet, "said the  witch, reading  his thoughts.  "But they  will
grow and keep  on growing  until they  pierce right  through skin  and
muscle and organs,  tearing out your  life with them.  Now, I ask  you
again. What is your name?"

    "Why? What can it matter?" Mosiah groaned. "You know it! "

    "Humor me," the witch said and spoke another word. The thorns grew
another fraction of an inch.

    "Mosiah!" He tossed his head  in agony. "Mosiah! Damn it!  Mosiah,
Mosiah, Mosiah. …"

    Then their plan penetrated the haze of pain. Mosiah choked, trying
to swallow his  words. Watching  in horror,  he saw  the witch  become
Mosiah. Her face - his  face. Her clothes -  his clothes. Her voice  -
his voice.

    "What do we do with him?" the -warlock asked in subdued tones.

    "Throw him m  the Corridor  and send him  to the  Out-land, "  the
witch - now Mosiah - said, rising to her feet.

    "No!"

    Mosiah tried to fight the warlock's strong hands that dragged  him
to his feet, but the tiniest  movement drove the thorns into his  body
and he  slumped  over  with  an  anguished  cry.  "Joram!"  he  yelled
desperately as he saw the dark void TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 23 of the
Corridor open within  the foliage.  "Joram J" he  shouted, hoping  his
friend would hear,  yet knowing  in his  heart that  it was  hopeless.
"Run! Its a trap! Run!"

    The warlock  thrust him  into the  Corridor. It  began to  squeeze
shut, pressing in  on him.  The thorns  stabbed his  flesh, his  blood
flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of  the
witch-now himself-watching him, her face - his face - expressionless.

    Then, she spread her hands.

    "Its all the rage," he saw himself say.

    What happened after that, Mosiah couldn't be certain.  Mercifully,
he lost consciousness in the Corridor. When he came to, days later, he
was in the Sorcerers crude town in the Outland. Andon, their  elderly,
gentle leader, was  with him  as was  a Tbeldora -  a healer  - and  a
catalyst who had been sent to the Sorcerers' village by Prince  Garald
himself. Mosiah begged to  know the fate of  his friends, but none  in
the secluded village could - or would - tell him.

    The following  weeks were  ones  of pain  when  he was  awake  and
terrible dreams when he sank into the magically induced sleep. Then he
heard, in a whispered conversation not intended for his ears, what had
happened to  Joram and  Father Saryon.  He heard  about the  catalysts
tragic sacrifice, about Joram s voluntary walk into Beyond.

    Mosiah himself drew near death.  The TbcQara tried everything  but
told Andon that the young man's  magical Life was not working to  save
him. Mosiah didn't care. Dying was easier than living with the pain.

    One day Andon told  him he had visitors,  two people who had  been
brought to the  village by  orders of Prince  Garald. Mosiah  couldn't
imagine who they could be and he didn't much care. . . . And then  his
mothers arms  were  around him,  her  tears bathing  his  wounds.  His
fathers voice was in his  ears. Gently, tenderly, his parents'  rough,
work-worn hands led their son back to life.

    The memories of his pain and his despair overwhelmed Mosiah and he
felt as  though the  Corridor were  smothering him.  Fortunately,  the
journey was short. The feeling of panic subsided as the Corridor gaped
open. But the  terror was replaced  by feelings more  profound yet  no
less painful - feel- 24 WEIS  AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  25
ings of  sorrow  and of  grief.  Stepping from  the  Corridor,  Mosiah
gritted his teeth, nerving himself. Although he had never visited  the
Borderlands, he had familiarized himself with them and he knew what to
expect.

    A shoreline of fine white sand, dotted here and there with patches
-of tall  grass  that eventually,  near  the shifting  mists  of  gray
leading to Beyond, died out  completely, leaving a beachline as  stark
and bare as a  picked bone. Upon this  beach would stand the  Watchers
and here, as well, would be Saryon- his flesh transformed to stone.

    "The sight is not dreadful as you might expect," Mosiah had  heard
Prince Garald tell  a group  gathered around  him during  a party  one
evening not long ago.  "There is a  look of peace  on the man's  stone
face that makes one almost envious of  him, for it is a peace that  no
living man can know."

    Mosiah was skeptical. He  hoped it was true,  he hoped Saryon  had
found the  faith  the priest  had  lost,  but he  didn't  believe  it.
Radisovik had said Garald had one fault - he gloried in warfare.  That
was true, and if he had another it was that he tended to see in people
and events what he wanted to see, not necessarily what was there.

    Saryon s stone form would be staring perpetually into Beyond,  the
shifting, ever-changing mists  of the  magical Border  that turned  in
upon themselves in endless swirls and whorls.

    "It is a calm and peaceful place, the Borderland," Garald told the
crowd in a grim voice. "To look  at it, no one would ever suspect  the
tragedies that take place upon that Shore of Death."

    Calm. . . .

    Peaceful. . . .

    Stepping from die Corridor onto  the sand, Mosiah was knocked  off
his feet by a tremendous gust of wind.

    He couldn't see. Sand stung his face and made it nearly impossible
to open his eyes. The force of the wind was unbelievable, like nothing
he had ever  seen before in  his life  and he had  once experienced  a
thunderstorm conjured  up  by  two warring  groups  of  Sif-Hanar,  He
struggled to stand, but it was a losing battle and he would have  been
tossed along the beach like the uprooted plants that were flying past,
entan- gling themselves in his legs, had not a strong hand reached out
and grasped his own.

    Knowing he wouldn't be  able to endure much  more of this,  Mosiah
quickly activated a magical bubble that surrounded him and the  person
who had saved him. Instantly,  the protective shell enveloped both  of
them, shutting out the wind, encasing them in quiet and calm.

    Rubbing the sand out  of his eyes, Mosiah  blinked, trying to  see
who had come to his rescue, wondering what anyone else would be  doing
on the Border. Catching sight of  a flutter of orange silk, his  heart
sank.

    "I say,  old  chap,"  came  an all  too  familiar  voice,  "thanks
awfully. Don't know why I didn't think of that shield myself, except I
was having a  rollicking good  time getting tumbled  about like  those
jolly plant things  that never  take root  but go  bounding along  the
sand. And I've got a new style. I call it CycLme. Do you like it?"

    I Call It Qclone M Iostah glared in displeased astonishment at the
figure standing next to him in the magical bubble.

    "Simkin," he mumbled, spitting  sand out of  his mouth. "What  are
you doing here?"

    "Why, its Almins Day. I always come here on Almin's Day. What  did
you say? This  is Thursday?  Well"-he shrugged -  "whats a  day or  so
between friends." Raising his arms, he exhibited his clothes. "What do
you think?"

    Mosiah glanced at  the bearded  young man  in disgust.  Everything
Simkin wore - from his  blue brocade coat to  his purple silk vest  to
his shimmering green trousers - was inside out. Not only that, but  he
was wearing his under-farments on top  of his clothes. His hair  stood
straight up on is head and his normally smooth beard stuck out in  all
directions.

    "I think you look a fool, as always," Mosiah muttered. "And if I'd
known it was  you I  would have  let you  sail off  until you  smashed
headfirst into the mountains!"

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 27 "It  was / who saved you from  sailing
off, remember?" Simkin said languidly.  "What a foul humor you're  in.
Your face will freeze  like that, I've warned  you before. Puts me  in
mind of the corpse of the Duke of Tulkinghorn who didn't die but  just
nastied away.  I can't  think what  you have  against me,  dear  boy."
Conjuring a mirror, Simkin gazed at himself with pleasure, ruffling up
his beard to heighten the effect.

    "Oh, can't you!" Mosiah snapped viciously. "There were only a  few
people who knew  we were to  meet in  the Grove that  night -  myself,
Joram, Saryon, you, and, as it  turns out, the Duuk-Uaritb\ I  suppose
that's just the sheerest coincidence?"

    Lowering the  mirror, Simkin  stared at  Mosiah incredulously.  "I
can't believe it!" he cried in  tragic tones. "All this time you  have
suspected me of betrayal! Me!" Dashing the mirror to the sand,  Simkin
clutched at his heart. "Break! Break!" He moaned. "Oh, that this  too,
too sullied flesh would wilt."

    "Stop it, Simkin," Mosiah said  coldly, barely able to control  an
urge to grab the young man around the neck and choke him. "Your  games
aren't funny anymore."

    Glancing at  Mosiah from  beneath his  fluttering eyelids,  Simkin
suddenly straightened, smoothed his hair, and changed his clothes to a
very proper and conservative  ensemble of gray  silk with white  lace,
pearl buttons, and a tasteful mauve cravat. Adjusting the lace at  his
wrist, he  said casually,  "I  had no  idea  you were  harboring  this
resentment. You  should  have  spoken  out  earlier.  Saryon  was  the
traitor, as I've told you before. Surely Prince Garald has his sources
for discovering the truth? Ask him, if you don't believe me."

    "I don't and  I have," Mosiah  said, scowling. "And  no one  knows
anything . . . if there's anything to know-"

    "Oh, there is," inserted Simkin.

    Mosiah shook  his  head  in exasperation.  "As  for  the  catalyst
betraying us, I've heard  that wild story  you concocted about  Saryon
and Joram  and I  don't believe  it. Father  Saryon would  never  have
betrayed us and - "

    " - I would?" Simkin finished  calmly, smoothing his hair. With  a
wave of his  hand, he pulled  a bit of  orange silk from  the air  and
dabbed  at  his  nose.  "You're   right,  of  course,"  he   continued
imperturbably. "I might  have betrayed  you, but 28  WEIS AND  HICKMAN
only if things got dull. As it turned out, I didn't need to. You  must
admit, we had rather  an exciting time  of it back  there in good  old
Merilon."

    "Bah!" Angrily turning his gaze from the primping Sim-kin,  Mosiah
peered out from  the shelter of  the shield into  the flying sand  and
howling wind. "I didn't know  storms like this struck the  Borderland.
How long  will it  last?" he  asked  coldly, making  it clear  he  was
talking to Simkin only because  he needed information. "And keep  your
answer brief!" he added bitterly.

    "They don't, and a long, long time," replied Simkin.

    "What?" Mosiah demanded irritably. "Say what you mean."

    "I did,"  retorted  Simkin, offended.  "You  told me  to  make  it
brief."

    "Well, maybe not  that brief,"  Mosiah amended,  feeling more  and
more uneasy the longer he stayed here. Although it was nearly  midday,
it was almost dark  as night and  growing increasingly darker.  Though
protected by the shield, he could tell that the force of the wind  was
rising, not abating.  It was  costing him more  and more  of his  Life
energy to  keep the  magical bubble  around them.  He could  feel  his
strength beginning to drain and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold it
in position much longer.

    "Areyou going  to insult  me  anymore?" Simkin  demanded  loftily.
"Because if you are, I won't say a word."

    "No," muttered Mosiah.

    "And you're sorry you accused me of treachery? "

    Mosiah didn't answer.

    Simkin, placing  his hands  behind bis  back, gazed  out into  the
raging wind. "I wonder  how far one would  get out there before  being
hurled into something large and solid like an oak. . . ."

    "All right, I'm sorry!" Mosiah said sullenly. "Now tell me  what's
going on!"

    "Very well."  Simkin  sniffed.  "They never  have  storms  on  the
Borderland. Has to do with the magical boundaries or some such  thing.
And therefore as to how long this particular storm will last, I have a
presentiment that  it will  last a  long, long  time. Much  longer,  I
imagine, than any of us would care to consider."

    T R IUMPHOF THE  DARKSWORD 29 This last  was spoken in low  tones,
Simkin s face growing  increasingly more solemn as  he stared out  the
magical shield into the wind-driven sand.

    "Can we walk in this thing?"  Simkin asked suddenly "Can you  move
it and us with it?"

    "I … suppose so," Mosiah said reluctantly. "Although it will  take
a lot of energy and I'm feeling pretty weak as it is- "

    "Don't worry. We  won't be here  long," Simkin interrupted.  "Head
over in that direction." He pointed.

    "You know, you could  help me keep this  shield in place!"  Mosiah
said as they floundered  through the sand. He  had absolutely no  idea
where they were going, being completely unable to see anything.

    "Couldn't possibly," Simkin said.  "Far too fatigued. Having  your
clothes blown off, then blown back on inside out and upside down takes
a great deal out of one. Its not far."

    "What isn't?"

    "The statue of the  catalyst, of course. I  thought that was  what
you came to see?"

    "How did you know - ? Oh, skip it," Mosiah said tiredly, stumbling
as the sand shifted out from beneath his feet. "You said you come here
a lot. Why? What do you do?"

    "I keep the catalyst company,  of course," Simkin said,  regarding
Mosiah with a self-righteous air. "Something  you are too busy to  do.
Just because  the poor  man's been  turned to  stone doesn't  mean  he
doesn't have feelings. Must get frightfully boring, standing there all
day, staring out into nothing. Pigeons landing on your head, that sort
of thing.  Might be  different if  the pigeons  were interesting.  But
they're such wretched  conversationalists. Then I  should think  their
feet must tickle, don't you?"

    Mosiah slipped and fell. Reaching down, Simkin hauled him upright.
"Not far," the young man said reassuringly. "Almost there."

    "So, what  do you  … uh  …  talk about?  " Mosiah  asked,  feeling
unaccountably guilty.  He knew  that those  sentenced to  the  Turning
were, in actuality, still living, but he had never considered that  it
might be possible to talk to them or to provide them with some measure
of human involvement.

    W W E  I S  AND HICKMAN  "What do  we talk  about?" Simkin  asked,
pausing a moment as if to get  his bearings, though how he could  tell
where he was in the blinding storm was more than' Mosiah could figure.
"Ah, yes. We're headed in the right direction. Just a few more  steps.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes.  Well, I regale our statuesque friend  with
the latest gossip from court. I  exhibit my newest fashions, though  1
do find it depressing that his  responses to them are definitely  what
one might call stony. And I read to him."

    "What?" At this  startling statement,  Mosiah stopped  floundering
through the sand, partly to catch his breath and recover his  strength
and partly to stare  at Simkin in amazement.  "You read to him?  What?
Texts? Scriptures? I can't imagine you - "

    " - reading anything  so boring?" Simkin  lifted an eyebrow.  "How
right you  are! Gad!  Scriptures!"  Growing pale  at the  thought,  he
fanned himself with the orange silk. "No, no. I read him jolly  things
to keep up his spirits. I found a large book of plays written by  this
frightfully prolific chap back in the old days. Quite entertaining.  I
get to  act  out  all  the  characters. Listen,  I  have  some  of  it
memorized." Simkin  assumed  a tragic  pose.  "'But soft,  what  light
through yonder window breaks?  It is the east,  and Juliet has  fallen
through the glass. Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth. . .  .
'" He frowned. "Is that how  it goes? Doesn't quite scan."  Shrugging,
he continued. "Or, if we're not in a scholarly mood, I read him this."

    With a wave  of his  hand, he  produced a  leather-bound book  and
handed it to Mosiah. "Open it, any page."

    Mosiah did so.  His eyes  widened. "That's  disgusting!" he  said,
slamming the book shut. He glared at Simkin. "You don't mean you  read
that . . . that filth to … to- "

    "Filth! "You peasant! It's art!" Simkin cried, snatching the  book
away from  Mosiah and  consigning it  to the  ethers. "As  I said,  it
bftpfd keep up his spirits - "

    "Helped? What do you mean 'helped'?" Mosiah interrupted. "Why past
tense?"

    "Because I  am afraid  our catalyst  is now  in the  past  tense,"
Simkin said. "Move the  shield over a fraction  of an inch. There,  at
your feet."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 31 "My god!" Mosiah whispered in  horror.
He glanced back up at Simkin. "No, it can't be!"

    "I'm afraid so, dear  boy," Simkin said,  shaking his head  sadly.
"There is na doubt in my  mind that these blocks, these stones,  these
worse than senseless  things are  all that is  left of  our poor  bald
friend."

    Mosiah knelt down.  Protected by  the magical  shield, he  brushed
away the sand from  what appeared to be  the statues head. He  blinked
back sudden tears. He had been hoping, praying that Simkin had made  a
mistake, that this was one of  the other Watchers, perhaps. But  there
was no  denying that  it was  Saryon -the  mild, scholarly  face;  the
gentle, loving expression he remembered so well. He could even see, as
Garald had said,  the look  of infinite  peace carved  forever in  the
stone.

    "How could this happen?" Mosiah demanded angrily. "Who could  have
done such a thing? I didn't know it was possible to break the spell  -
"

    "It isn't," said Simkin with a strange smile.

    Mosiah rose to his feet. "It isn't?" he repeated, regarding Simkin
suspiciously. "How do you know? What do you know about this?"

    Simkin shrugged. "Simply that this  spell is not reversible.  Stop
and think. The Watchers have been here hundreds of years. During  that
time, nothing and no one has been able to alter them or return them to
life." He gestured at the broken pieces on the sand. "I've stood  here
and watched while Xavier and his merry band hacked and hammered at the
rock hands of our friend, trying  to free the Darksword. All they  got
for their pains was gravel. I saw the warlock shoot spell after  spell
at Saryon, and beyond setting fire to a few pigeons - nothing. And yet
we find the stone statue now, shattered into pieces when not even  the
most powerful spells  of one of  the strongest warlocks  in the  world
could touch it."

    Mosiah shivered. Despite  the magical  shield, he  could feel  the
temperature of the air dropping. His mouth was parched and dry and the
longer he stayed the stronger  his feelings of uneasiness grew.  "What
else do you - "

    "Over there. I'll show you," Simkin said, gesturing insistently.

    V WEIS AND HICKMAN "How far away is it?" Mosiah asked  hesitantly.
"I'm not sure how much longer. . . ."

    "You're doing fine. The shield's holding. Just a ways. Keep going,
straight ahead."

    Mosiah walked  forward,  trying as  best  he could  to  avoid  the
sand-covered mounds that  he assumed  were parts of  the broken  stone
statue. That Saryon was dead, he  had no doubt. He supposed he  should
feel grief or relief, but right now  all he felt was a numbness and  a
growing fear that something was terribly wrong.

    "There," Simkin said, coming to a halt, his hands on his hips.

    Mosiah followed his gaze,  staring straight ahead  of him and  his
blood congealed in his  veins, the chill causing  him to shudder  from
head to toe.

    Garald had  described  the  Border as  gently  shifting,  swirling
patches of mist.  Mosiah saw a  whirling mass of  ugly greenish  black
cloud. Lightning flickered on the fringes, the wind sucked the sand up
in  twisting  runnels,  then  spewed  it  out  of  its  boiling   maw,
alternating inhaling and exhaling like a living thing. Mosiah felt his
magical shield begin to give way.

    "My Lifes  drained!" He  gasped.  "I can't  hold the  shield  much
longer!"

    "Corridor!" Simkin said coolly. "Run for it!"

    Turning, they stumbled back through  the sand; Simkin leading  the
way or Mosiah would have been instantly lost in the storm.

    "We're nearly there!" Simkin cried, grasping hold of Mosiah as the
young man  collapsed  onto  the  beach. With  Simkin  s  help,  Mosiah
staggered to his feet, but the shield vanished. Sand blasted them. The
wind roared  and shrieked  around  their ears,  beating at  them  with
gigantic fists, tugging them backward into the maw, then pitching them
forward onto their knees.

    Mosiah couldn't see, he couldn't  hear. All was noise and  tumult,
darkness and stinging sand.

    And then there was blessed quiet.

    Opening his eyes,  Mosiah looked  around him  in astonishment.  He
hadn't even experienced  the sensation  of being in  the Corridor  and
here he was,  back in Radisovik  s study TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  JS
along with Simkin, looking particularly ludicrous with the orange silk
tied around his nose and mouth.

    Rising from  his seat,  Cardinal Radisovik  stared at  the two  in
amazement.

    "What is the matter?" he  asked, hurrying forward to help  Mosiah,
pale and trembling, to a chair.  "Calm yourself! Where have you  been?
Ill send for some wine. . . ."

    "The  Border  .  .   .  Borderlands!"  Mosiah  stammered,   trying
unsuccessfully to stop shaking. He  jumped to his feet, rebuffing  the
Cardinals attempts to soothe him. "I must see Prince Garald! Where  is
he?"

    "In the  War Room,  I believe,"  said Radisovik.  "But why?  Whats
wrong?"

    "This cravat,"  said Simkin,  regarding  himself critically  in  a
mirror on the Cardinal's  wall. "The mauve .  . . absolutely  wretched
with gray. …"

    Sharakan Prepares For War T •all me War Room w*s, in  actu-lality,
a large  ballroom  located in  one  wing of  the  kings palace  m  the
city-state of Sharakan. Unlike the magnificent floating Crystal Palace
of Merilon, the palace at  Sharakan stood on firm ground.  Constructed
of granite, it was as  unpretentious, stalwart, and matter-of-fact  as
its citizens and their rulers.

    The castle  had once  been a  mountain -  a small  mountain but  a
mountain nonetheless -that had been magically altered by stone shapers
of the Pron-alban  class of  wizards into a  sturdy, exceedingly  grim
fortress. Later rulers of Sharakan had added their own touches to  the
palace, softening the harsh lines of the battlements, adding a  garden
in the center courtyard  that was considered one  of the loveliest  in
all of Thimhallan, and  generally making it a  more pleasant place  in
which to dwell.

    But the palace was a fortress still; its one major distinction  in
the world being that it had never fallen in battle, not TRIUMPH OF THE
DARKSWORD 55 even during  the terrible and  destructive fights of  the
Iron Wars, which had leveled the palaces of Zith-el and Merilon, among
others. Thus it had been an  easy matter for Prince Garald to  convert
the palace of Sharakan  into an armed camp,  bringing in warlocks  and
catalysts from the city and its surrounding environs to train them  in
the art of warfare.  Into the city of  Sharakan itself he brought  the
Sorcerers from  their  exile in  the  Outland, setting  them  to  work
manufacturing weapons, siege machines,  and other dark,  technological
implements of destruction.

    The inhabitants of Sharakan were gearing  up for war as well.  The
Illusionists ceased wasting their  energies creating living  paintings
or enhancing the colors of the setting sun and turned their  attention
to creating  illusions more  terrifying and  horrible; illusions  that
would penetrate  the  mind of  the  enemy,  causing as  much  or  more
destruction than an arrow tip penetrating the body.

    The Guilds  of  the  Pron-alban,  including  Stone  Shapers,  Wood
Shapers, Fabric Shapers,  and so  forth, turned  their attention  from
mundane domestic duties  to war. The  Stone "Shapers strengthened  the
walls of  the city  in case  the unthinkable  happened -  that  Xavier
should break  his  sworn  word  and  refuse  to  accept  the  decision
determined on the Field of Glory,  in which case he would  undoubtedly
attack the  city  itself. The  Wood  Shapers joined  forces  with  the
Sorcerers of the  Dark Arts to  create spears, arrows,  and the  siege
engines.

    Working thus closely with the Sorcerers proved difficult for  some
of the Shapers  to accept.  Although more  liberal in  their views  of
Technology than most  people in  Thimhallan (carts  with wheels  could
actually be seen m  use in the  city), the magi  of Sharakan had  been
raised to believe that the extensive  use of Technology was the  first
step on the path to  the realm of Death.  Only their love and  loyalty
for their Prince and King and their belief that this war was necessary
for the continuance of their life-style caused the people of  Sharakan
to grit their teeth and perform what was considered a mortal sin -give
life to that which was Lifeless.

    The  Guildsmen  worked   with  the   Sorcerers,  therefore,   many
discovering with a  certain amount of  pleasure and astonishment  that
Technology had definite advantages and JO WEIS AND HICK MAN that, when
combined with magic, it  could be used to  create many functional  and
useful  objects  -  the  brick  houses  that  so  impressed   Cardinal
Radisovik, for example. While the Guildsmen and the Sorcerers  worked,
the Sif~ffanar made certain that the weather in the city was generally
fine, while still providing rain for the crops in the outlying farming
villages to insure a  bountiful harvest. In case  the city itself  was
besieged, the warlocks  and catalysts  would have no  energy to  spare
conjuring food.

    The nobility of Sharakan - the  Albanara - were preparing for  war
in their own way  as well. Those who  owned and managed the  farmlands
made certain that their Field Magi were working to the fullest.  Those
with some smattering  of skill  in Shaping volunteered  to assist  the
Guildsmen at their work. This notion quickly caught on and became much
the fashion in  Sharakan. Soon  it was not  unusual to  see a  Marquis
expending his magical energies repairing a crack in the city wall or a
Baron merrily pumping  the bellows  of the  forge. The  nobles had  an
extremely good time, working at these arduous tasks for an hour or  so
each week, then returning home to collapse with fatigue, soak in a hot
bath, and congratulate themselves on  contributing to the war  effort.
Unfortunately, they  were more  of  a hindrance  than  a help  to  the
Guildsmen, who,  however, could  do nothing  but put  up with  it  and
endeavor to  repair the  bungled jobs  as best  they could  after  the
nobles tired of them.

    The aristocratic ladies of Sharakan were no less enthusiastic than
their husbands about supporting the  war, many contributing their  own
catalysts and  House Magi  to the  cause. This  involved  considerable
sacrifice. To  have  "done one's  own  hair" became  quite  the  rage,
whereas the Baroness who could sigh  and say she "simply did not  have
Life enough to play Swans Doom today as her catalyst had been summoned
to the palace to learn  to fight" was looked  upon with envy by  those
less fortunate ladies  whose catalysts had  been pronounced unfit  for
duty and sent home.

    Prince Garald knew of these  absurdities and overlooked them.  The
Marquis  who  had  spent  three  hours  shaping  one  small  rock  had
contributed half his wealth to the war. The bellows-pumping Baron gave
enough food to  keep the  city stocked for  a month.  Garald was  well
satisfied with the  way TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 37  his people  were
preparing for the forthcoming  conflict. He himself worked  untiringly
at it, spending long hours in either training or study.

    If Garald had one secret wish in his life, it was his desire to be
a warlock. Since he could  not - having been  born Al-banara - he  did
the next best  thing, throwing  himself into  the war  body and  soul.
Having studied warfare extensively, he was nearly as knowledgeable  in
it as  were the  War Masters,  those warlocks  who spent  their  lives
training for  battle. Garald  garnered the  respect of  these men  and
women - not  an easy  task -and, unlike  some kingdoms  where the  War
Masters were only too happy to hustle the king out of their way, those
of Sharakan were only too happy  to have the Princes help and  advice.
Prince Garald worked with them to teach the novice warlocks and  their
catalysts how  to fight.  He  developed a  strategy  for the  war  and
announced that he  would take on  the role of  Field Commander at  the
Gameboard when the battle started -  a decision that was not  disputed
by the War Masters, who recognized natural talent when they saw it.

    Cardinal Radisovik  knew  exactly  where to  find  Prince  Garald,
therefore. His Grace had - for all practical purposes - moved into the
hall known now as the War Room. The three men searching for him  found
him easily. Approaching the building, Mosiah, the Cardinal, and Simkin
(in a pink cravat)  could hear Garalds voice  echoing among the  high,
ornately painted ceilings.

    "All catalysts will now take up their positions either to the left
or right of  his or her  warlock, depending on  which side the  wizard
prefers." A pause, during  which a murmur of  voices rose in the  air,
warlocks explaining that they were right- or left-handed. Then  Garald
s voice rose above the hubbub. "You catalysts, stand about five  paces
to the side and five paces  back." There were sounds of shuffling  and
some confusion. Arriving at the great doors of the ballroom, the three
could see  the catalysts  and wizards  moving about,  taking up  their
positions preparatory to practicing their  own type of dance upon  the
polished marble floors that had once, not so long ago, gleamed beneath
the feet of less deadly couples.

    MS WEIS AND H1CKMAN When all had assumed their fighting positions,
the Prince walked up and down the long rows of red-robed warlocks  and
gray-robed  catalysts,  inspecting  them  with  a  critical  eye.  Two
black-robedDuuk-foaritb•- the Princes own guards-paced solemnly behind
him, their hands folded before them.

    "The positioning of the  catalyst is crucial  in the battle."  The
Prince continued the  lecture as he  moved among the  ranks, moving  a
catalyst forward  a step  here,  motioning one  to stand  farther  off
there. "It  is the  catalysts'  responsibility to  grant Life  to  his
warlock during the fighting. That much  you know. Thus he stands  near
enough to his warlock to  open a conduit and  let the magic flow  from
him into  his  partner. Since  this  requires the  catalysts  complete
concentration and attention,  the catalyst has  no means of  defending
himself. Therefore he positions himself slightly behind his warlock so
that his partner may  use whatever magical shields  or other means  he
chooses to protect his catalyst.

    "An intelligent opponent  will, of course,  endeavor to knock  out
his enemy's catalyst at the First opportunity, thus severely weakening
the warlock.  All  of  you warlocks  have  learned  standard  defenses
against this, which we will practice later.

    "Today I want to concentrate on an ability of the catalyst that is
sometimes overlooked. Not only are you catalysts able to grant Life to
your wizard, you have the ability  to drain the Life of your  opponent
and utilize this additional  magical energy to  feed to your  partner.
This involves great  skill in judgment  and a keen  eye, for you  must
know that your own warlock has sufficient Life to be able to carry  on
the fight without  requiring your  assistance and you  must also  know
when an  enemy warlock  is so  preoccupied with  battle that  you  can
strike him unawares. The inherent danger  in this is, of course,  that
the enemy will immediately sense the  Life being drained from him  and
will act at  once to stop  the catalyst attacking  him. Therefore  you
must strike  quickly, concentrating  all your  efforts on  the job  at
hand."

    Having Finished his inspection, Garald floated up in the air above
the heads of his troops so that he could look down upon them. "The two
front rows face each other. The  rest of you take your places  against
the wall. You there! Pay attention. \bu'll have your turn soon enough.
I expect those  now TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 39  watching to  perform
perfectly the first time,  since they will have  had the advantage  in
seeing others do  this first.  War-locks -  skip to  third and  fourth
round combat spells. Go  ahead and rehearse your  chants; the room  is
protected with  a dispersion  spell.  You catalysts,  see if  you  can
successfully drain the Life from the 'enemy' opposite."

    Sounds of numerous voices rose into the air, casting Fire, raising
windstorms, calling forth lightning as the warlocks went into  action.
Standing in position next to  them, the catalysts began the  difFicult
task of attempting  to drain Life  instead of giving  St. Most of  the
catalysts were less than  successful at this.  Although each had  been
taught the technique at the Font, few had ever seen it done and no one
in the room  had ever attempted  it, there having  been no warfare  on
Thimhallan for  countless years.  Some  mistakenly drained  Life  from
their own warlocks. Many  couldn't remember the  correct words of  the
prayer that gave them  the power, and one  poor young catalyst was  so
flustered that he accidentally drained himself, passing out in a  dead
faint on the floor.

    Mosiah watched, open-mouthed, so fascinated that he nearly  forgot
the reason he'd come. He had never seen a training session before and,
up until now, the talk of war had been just that to him -talk. Now  it
became reality, and  a tingle  of excitement shot  through his  blood.
Like Garald, he, too, longed to be a War Master, but - again like  his
Prince - although a skilled magus, Mosiah was not born to the  Mystery
of Fire, the gift of the Almin  necessary to excel in the art.  Garald
had promised Mosiah, however,  that the young man  would be among  the
archers, since he was already trained in the use of the bow and arrow.
The archer's  practice sessions  were due  to start  any day  now  and
suddenly Mosiah couldn't wait.

    But if  the young  man had  forgotten the  reason for  his  visit,
Cardinal Radisovik had not. He  had interrogated Mosiah and Simkin  on
the way. The two described what  they had seen on the Borderland,  the
Cardinal listening with outward calm  to their recital of the  strange
and unnatural happenings. He  was so calm, in  fact, that Mosiah  grew
ashamed and embarrassed,  receiving the distinct  impression from  the
minister that he was being frightened by - as Simkin said - a  cyclone
in a teapot. But Radisovik was  far more disturbed W WE1S AND  HICKMAN
and worried than he let on to the two young men, and, when a halt  was
called in the training session to  remove the catalyst who had  passed
out, the Cardinal  took advantage of  the lull in  the proceedings  to
approach Prince Garald, beckoning to Mosiah and Simkin to follow him.

    Seeing the Cardinal, Garaid immediately and respectfully descended
to the floor where the catalyst  stood. The Prince was attired in  the
tight pants  and  white, flowing-sleeved  shirt  he normally  wore  in
practicing his swordsmanship  - an  art in which  he was  known to  be
highly skilled. Although he approached them with the winning smile and
the grace and poise  that came naturally to  the handsome man, it  was
obvious from the  dark line  between the  feathery brows  that he  was
irritated. Whether  this irritation  stemmed from  the fact  that  the
Cardinal had interrupted him in his  work or whether he was  irritated
by his students was difficult to determine.

    His first words soon cleared up the matter.

    "Well, Cardinal Radisovik,"  Prince Garald said,  frowning at  the
head of the Church in Sharakan. "I  am not at all impressed with  your
brethren."

    Radisovik, preoccupied with more important matters, merely smiled.
"Be patient,  Your  Grace," he  said  soothingly. "The  catalysts  are
beginners at this. They will learn. I  seem to recall a time when  you
yourself were a beginner in the art of fencing."

    Prince Garald glanced at Radisovik out  of the corner of his  eye,
seeming a bit chagrined. "Come now, Radisovik, I wasn't that bad."

    "I seem to recall Your Grace entering the classroom, tripping over
your sword, and falling flat on your- "

    "I did no  such thing!"  Garald denied, his  face flushed.  Seeing
Radisovik regarding him with a stern gaze, he shrugged. "All right,  I
dQ stumble over the sword, but I did oat fall. . . . Oh, have it  your
way!" Grinning ruefully, he  relaxed, his frown  easing. "And you  are
correct, Cardinal, as always. I am being too impatient. Mosiah, it  is
good to see you  again." He made  a point to  recognize the young  man
•with a  warm  smile, extending  his  hand not  to  be kissed  but  in
friendship. "You are well, I hope? How are things at the forge?"

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  4J  Having known  the Prince  for  some
months, Mosiah had recovered from his awe of this man sufficiently  to
be able to take his hand and  reply to his question without having  to
untangle his tongue. Though  the initial feeling of  awe was gone,  it
had been replaced by  respect, admiration, and love.  It was easy  for
Mosiah to understand why all of Sharakan was following their  handsome
Prince to war. They would have  done the same if Garald had  announced
his intention of leaping into the sea.

    "Simkin," said Garald, turning to  the bearded young man, "I  find
your attire strangely depressing. Aren't you feeling well?"

    "Matters of  grave  consequence, Your  Grace,"  said Simkin  in  a
doleful tone that might have served  the head pallbearer in a  funeral
procession.

    Garald raised  his eyebrows  at this,  a laugh  playing about  his
lips, prepared to hear the rest of the joke. But a glance at the grave
face of Radisovik warned the Prince  instantly that die matter was  of
an important and serious nature.

    "Send the people to their luncheon," Garald ordered one of the War
Masters who floated  in the  air nearby. "Call  them back  in half  an
hour. If 1 have not returned, have them repeat this drill."

    "Yes, Your Grace," said the  War Master, bowing, his hands  hidden
in the sleeves of his flowing red robes.

    Prince Garald led the Cardinal and the two young men from the  War
Room that was now echoing with relieved sighs and cheerful voices. The
castle at Sharakan was a warren of rooms and it was not difficult  for
the Prince to find one vacant, suitable for private conversation.

    Long unused,  the chamber  was empty  and windowless.  Waving  his
hand, Garald caused globes  of light to flicker  among the shadows  of
the high ceiling.  The light was  bright as the  sun, gleaming  warmly
from the walls and sparkling  on the shaped, inlaid, decorative  tiles
that graced the  floors in  intricate patterns of  flowers and  birds.
There was no furniture in the room. Garald obviously didn't expect  to
be here long and he waited for the Cardinal to speak, standing  before
him with an expectant, impatient air.

    42 WE1S AND HICKMAN "I believe you should seal this chamber.  Your
Grace, "said Radisovik.

    Looking somewhat surprised and also annoyed at the waste of  time,
Garald ordered the two Duuk-foaritb who accompanied him everywhere  to
perform the task. When the room  was secure - both from intrusion  and
from curious ears and prying eyes - he turned to the Cardinal.

    "Very well, Radisovik. What is on your mind?"

    Cardinal Radisovik gestured to Mosiah to speak.

    Unaccustomed to commanding the  complete attention of both  Prince
and Cardinal,  and  having to  deal  with Simkin  s  intermittent  and
irrelevant insertions-"Underwear wrapped  around my neck!  … I  assure
you those pictures  are art  of the highest  form!"- Mosiah  haltingly
told what he had seen and experienced on the Borderlands.

    Prince  Garald  s  face  grew  increasingly  solemn  as  the  tale
unfolded. When  Mosiah told  of finding  Saryon's statue  smashed  and
desecrated, the Prince flushed in anger.

    "I presume you know  what this means?"  he demanded of  Radisovik,
interrupting Mosiah s description of the storm raging on. the beach.

    "I'm not certain that  I do, Your  Grace," Radisovik said  gently,
reprovingly. "I think you should hear the young man out."

    "Mosiah understands  that  I  am  not*  being  rude,"  the  Prince
answered impatiently. "He knows the seriousness of this information  -
"

    "But the storm - "

    "Storms! There  are always  storms!" Pacing  about the  room,  the
Prince brushed aside the matter with a wave of his hand.

    "Not on the Borderlands," Radisovik said quietly.

    "That isn't  important!" Garald  cried,  his fist  clenching.  His
voice had risen almost to a  shout and the Cardinal was regarding  him
with a  worried  look. Drawing  a  deep breath,  the  Prince  mastered
himself. "Don't you understand, Radisovik! This means he has it!"

    "Who has what?"  Simkin asked  with a yawn.  "I say,  you all  can
march up and down if you like, but I've had an exhausting day. Beastly
tired. Mind if I sit down?"

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  4J Making a  fluttering motion with  the
orange silk, the bearded young man caused a famting-couch to appear in
the  room  and  languidly  stretched  himself  full  length  upon  it,
blissfully ignoring the Cardinals glare  of stern disapproval, for  no
one sat in the presence of the Prince unless given permission.

    Glancing at  Mosiah, Garald  said  in low  tones, "Thank  you,  my
friend. I am deeply indebted to you for this information. Now, if  you
will excuse  us, I  would  like to  discuss  this privately  with  the
Cardinal - "

    "No, keep  them here.  Your Grace,"  Radisovik said  unexpectedly,
moving closer to the Prince. "They know  as much about this as we  do,
Garald. Or mare," he added in an undertone.

    The Prince regarded Radisovik dubiously a moment, then glanced  at
Mosiah who,  aware of  the  scrutiny and  perhaps  aware of  what  the
Cardinal had whispered, shifted uncomfortably beneath the  penetrating
gaze. Garald s eyes  went next to the  languishing Simkin. The  Prince
frowned.

    "Very well, Radisovik," he said in low tones. "What I am about  to
say must not leave this room, young men!"

    Mosiah muttered something unintelligible, aware now of the  unseen
eyes of the black-robed Duuk-foaritb upon him.

    "You may trust  me implicitly.  Your Grace," said  Simkin, with  a
flutter of orange silk.  "Cross my heart and  hope to die, though  not
quite as suddenly as  the Duchess of Malborough,  who toppled over  on
the spot. She always took things so literally. …"

    Garald cast an irritated glance at Simkin, who immediately snapped
his  mouth  shut.   "Mosiah,  did   you  see  the   sword  -   Joram's
sword-anywhere in the sand near Saryon?"

    Mosiah shook his head. "No - "

    "You see!" Garald interrupted, speaking to Radisovik.

    " - but there was so much sand flying around, it could have easily
been buried, Your Grace," Mosiah continued.

    "Yes," struck in Simkin cheerfully. "The catalyst's poor old  bald
head had been covered up to the  eyebrows. Had to dig for it.  Beastly
task. Felt a bit like a grave robber."

    44 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN  Mosiah made  a  strangled,  choking  sound,
covering his face with his hand.

    "I am truly  sorry, Mosiah,"  Garald said sternly.  "I share  your
grief. But . this is a time for action and revenge, not for tears."

    "Revenge?" Mosiah looked up, startled.

    "Yes, young  man," Garald  said grimly.  "Your friend  Saryon  was
murdered."

    "But . . . why?" Mosiah gasped.

    "Isn't it obvious?" Garald  said. "The Darksword.  I think we  may
safely assume that now it is in the hands of our enemy. Xavier finally
succeeded in obtaining it." The Prince resumed his pacing. "Fool  that
I was!"  he muttered  to himself.  "I should  have kept  watch! But  I
didn't think there was any way for him to - "

    Mosiah opened his mouth, then checked himself, remembering that he
was in  the  presence of  his  sovereign. To  his  amazement  Cardinal
Radisovik caught his eye and -  with an urgent gesture - indicated  to
the young man that he should speak.

    "But what  about the  storm, Your  Grace?" Mosiah  asked  finally,
after a second  imperative gesture from  Radisovik. "It's .  . .  it's
awful!" He said helplessly, unable to  find a word powerful enough  to
describe the terrible sights he had witnessed. "I was frightened. Your
Grace! More  frightened than  I've  been of  anything, even  when  the
Dtutk-t<>aritb caught me in  the Grove! It was  a fear that came  from
deep inside"  - he  pressed his  hand against  his heart  - "and  went
through me like ice."

    "One of Xavier's spells, no doubt."

    "No,  Your  Grace!"   Mosiah  cried.  Realizing   from  Garald   s
reproachful glance  that he  had  contradicted his  sovereign,  Mosiah
flushed. "I  am sorry,  Your Grace.  I know  that the  possibility  of
Emperor Xavier obtaining the Darksword  is serious, but it is  nothing
to what might be  truly happening. I didn't  believe Simkin at  first,
but now - " He stopped.

    Simkin, lying back on the couch, was engaged in blowing the orange
silk up into the air  and letting it settle  back down over his  face.
Seeing the triumphant smile upon  the young mans bearded lips,  Mosiah
paled in shame and anger. Staring TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 45 down  at
the floor, he missed the swift exchange of glances between Garald  and
Radisovik.

    "What do you know of this, Simkin?" Garald asked slowly.

    "Oh, quite  a number  of things,  actually," Simkin  said  airily,
blowing the orange silk  high above his head,  watching as it  floated
down, spiraling round and round like a dead leaf in the unmoving  air.
"Among which  is the  interesting and  little known  fact that  our  .
beloved and sadly missed Joram is destined to return from the dead and
destroy the world."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD The Prince Frog i> "rince Garald cast the
Cardinal a reproachful glance. "I have serious matters to attend  to,"
he said coldly, turning on his heel. "Since Xavier now has the  sword,
our plans for war must be accelerated before he learns - "

    "Your Grace," said Radisovik, "I suggest you take the time to hear
this out."

    Though he spoke quietly, the Cardinals tone was firm and not to be
questioned. A man well  into his middle  years, Radisovik had  watched
his Prince grow from  child to man, taught  him his lessons,  presided
over his later schooling-  guided him along  life's path. Mosiah  saw,
with a sudden  flash of insight,  that it  was this priest  - not  the
doting father-who had played a major role in shaping Garald's  nature.
As a druid lovingly and  carefully nurtures a growing tree,  Radisovik
had taken an undoubtedly spoiled  and willful child and, through  love
and by example, shaped him into a forceful, disciplined prince. It was
the voice of the teacher - the shaper - who spoke now, and it was  the
pupil who turned in reluctant, yet respectful, obedience to listen.

    "Very well, Simkin," Garald said coldly, "tell your story. It's  a
pity there  are no  children present,"  he added  but only  under  his
breath. If Cardinal Radisovik heard, he kept a straight face.

    "Pardon me. Your Grace," said Radisovik, his voice once more mild,
"but I should like to inquire first why Simkin or Mosiah never told us
this before. You must  have known," he said,  turning to Mosiah -  who
flushed uncomfortably and looked down  at his boots-"that we found  it
difficult to  accept  the  official pronouncement  that  came  out  of
Merilon."

    "What official pronouncement was that?" Simkin asked, sending  the
orange silk skyward with a puff.

    His face grim, Garald reached  over, snatched the orange silk  out
of the air, and  stuffed it into  the sash he  wore around his  waist.
"Sit up and behave yourself," he commanded in such grating tones  that
even Simkin apparently realized  he had gone a  bit too far.  Changing
the fainting-couch to a  straight-backed, uncomfortable chair,  Simkin
flew it into a corner of the room. Garbing himself in a child s sailor
suit, he sulkingly pressed his forehead against the wall and began  to
suck his thumb.

    Prince Garald  took a  step toward  him, but  Radisovik  hurriedly
intervened.

    "There would  have been  no official  pronouncement at  all, I  am
certain," the Cardinal said, "had it  not been for the bizarre  events
that were so  strange they could  not be hushed  up. Vanya and  Xavier
held the  trial  in  secret  and  scheduled  the  Turning  immediately
afterward. It was obvious - the world was intended never to know  this
took place.  Their plans  might  have worked,  but  the death  of  the
Empress could not be  denied. Neither could  Bishop Vanyas near  fatal
stroke or  the deposed  Emperors disappearance.  Too many  people  had
witnessed at) this.

    "The official  statement  went out  from  the palace  of  Merilon,
therefore, that Joram had been sentenced to the Turning because he was
Dead. The catalyst, Saryon,  through some misguided fanaticism,  chose
to martyr himself, and  Joram took the opportunity  to try to  escape.
Seeing that he was surrounded  by Duuk-barith, Joram could not  escape
and W WEIS AND HICKMAN cast himself into Beyond, rather than face  his
just punishment."

    "I think I did hear something  along those lines." Simkin s  voice
was muffled, due to his having his head in the corner and his thumb in
his mouth.

    "That's not how it happened?"

    Simkin shook his head.

    "How do you know?"

    "I was there," he replied, removing  his thumb with a pop.  "Third
palm tree to the left."

    Prince Garald gave an impatient sigh, but was checked by Radisovik
s upraised hand. "Go on."

    "I'm not certain I will," said Simkin, pouting. "After all, Garald
won't believe  me. .  . .  Well,  if you  insist," he  added  hastily,
hearing an  ominous growl  behind him.  Scooting his  chair along  the
floor, he wriggled around  to face his audience.  "You see, our  Joram
was a prince in frog's clothing." Seeing a perplexed expression on the
Cardinals face, he explained. "The Empress's baby son. Reports of  the
child's death, highly exaggerated."

    "Of course?" Garald muttered, startled. "I knew Joram reminded  me
of someone. That hair, the eyes - his mothers!"

    Simkin was  warming up.  "Stolen from  his royal  crib by  migrant
workers, the tadpole was spirited  away to a small midwestern  farming
community. Raised up to be a  wholesome young frog, he was led  astray
by  unsavory   companions"-Simkin  cast   a  reproachful   glance   at
Mosiah-"and traveled the dark path to murder and metallurgy.

    "Sword in hand, unaware of  princely blood, our frog journeyed  to
Merilon where he was saved  by the love of  a good woman, betrayed  by
the love of a wretched catalyst,  and delivered into the chubby  hands
of Bishop Vanya. When kissed soundly  upon the head by His  Tubbiness,
our warty  youth  turned  to dangerous  prince  and  was  subsequently
sentenced to life as sculpture - "

    "That part  doesn't make  sense," Garald  interrupted, turning  to
Radisovik.

    And the rest of it does? Mosiah asked silently, glaring at Simkin.

    "I'm  not  finished!"  Simkin  said  loudly,  but  Garald   wasn't
listening.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 49  "If Joram  were the  real prince  of
Merilon, it would have been much safer  for Xavier to have him put  to
death. Why the Turning?"

    "Ah, you see," explained Simkin, exasperated, "if you'd only  been
patient, I was coming to that. Its all tied up with the Prophecy - "

    At  the  sound  of  this  word,  the  hooded  heads  of  the   two
Duuk-Lfaritb turned silently toward each other, the gaze of the unseen
eyes meeting, unspoken conversation flowing between them.

    "If only I  can remember …"  Simkin frowned. Lost  in thought,  he
apparently sought  to find  his way  out again  by thumping  his  head
against the wall. "This is such a muddle. Ah, I've got it! This is the
Prophecy. 'A royal child will be born  and then die and live and  then
die and then  live and then  die and keep  on doing this  interminably
until everyone is sick and tired of the whole business when they  will
promptly throttle him and chuck him down a well. '"

    Turning on his heel,  Prince Garald headed  for the door.  "Remove
the seal," he commanded.

    "Begging your pardon, Your Grace." One of the Duuk-ttaritb stepped
forward. "But I may be able to assist with this matter."

    The Prince  turned to  look at  the warlock  in astonishment.  The
silent, watchful guardians of  the law in  Thimhallan rarely spoke  at
all and when they did it was generally only in response to a question.
Garald had never in his life known one to volunteer information.

    "Do you warlocks know something about this?" the Prince  demanded.
"I questioned you once before following the incident, and you  claimed
you knew nothing!"

    "At the time, all we knew about Joram was what you knew, what  was
given out in the official statement," replied the Duuk-ttaritk coolly,
untouched by the Prince's  anger. "As you are  aware, Your Grace,  our
Order takes strict oaths of loyalty and fealty to those we serve.  The
members of our  Order who were  in attendance at  the execution  serve
Bishop Vanya and Emperor Xavier. They  would no more betray them  than
we would betray the secrets of His Majesty and yourself."

    JU WEIS AND HICKMAN "Of course," Garald said, flushing, knowing he
deserved the rebuke. "Forgive me."

    "But we do know something of this Prophecy of which the young  man
has spoken."

    "That childs tale? Live and die and live and die - "

    "No, Your Grace. The Prophecy is, I fear, no childs tale. Given in
the dark days following the Iron Wars by the Bishop of Thimhallan, the
Prophecy actually runs thus: There will be born to the Royal House one
who if dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when
he returns, he will hold in hit band the destruction of the world - "

    "I was close." Simkin sniffed.

    "May the Almin  protect us!"  Radisovik prayed, making  a sign  of
blessing.

    "May He  indeed!"  remarked Garald  fervently.  "How do  you  know
this?" He turned upon Simkin.

    "E'gad, I was there!" Simkin said languidly.

    "Where?"

    "There, with the catalysts. Several  hundred years ago it was.  We
were gathered around the Well of  Life, waiting for the Almin, who  is
-by the  by  -a remarkably  shabby  dresser. Considers  Himself  above
clothes, no doubt, but that doesn't excuse - "

    "Bah!"  Garald   interrupted   angrily,  turning   back   to   the
warlock.,"Who else knows? I never heard it mentioned."

    "No, Your Grace. It is -or was-" the hooded head moved slightly in
Simkin's direction-"the  most  carefully  guarded  secret  in  all  of
Thimhallan.  For   obvious  reasons,   as  Your   Grace  can   readily
understand."

    "Yes." Garald shivered, then paled as the consequences occurred to
him. "No royal child would be safe!"

    "Precisely, Your Grace.  Therefore the Prophecy  was put into  the
keeping of the Duak-tsartth, who reveal it to one person outside their
Order and that is the current, reigning Bishop of Thimhallan. If  this
Joram was truly the son of the Empress and if he was Dead ~ "

    The warlock  paused.  Prince  Garald,  after  a  moments  profound
consideration, acquiesced to both with a nod.

    " - then you  see why it  would be impossible to  have him put  to
death. The Turning would be the ideal solution, for it would keep  him
alive, yet rendered harmless. Apparently, TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  51
that didn't work. Knowing himself near to being captured, he chose  to
die by casting himself into Beyond - thus fulfilling the beginning  of
the Prophecy."

    "Captured? But he wasn't! If you'd only listen!" Simkin struck in.
"I keep telling you I'm not finished -"

    "But, surely, he w dead, then, isn't he?" Garald interrupted in  a
low, shaking voice. "No one has ever returned from Beyond!"

    The Duuk-tjarttb  did  not  reply.  It  was  his  duty  to  impart
information, not speculate on its veracity.

    "Your Grace," Simkin tried again.

    "Doyou believe this, Radisovik?"  Garald asked abruptly,  ignoring
Simkin who, with a sigh, folded his arms and sat languidly back in his
chair.

    "I'm not  certain.  Your  Grace,"  said  the  Cardinal,  obviously
shaken. "The matter needs further study."

    "Yes," said Garald. He was silent, pacing back and forth. Then  he
shook his head decisively. "Well, I  don't believe it. One man -  with
the power to destroy a world? Bah!"

    "Your Grace - "

    "And even if I did give credence to this faery story," the  Prince
continued over Simkins  interruption, "I can't  let it interfere  with
our plans for war.  The fact that something  like this could occur  at
all is simply further proof that Vanya and Xavier must be  overthrown!
And I must operate  on the assumption that  Xavier has the  Darksword,
not some ghost from Beyond. I am returning to the War Room."

    The Prince had spoken and, it  was obvious, would not be  gainsaid
this time.  Radisovik bowed  in  silence and  Garald motioned  to  the
Duuk-foaritb, who  lifted  the  seal  from  the  chamber  and  drifted
silently after their Prince as he  stalked out of the room.  Radisovik
remained standing, staring after him,  shaking his head. Then, with  a
sigh and a rueful smile at Mosiah, the Cardinal left the room as well.

    "As usual, you  botched things nicely."  Mosiah turned on  Simkin.
"Lucky for you that  warlock stepped in. I  think Garald was ready  to
chuck you down a well -"

    Simkin didn't answer.  He remained  seated in his  chair, his  arm
thrown negligently over the  back. The ridiculous  sailor suit he  was
wearing vanished, replaced by the conservative gray silk suit.

    JZ WEIS AND H1CKMAN "You know,  my dear Mosiah," he said,  staring
into nothing with casual intensity, "theres one thing that appears  to
me to be of the utmost importance and no one will listen to me."

    "What's that?" Mosiah asked moodily,  thinking about the storm  on
the Borderland.

    "I kept  trying to  tell Garald,  but  hes so  hungry for  war  he
refuses to eat anything else that's set before him. Xavier knows,  and
hes afraid. Thats why he kept trying to take the sword. Va. nya knows,
thats why he had the stroke. The late and unlamented Emperor - Joram s
real father  -knew, that's  why he  vanished. Joram  didn't flee  into
Beyond because he  was trying  to escape the  Duuk-foaritb. He  didn't
need to."

    "Why? What do you mean?" Mosiah looked up apprehensively, the cold
fear creeping over him again.

    "Joram had the Darksword. . . . Joram was winning …"

    A Discourse On The Rules Of War F • ti 'earful that Prince  Xavier
had the Darksword and hoping to  strike before the warlock learned  to
use its full powers, Garald accelerated his countrys preparations  for
war. The  catalysts  and warlocks  began  their drills  early  in  the
morning and  did not  end until  far late  into the  evening; many  so
exhausted that they slept where they collapsed on the floor of the War
Room.

    The forge of the Sorcerers glared into the night with bright eyes;
the gnashing of its metal teeth and the breath of its bellows made  it
seem as  though a  monster had  been captured  and chained  up in  the
center of  the  city. The  Sorcerers  as  well as  the  warlocks  were
learning to work with catalysts,; having had only one -Saryon -in  the
last dark years of their history. Combining magic and Technology, they
were able to construct their weapons easier and faster-a fact that not
all took as a blessing.

    Finally, Garald deemed his city-state ready for war. In a  formal,
centuries-old ceremony  that  involved  the donning  of  54  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN red  robes  and odd-looking  hats  (a source  of  considerable
suppressed merriment and  speculation among  the nobility  for no  one
remembered where the hats had come from or why). Prince Garald and the
high ranking of the land came  before their King, read the  grievances
against Merilon, and demanded war.

    The King agreed, of course. There was a grand party that night  in
Sharakan  and  then  everybody  prepared  for  the  next  step  -  the
Challenge.

    There were strict rules of  warfare in Thimhallan, dating back  to
the time when the  people first came  to this world.  It was hoped  by
those early residents that  a people driven  from their birthworld  by
prejudice and violence could have lived in peace in this new one. Such
was not human nature,  however, as the wisest  of the new  inhabitants
knew. Therefore they  set down  Rules of  War that  had been  strictly
followed and obeyed ((or the most part) throughout the centuries,  the
exception being the destructive Iron Wars.

    It was due to the breaking of these very Rules that the  Sorcerers
had been  driven  from  the  land. According  to  the  catalysts  (who
maintained the histories),  the Sorcerers  slipped the  leash held  by
their masters - the War Masters - and attempted to take over the world
by force. Refusing to accept the outcome  on the Field of Glory -  the
outcome decided by War Masters utilizing the Gameboard - the Sorcerers
brought real, deadly war to the land. Prince Garald's use of Sorcerers
in this  war,  therefore,  was raising  cries  of  outrage  throughout
Thimhallan, despite the fact that  the Prince patiently reassured  his
allies (and his enemy) that he had them under complete control.

    The Rules of War as drawn up by the ancients were rather like  the
rules of dueling - considered  a civilized means of settling  disputes
between men. The affronted party  aired his grievances publicly,  then
issued the Challenge -  tantamount to tossing a  glove in the face  of
one's enemy. There were  two responses to the  Challenge. It could  be
Taken Up - which meant war - or the party so challenged could issue an
Apology, in  which  case  the city-state  then  negotiated  terms  for
surrender. There was no fear of an Apology in this instance; plans for
war were being made in Merilon as well as Sharakan.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 55 There are advantages and disadvantages
to being the Challenger as opposed  to the Defender, If the  Challenge
is impressive,  the  Challenger  is  considered  to  have  gained  the
psychological upper hand. In return, the Defender is allowed to choose
his position on the Field of Glory and is granted the opening move  on
the Gameboard.

    The  long-awaited  day  of  the  Challenge  finally  arrived.  All
Sharakan had  been up  throughout  the night  in preparation  for  the
event, which was to begin at midday with the ceremonial battle between
the T&W-/I'-the Corridor Masters-and the forces of the Prince.

    In the ancient  days, this  battle had been  a real  one -  fought
between the  War  Masters  and  those who  built  the  Corridors,  the
Diviners. But  those magi  gifted with  divining the  future had  been
wiped out during the  Iron Wars, leaving only  the catalysts that  had
assisted them-the Tbon-ii-to maintain the pathways by which the people
of Thimhallan traveled through time and space.

    Since the Thon-li were merely catalysts, with little magical  Life
of their own, the War Masters - the most powerful magi in Thimhallan -
could have literally blown them off the face of the earth. This  would
have meant  destruction of  the transportation  system in  Thimhallan,
however, something not even to  be considered. Therefore, the  Thon-ii
were permitted  by  the  Rules  of War  to  surrender  after  a  token
resistance, opening the Corridors to the armies of Sharakan.

    Prince Garald put  on a grand  show for his  people that day.  The
battle began with the stirring music of trumpet and drum, calling  the
people to war. Out they came, dressed in their best clothes, clutching
wildly excited children  by the  hand. Surging into  the streets,  the
citizens gathered  around certain  predesignated locations  throughout
the city  where  the  War  Masters and  their  catalysts,  dressed  in
accoutrements of war - red robes for  the magi and gray with red  trim
for the catalysts-stood waiting.

    The martial music ceased. Silence fell. The crowd held its breath.
Then the call of a single  trumpet, blown by a bugler standing  beside
Prince Garald upon  the palace  battlements, rang  through the  clear,
crisp air (the Sif-Hanar outdid themselves that day). At this  signal.
Prince Garald raised his voice in a  shout that was echoed by his  War
Masters around the  56 WEIS AND  HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  57
city, demanding in the name of  the King of Sharakan that the  Tbon-ti
open the Corridors.

    One by one, Corridors opened,  forming gaping voids in the  center
of the streets. Standing  within them were  the Thon-li, the  Corridor
Masters.

    "In the name of  the King of Sharakan  and his loyal subjects,  we
call upon you to grant us  safe passage to the city-state of  Merilon,
that we may issue  the Challenge to war,"  cried Prince Garald to  the
Thon-U. who faced him. The demand was repeated by all the War  Masters
throughout the city to all the Thon-li who faced them, "In the name of
the Almin,  who watches  over the  peace of  this world,  we  refuse,"
answered the Thon-li to the Prince in return. A high-ranking member of
the catalysts and chosen especially for this important part, she threw
herself into her role,  glaring at Garald as  fiercely as if he  truly
meant to take her post by storm.

    Though somewhat taken back by the catalysts vehement defiance, the
Prince signaled for the trumpet to  sound again. His War Masters  came
forward, their catalysts at their sides, and the "battle" began.

    The catalysts opened conduits to their wizards; the Life that they
gathered into their bodies  arcing into that of  the magi with a  blue
light. Suffused with magic, the  War Masters cast their spells.  Balls
of fire exploded  in the skies.  Cyclones appeared out  of clear  air,
spinning in the palms of the warlocks who threatened to unleash  their
fury upon the Thon-li. Lightning crackled from fingertips, fiery  hail
sizzled on the street.  The children shrieked  in excitement, and  one
young War  Master  was  so  carried away  by  the  spectacle  that  he
accidentally caused  a crack  to open  in the  earth, frightening  the
populace as much or more than the Thon-ti.

    Fortunately, the Corridor Masters surrendered immediately at  this
show of power,  even the fierce  catalyst who continued  to glower  at
Prince Garald with wounded dignity. Stepping out of her Corridor,  she
held her hands  in front of  her, wrists together.  The other  Thon-U.
followed her  example.  The  War  Masters  bound  the  wrists  of  the
catalysts loosely with silken  cord. The trumpet  rang out in  victory
and a great cheer went up from the populace.

    Then the Thon-U returned to their Corridors, the citizens returned
to their homes, and the Prince and  his forces set forth to issue  the
Challenge.

    What the people  of Sharakan did  not know was  that their  Prince
wasn't playing a grand game. Garald believed secretly- and he had  not
snared this with anyone, either  his father or the Cardinal,  although
he was fairly certain Radisovik suspected  - that Xavier would not  be
content with •winning on the Gameboard  if he won. He would  certainly
not be content if he lost. No matter what the outcome on the Field  of
Glory, Prince Garald  believed that once  again war -  true war -  had
come to the world.

    His heart swelled with excitement. Dreams of deeds of bravery done
on the field of battle, of the glories of victory won over an evil foe
set his  blood burning.  Looking  into the  heavens, the  Prince  gave
fervent thanks to the Almin that he had been born to right the  wrongs
of this world.

    8 TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 59  The Challenge The lout Ihe  Crystal
Palace of Merilon [outshone  the sun in the  early morning dawn.  This
was not a difficult task. Yesterday,  the Sif-Hanar had spent most  of
the day practicing their war spells against the shining orb - covering
it with black clouds,  turning It ghastly  colors, once attempting  to
obliterate it from the sky completely. Today the sun edged up over the
mountains, appearing pale and sulky, seeming ready to set again in  an
instant if it caught sight of the weather magi.

    The  pallid  sun  couldn't  hold  a  candle,  therefore,  to   the
brilliance of the Crystal  Palace, whose lights  had been burning  all
night. At dawn, the tapestries covering the transparent walls of every
room in the palace  were rolled up, curtains  were opened, shades  and
shutters raised. Magical light spilled out, beaming down upon the city
below.

    In the days of the old Emperor and his enchanting rim-press,  this
brilliant splendor would have meant night-long revelry and  merriment.
In the old days, beautiful women  and elegant men would have  thronged
the palace, filling the rooms with laughter and perfume. In these days
of the  new  Emperor, the  brightly  burning lights  meant  night-long
plotting and planning. In these days, red-robed warlocks lurked  about
the halls, filling the rooms with grim discussion and the faint  smell
of sulphur.

    On this morning,  the morning  of the  Challenge, Emperor  "Xavier
hovered in  the air  near the  transparent wall  of his  study in  the
Crystal Palace,  staring down  at  the city  below  his feet.  To  all
appearances, he was waiting impatiently for his enemy. A glance showed
him his War Masters at their posts, observing from vantage points both
within the  Crystal  Palace  and without.  Xavier  and  his  ministers
planned to  be  able to  gauge  Sharakan's military  strength  by  the
Challenge. In particular they expected to get some hint of how  Garald
intended to  utilize the  Dark Arts  of the  Sorcerers in  his  battle
formations. Not that Xavier expected  Prince Garald to reveal all  his
secrets. No, the Prince was far too intelligent a military  strategist
for that. Still,  Garald would have  to exhibit some  of his  military
might in order for his Challenge to be taken seriously and,  according
to old custom, "frighten" Merilon into surrender.

    Xavier knew,  of course,  from  his spies  in Sharakan,  that  the
Sorcerers had  taken up  residency in  that city  and that  they  were
working day  and night  developing  weapons. But  his spies  had  been
unable to penetrate  that closed society,  whose years of  persecution
made them wary of strangers. The  DKarn-Duuk had no idea what  weapons
they were developing and how many.  Worst of all-as far as Xavier  was
concerned - he had no idea if the Sorcerers had discovered how to  use
darkstone or whether the  Darksword - forged by  Joram - was the  only
weapon in existence made of the magic-absorbing ore.

    An Ariel, one  of the  winged messengers  of Thimhallan,  appeared
outside Xavier's  wall,  the  mutated man's  gigantic  'wings  beating
slowly in the morning breeze, allowing him to rest on the air currents
that swirled gently about the Palace.

    Dissolving the wall with a wave  of his hand, Xavier motioned  the
Ariel to fly inside.

    "The Taking of the  Corridors has just  been completed, my  lord,"
the Ariel informed  his Emperor  60 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD  61  "Thank  you.  Return  to  your  post."  Dismissing  the
messenger,  Xavier  absently   replaced  the  wall,   then  gave   the
prearranged signal. Red smoke filled  the sky. His War Masters  ceased
talking  among  themselves  and  crowded  near  the  walls,   watching
expectantly.

    The DKarn-Duuk himself was prepared to witness the event from  the
best  possible  vantage   point,  having  had   his  study   magically
transported to  the  topmost  turret  of  the  crystal-spired  Palace.
Looking down, he could see the people of Merilon jostling to gain  the
best views  of the  proceedings. The  wealthy rode  in their  splendid
winged carriages or drifted  lightly among the  clouds of City  Above.
The middle-classes flowed into City Below, gathering around the Gates,
crowding  into  the  Grove,  massing  around  the  perimeter  of   the
protective magical dome.

    There was a festive air about the crowd. Not even the oldest among
them could remember the last time a Challenge had been issued. It  was
an historic  occasion and  excitement was  widespread. Lavish  parties
were being given fay the nobility this night following the  Challenge.
Military garb of  every day  and age was  the style;  the city  looked
somewhat Hke an encampment of Julius Caesar's that had been overrun by
the  combined  forces  of  Attila   the  Hun  and  King  Richard   the
Lion-Hearted. But amid all this  heady excitement, there ran a  single
thread of  disappointment.  One  tiny  cloud cast  a  shadow  over  an
otherwise perfect day.

    There was to be no party held at the Crystal Palace.

    People wondered  at  this.  Emperor  Xavier  was  known  to  be  a
serious-minded man (some even used the term dour to describe him - but
only in whispers).  Everybody believed it  perfectly right and  proper
that he  treat  this  war seriously.  But  a  party in  honor  of  the
momentous event had been  expected and, when  it was not  forthcoming,
when word went out  that the Emperor specifically  demanded not to  be
disturbed, people exchanged dark looks  and shook their heads. Such  a
thing would  not  have  happened  under the  old  Emperor,  they  said
wistfully (again  only in  whispers). And  more than  a few  began  to
speculate that perhaps this  war wasn't going to  be the easy  victory
The DKarn-Duuk had been predicting.

    Xavier knew the people were disturbed by his refusal to  celebrate
tonight. His Minister of Morale had spent the last two days  informing
him of nothing else. The  DKarn-Duuk didn't care. Moody and  restless,
he flitted back  and forth  in front of  the vast  expanse of  crystal
wall, his hands  twisting together  behind his  back. Xavier  indulged
himself in this unusual outward  display of agitation only because  he
was alone in  his study. Though  the walls were  transparent in  order
that he could see  out, he had  cast a Mirror  Image spell upon  them,
thus  keeping  others  from  seeing  inside.  A  highly  trained   and
disciplined warlock, Xavier appeared  to the rest of  the world to  be
enigmatic and imperturbable. Indeed, he was, most of the time. But not
on this particular occasion. Not with what he had on his mind.

    And it wasn't the Challenge.

    The entrance of someone into  the Emperors study brought  Xavier's
pacing to a  halt. The person  had traveled the  Corridor that  opened
silently to admit  him; the  rustle of heavy  robes and  the grunt  of
labored breathing were  the first  indications of  the man's  arrival.
Xavier knew who it was - only one man in this world had access to  him
through the Corridors - and so he merely glanced over his shoulder  to
see the expression on the face,  more interested m that than die  face
itself.

    At the sight of that  expression, Xavier scowled. Biting his  lip,
he turned back to staring intently out at the panorama of city  spread
beneath him. There was nothing to see yet. The Challenge hadn't begun,
and he  wasn't truly  watching  anyway; his  thoughts and  his  vision
ranged far afield. Pretending to  be preoccupied with the  forthcoming
event provided him with the opportunity  to conceal his face from  his
visitor.

    "I take it the news is bad, Eminence?" Xavier said in a cold, even
voice. He had  ceased his  airborne pacing and  stood perfectly  still
now, his hands held quietly before him - the Almin alone knew by  what
effort of will.

    "Yes," puffed Bishop Vanya.

    Although the stroke had left the Bishop paralyzed in his left  arm
and had immobilized the left side of  his face, Vanya had been able  -
with the help of the TbeQara - to overcome these handicaps and lead  a
fairly normal life. Certainly  his 62 WE! S  AND HICKMAN power in  the
realm had not diminished. If anything, it had grown under Xaviers  new
regime.

    The elderly Bishop tired easily these days, however. Even the  few
steps that he had taken from the desk in his office in the Font to the
Corridor and out of the Corridor into the study of the Crystal  Palace
of Merilon had exhausted  him. Collapsing into  a chair, Vanya  gasped
and wheezed for  breath while  Xavier stood  waiting, outwardly  calm,
inwardly seething with suppressed impatience - and fear.

    When he had recovered somewhat,  Bishop Vanya shot a sharp  glance
at the  warlock  from beneath  half-closed  eyelids. Seeing  that  The
DKam-Duuk was  staring  intently out  the  wall and,  apparently,  not
looking at the Bishop, Vanya hurriedly lifted his paralyzed left  hand
•with his right, and  placed It upon the  arm of the chair,  carefully
arranging the  limp  fingers  so  that he  might  hide  all  signs  of
paralysis. Everyone knew the Bishop did this, of course, and  everyone
deliberately kept their eyes politely averted until Vanya had  managed
to arrange himself.  These were  a people  accustomed to  dissembling.
After all, they had  pretended the corpse of  their Empress was  alive
for a year.

    Hearing  the  Bishop   finally  settled  in   his  chair,   Xavier
half-turned, glancing over his shoulder. "Well, Eminence?" he demanded
abruptly. "What kept you? I expected you last night."

    "The Dttuk-tjaritb did not return until early this morning," Vanya
said, leaning back cautiously in the chair, careful not to disturb the
placement of his  arm. He spoke  clearly and distinctly,  with only  a
slight slurring due to the paralysis of  the left side of his face,  a
disfigurement barely  noticeable  (through the  help  of magic)  by  a
downward slant to the corner of  his lips and an almost  imperceptible
droop of  the  left eyelid.  The  Bishop would  have  considered  this
intolerable, had not the Tbddara who treated him assured Vanya that he
should thank  the Almin  he was  alive, and  not complain  about  such
mundane matters.

    "I know from your  expression the news  isn't good," Xavier  said,
turning back to glare down upon the city. "The Darksword is gone."

    "Yes, Highness,"  Vanya  replied, the  fingers  of his  good  hand
crawling spiderlike over the arm of the chair.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  QJ "What took them  so long to  discover
that?" Xavier demanded bitterly.

    "The storm on the Border is worsening," Vanya said, moistening his
lips. "By  the  time  the  Duuk-foarttb arrived,  the  statue  of  the
catalyst had been completely covered by sand. The entire landscape has
changed, Highness. They  could not even  recognize the Borderland  and
they were present during the Execu -"

    "I am aware of when they were there, Eminence," Xavier interrupted
impatiently. The mans hands, clasped correctly before him, were  white
from the strain of maintaining this semblance of outward calm. "Get on
with your report!"

    "Yes, Highness," Vanya muttered. Irritated at the imperious  tone,
he took advantage of the mans turned back to glower at him in  hatred.
"It took the warlocks some time  even to discover the location of  the
statue, then they had  to remove the mounds  of sand covering it.  The
Duuk-foarith were  forced to  work under  magical shields  to  protect
themselves from the storm that blew  fiercely about them. It took  two
warlocks and four catalysts alone just to maintain the shield so  that
work could  proceed. Finally,  they dug  down to  the remains  of  the
statue. …"

    "Is the catalyst - that Saryon -dead?" Xavier asked.

    Vanya paused to mop his sweating  forehead with a white cloth.  He
was either too  hot or  too cold these  days. There  never seemed  any
in-between.

    When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. "Certainly the spell
was broken, the spirit fled. But whether  to the realm of the dead  or
the living, no one is certain."

    "Damn!" Xavier muttered  beneath his  breath, the  fingers of  one
hand clenching. "And the sword is gone?"

    "Sword and scabbard."

    "You are certain?"

    "The Duuk-tjarith do not  make mistakes. Highness," Vanya  replied
acidly. "They combed  a wide area  around the site  of the statue  and
found nothing. What is  more important is that  they/i*// no trace  of
the swords presence as they surely must have if it had been there."

    Xavier made  a snarling  sound. "The  sword was  quite capable  of
concealing its owner from the eyes of the Duuk-baritb before - "

    £/ WEISANDHICKMAN "Only when it had  lost itself and its owner  in
the  crowd.  When  isolated,  the  Darksword  can  be  sensed  by  the
Duuk-tMtritb  due  to  the  minute  draining  effect  it  has  -  even
un-wielded - upon their magic. At least, that is what the witch  tells
me, Highness. They had little time to test the sword, she says, before
it was turned to stone in the arms of that wretched catalyst.

    "No," Vanya  continued gloomily,  "the Darksword  is gone.  . .  .
What's more, the Duuk-foaritb say that only iAy power could have  been
used to break the spell surrounding Saryon."

    The DKarn-Duuk  stood  in  silence,  staring  out  the  wall.  The
Challenge  had  started.  The  Corridors  surrounding  the  invisible,
magical walls of  Merilon gaped  open. (Few  Corridors provided  entry
into the  city itself.  Those  that did  were  located in  the  Gates,
guarded normally by  the Kan-Hanar  alone. Now,  in time  of war,  the
Duuk-tjaritb and The DKarn-Duuk - the  War Masters - also stood  guard
over the  Gates of  Merilon.  This was  really a  formality,  however.
Besides being an infraction  of the Rules of  the War, any attempt  by
the enemy to enter the city through the Corridors would precipitate  a
magical battle that would endanger both the city and its  inhabitants;
something neither side wanted - at least at this early stage. The only
other Corridors that  led into  and out of  the city  were the  secret
Corridors that connected the palace to the Font.) The army of Sharakan
-hundreds of warlocks, resplendent in their red robes of war, followed
by their catalysts - emerged from the Corridors. The warlocks arranged
themselves at intervals surrounding the city, their catalysts at their
sides. When all  were in place,  a single trumpet  sounded and  Prince
Garald himself  appeared, riding  out from  the Corridor  in a  golden
chariot drawn by nine black  horses. Flame breathed from the  nostrils
of the  magic animals,  lightning flickered  at their  hooves as  they
pawed the air. The  animals' shrill cries were  so loud they could  be
heard through the magical dome.

    Holding his fiery steeds in check. Prince Garald was a magnificent
sight, accoutered in silver armor that had been handed down among  his
family for generations; some said it  came from the ancient world  and
that it was endowed with TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 65 spells of victory
and protection for the  wearer. He carried his  helm beneath his  arm,
his chestnut hair  ruffled in  the wind. Making  a formal  bow to  the
residents of Merilon, he  turned his horses heads  and began to  drive
his chariot around  the walls  of the city.  As he  galloped past,  he
caused banners of the kingdom of Sharakan to unfurl from out the  air,
until Merilon was ringed round by  the sparkling colors of its  enemy.
So handsome was  the Prince, so  awesome was the  sight of the  black,
fire-breathing steeds,  and so  beautiful were  the banners  that  the
inhabitants of Merilon gave the spectacular sight a rousing cheer.

    Arriving back at the front Gate of the city. Prince Garald brought
his chariot to  a halt.  Raising his hand,  he caused  the trumpet  to
sound again. Suddenly, savage centaur- their half-human,  half-bestial
faces twisted in rage,  their hooves striking  the ground- poured  out
from the Corridors.  They rushed  straight for the  domed city,  death
burning in their eyes. In their  hands they held spears -• weapons  of
the Dark Arts.

    Above them  flew  dragons,  tearing the  air  with  their  talons,
poisoning it with their foul breath. Giants appeared next, their  huge
heads on a  level with City  Above, leering at  the tiny people  below
them with dumbfounded  grins. Griffons, chimeras,  satyrs, sphinxes  -
all manners and types of magical beasts - burst out of the  Corridors,
howling in rage, eager to taste human blood.

    No one m Merilon applauded now. Children wailed in terror. Mothers
grabbed their shrieking babes, men leaped to guard their families. The
noblemen, furious at  this effrontery, shouted  out oaths; their  lady
wives rose to the occasion by decorously fainting dead away.

    When the centaurs were within spears throw of the walls, when  the
giants were reaching down their huge hands, when it appeared that  the
dragons were prepared to crash through the magical dome. Prince Garald
ordered the trumpet call to sound a final time.

    One by one,  with brilliant, multicolored  starbursts and  roaring
explosions that shook the ground, the illusions vanished. Left behind,
the exhausted  warlocks  and their  equally  weary catalysts  who  had
created the illusions  had just  66 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD 67 strength enough to bow  proudly to the stunned people  of
Merilon.

    Lifting his  banner above  his head.  Prince Garald  shouted in  a
voice that could be heard throughout the city.

    "I call upon you people of  Merilon to overthrow your evil  leader
and his toad of a  Bishop. You live in a  dream as tragically dead  as
your late  Empress, a  dream as  sadly insane  as your  late  Emperor.
Destroy the dome that hides you from the real world. We, in  Sharakan,
offer you life. Return to the land of the living.

    "If you refuse  to rid yourself  of these parasites  that feed  on
your blood, then we will  do so ourselves, in  order that they do  not
infect the rest of the world. There will be war between our kingdoms.

    "What is your answer?"

    "War! War!"  shouted the  people of  Merilon in  a high  state  of
excitement. "War! War!" the nobles chanted. The fainted ladies  roused
themselves in time to cry, "War!" Mothers coaxed their babies to  crow
the word,  "War!"  which  they  did  with  mimicking,  uncomprehending
delight. Children shrieked, "War!" and  conjured up pointed sticks  on
the spot, imitating  the spears  they had seen  the centaurs  holding.
University students yelled, "War!" and vowed to a man to enlist in the
army as soon as possible. Several young catalysts chanting "War! War!"
were rebuked by a  passing Deaconess, who  reminded them sternly  that
the Almin was opposed to bloodshed.  But since the Deaconess was in  a
hurry - on the way to offer her aid to the warlocks - she did not have
time to watch over the culprits, and the catalysts resumed their cries
the moment she was gone.

    "So be  it!" Prince  Garald  shouted grimly,  but his  words  went
unheard in the tumult. With one  final, coldly formal bow, the  Prince
drove his chariot back into the Corridor and vanished from sight,  his
warlocks and their catalysts disappearing as well.

    It was noon. Bells pealed out in Merilon, the St/-Hanar~ in a  fit
of patriotic  frenzy -  colored  the clouds  to  match Merilon  a  own
banners, making it appear  as if the sky  were draped with flags.  The
nobles flew to their parties,  hymns of battle and Merilon's  national
anthem on  their lips.  The people  of City  Below held  an  impromptu
street dance and lit bon- fires.  The city was ablaze with light,  the
parties and gaiety would last far into the night.

    Standing silent in his crystal-walled study high above the  tumult
and the  merriment,  the  Emperor  of  Merilon  looked  down  upon  it
unseeing, unhearing. For him, the Challenge  had come and gone and  he
had missed  it, though  it had  spread  out before  his eyes.  In  his
vision, there walked only a  single figure and in  its hand it held  a
weapon of darkness.

    The parties  in  Menlon  were  just  reaching  their  height,  the
sunlight was  fading sulkily  to twilight,  the first  of the  evening
stars could be  seen flickering dimly  overhead before The  DKarn-Duuk
stirred or  spoke.  Behind him,  the  Bishop sat,  breathing  heavily.
Occasionally mopping his forehead with a cloth, he was thinking it was
well past time  for his dinner  and he started  nervously when  Xavier
broke the long silence.

    "Joram has returned from  the realm of  the dead," The  DKarn-Duuk
said in a soft  voice. "If we  do not stop him,  the Prophecy will  be
fulfilled. Alert the  Duuk-tjarith. If they  find Joram, he  is to  be
killed on sight. This time he can - and must - be destroyed!"

    To Victory!

    Lweek following the Challenge, on a day determined by  negotiation
between representatives  of the  warring nations,  the battle  between
Merilon and Sharakan began.

    Early in  the morning,  long before  dawn, Prince  Garald and  his
entourage arrived on the Field of  Glory to set up the Gameboard.  His
enemy, Emperor Xavier and  his entourage, arrived  at nearly the  same
time, doing the same thing several miles distant.

    The Field of Glory  was located in the  approximate center of  the
world of Thimhallan. A  large tract of  land, relatively flat,  dotted
here and there with  clumps of trees and  covered overall with  thick,
smooth, green grass, the Field of Glory had been set aside in  ancient
days for the purpose of settling disputes between nations. No one ever
came here for  any other reason.  The Field was  consecrated, both  by
prayers and by blood  - the latter being  the unintentional result  of
the Iron Wars.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 69 Before and after that time, warfare in
Thimhallan was fought in a civilized manner as befit the higher  order
of magically gifted  humans who  fought it  (as opposed  to the  lower
order of  Dead humans  left  behigfi m  the  old world).  The  primary
feature of the  Field of Glory  was the Gameboards.  Made of the  holy
stone of the mountain fortress of the Font - granite taken from around
the Well of Life, the  source of magic in  the world - the  Gameboards
were located at opposite ends of the Field. Each Board was shaped into
a perfect square, nine feet long by nine feet wide. When the Field was
not in use, the flat and  featureless Boards lay upon the ground.  The
druids saw to  it that  the Boards  were carefully  tended; the  grass
around them was  shaped trimly  and neatly, spells  of shielding  kept
animals and birds from desecrating the Boards' surfaces.

    On the day of  battle, as was happening  this day, the leaders  of
the combatants,  accompanying nobles,  War Masters,  and  high-ranking
catalysts arrived  at the  site of  the Gameboards  and performed  the
Ceremony of Activation and Blessing just as the first rays of dawn lit
the Field.

    Prince Garald took his place  with Cardinal Radisovik at the  head
of the Board, which faced north.  His companions - the noblest of  the
nobility of Sharakan •- gathered around the Board, nine on each  side.
Each noblemans catalyst  stood by his  side. At a  signal from  Prince
Garald, the Cardinal began the prayer.

    "Almighty Almin," he prayed, acutely aware that several miles away
his words  were being  echoed by  Bishop Vanya,  "look down  upon  our
contest this day and bless it. May we who fight this battle be  judged
worthy by "Vbu and granted victory, for we fight to find glory in Your
eyes and  to chastise  a  foe who  has  broken \bur  Commandments  and
brought turmoil and strife to our peaceful land."

    There followed a  redress of  the grievances  of Sharakan  against
Merilon (vice versa  at the opposite  end of the  Field), in case  the
Almin had forgotten the acts of aggression, attempts at enslavery, and
other heinous crimes committed by the foe.

    "Grant us victory this day, Aimin," continued Radisovik earnestly,
"and we of Sharakan promise that  we will improve 70 WE1S AND  H1CKMAN
TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  71 the  conditions of  the peasants  living
beneath the iron yoke of the greedy nobles of Merilon."

    ("We of Merilon promise  that we will  destroy the evil  Sorcerers
who now hold the people of  Sharakan in thrall.) "We of Sharakan  will
destroy the magical dome  that surrounds Merilon,  opening it to  your
blessed light and air."

    ("We of Merilon will bring enlightenment and culture to the people
of Sharakan, encasing their city in a magical dome.") "We of  Sharakan
will depose the evil man who rules Merilon. "

    ("We of Merilon  will depose  the evil man  who rules  Sharakan.")
"-overthrow his Bishop, proclaimed a heretic by the Church."

    (" - overthrow his Cardinal, proclaimed a heretic by the Church.")
". . . and bring peace to the world of Thimhallan in Your Name. Amen."

    (". . . and bring peace to  the world of Thimhallan in Your  Name.
Amen.") At this point in the ceremony, many of the spectators began to
arrive,  their  fantastic  flying  carriages  glittering  in  the  air
overhead.  Cardinal  Radisovik,   concluding  his   prayer,  had   the
strangest, fleeting  impression of  the Almin  arriving, too,  sitting
somewhere up above them,  drinking a glass of  wine and munching on  a
chicken  leg.  The  vision  was  startling,  and  Radisovik  hurriedly
banished  it,  inwardly  begging  the  Al-mm's  forgiveness  for   the
sacrilege.

    Prince  Garaid  nudged  his  catalyst,  engrossed  apparently   in
watching the arrival of  the guests and  forgetting that the  Ceremony
was not complete.  Flushing, Cardinal  Radisovik granted  Life to  his
liege lord. Each of the catalysts in attendance did the same to  their
own lords.  Most of  the  magi assembled  were Albanara.  There  were,
however, two members of  the Sif-Hanar, one  member of the  Kan-Hanar,
and a Sorcerer-  the blacksmith,  who was  now leader  of his  people.
Bowing their  heads,  each  man  reverently  accepted  Life  from  his
catalyst and, at another signal from  Prince Garaid, the magi in  turn
used their Life to activate the Gameboard.

    The gigantic slab  of granite  began to  glow with  a blue  light.
Slowly, the magi raised  their hands and the  Gameboard began to  rise
from the ground. Higher and higher  it rose under the guidance of  the
magi until it hovered four feet above the earth. Prince Garaid made  a
commanding gesture,  and  the  magi ceased  their  spells.  The  Board
remained floating  in the  air at  a level  convenient for  play;  its
plain, featureless surface sparkling in the sunlight.

    Then Prince Garaid, who up until this time had not participated in
the magic, laid his hands upon the  Board and began to chant a  ritual
ancient as the rock itself. This  was the Activation. At his  command,
tiny magical figures - scaled-down  miniatures of the real people  and
animals participating  in the  battle  - took  their places  upon  the
Gameboard at the same time as their real life counterparts were taking
their places upon the Field of Glory.

    First appeared  the War  Masters and  their catalysts,  taking  up
positions on the Gameboard that now began to divide itself into  hexes
to render  the  movement of  pieces  easier. Occasionally  asking  for
advice from those near  him but more often  acting on his own,  Prince
Garaid arranged the tiny, living pieces  on his Board - instructing  a
War Master to move several hexes to the north, for example, or calling
back one who had inadvertently drifted over into enemy territory.

    Once the War  Masters were arranged  to Garald's satisfaction,  he
next brought in the Sif-Hanar - the wizards who controlled the weather
- and placed  them at various  intervals (determined by  long-standing
tradition) around the Board.  Finally, when all  was in readiness,  he
began to move m his troops; those people or beings who would be  under
the command of the War Masters.

    Bands of savage  centaurs - captured  in the Outland  and held  in
thrall by the Duuk-barttb  - surged onto the  Field of Glory. Kept  in
check by the warlocks, the centaur units were each under control of  a
War Master, who  would unleash diem  either at his  own discretion  or
upon a direct  command from  the Prince.  The winged  Ariels stood  at
Garald's side, ready to carry his orders to anyone on the Field.

    Along with the centaurs came the giants - mutated humans who, like
the centaurs, dwelt in the Outland. Unlike 72 WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH
OF THE DARKSWORD  7J the  centaurs, however,  who lived  to kill,  the
giants were  actually gentle  creatures with  the intellect  of  small
children. Ordinarily peaceful, the giants were goaded into fighting by
such stratagems as bolts of lightning  shot into their flesh or  other
pain-inducing measures, such being the one thing that could drive  the
overlarge humans into a rage.

    Next appeared the dragons, griffons, and a host of magical beasts,
including some created  by magic  specifically for  the battle:  giant
rats that stood six feet tall on their hind feet, giant cats to  fight
the rats, and so on depending  on the magus's creativity and level  of
skill. Particularly  dangerous were  the werebeasts  - men  and  women
transformed by the War Masters into savage animals while retaining the
intelligence and skills of humans.

    Finally, taking their places  at the edges of  the Board were  the
ToeQara, the druid healers, who would immediately go to the aid of any
human of either side injured in the fighting.

    As Prince Garald worked, he could see the armies of Emperor Xavier
materializing on the  opposite side of  the Game-board. Keenly  Garald
studied the  disposition  of the  forces  of his  enemy,  knowing  his
opponent was doing the same. Occasionally he made changes, shifting  a
piece here or there depending on  how Xavier •was setting up his  men.
But Garald did not allow what he saw to influence him overmuch. He had
his strategy planned out. He was confident in it, in his War  Masters,
and in his people.

    Finally, all was in readiness. Looking down at the Gameboard - now
populated  with  wizards,   warlocks,  catalysts,  howling   centaurs,
grinning giants, flying  dragons, snarling werewolves,  and a host  of
other combatants -  Prince Garald  smiled in  pride and  satisfaction.
Raising his hand in which appeared, suddenly, a glass of wine,  Garald
called for a toast.

    His guests immediately followed suit, raising their own glasses in
the air. The  toast was shared  by the spectators,  many of whom  were
gathered in  the sky  above the  Gameboard, waiting  eagerly for  the.
battle to begin.

    "To victory!" Prince Garald shouted. "This day, it is ours!"

    The toast was  heartily drunk, the  noblemen regarding each  other
and particularly  their  Prince with  pride.  Garald never  looked  so
handsome or regal as he did this day, dressed in his pure white  robes
trimmed with red  and gold  •- the robes  of the  commander. His  face
flushed with  excitement,  his clear  eyes  gleamed with  the  sincere
belief in the righteousness of his  cause and his eagerness to  engage
his enemy in conflict. Once again,  he lifted his glass, the red  wine
flowing into it through his  magic. Radisovik, watching, was  reminded
vividly of blood flowing  from a wound and,  shuddering, made a  hasty
sign against evil,  wondering as he  did so why  he was being  plagued
with these disturbing and unwelcome thoughts.

    "To our secret weapon," Garald  said, turning to the Sorcerer  and
toasting him.

    "To our  secret  weapon," the  others  replied, all  eyes  on  the
blacksmith, who  was so  flustered with  pride and  confusion that  he
swallowed his wine at  a gulp, choked,  and had to  be pounded on  the
back by the Baron standing next to him.

    Ail eyes went to a section of the Board shrouded in a magic cloud.
Prince Xavier had a similar, cloud-hidden  section on his side of  the
Board as well. Although the laws of warfare demanded that the majority
of the combatants' forces be in  plain sight, players were allowed  to
keep certain forces hidden, waiting in reserve.

    It was these  reserves that  could tip  the scales  of battle  for
either side, and  the eyes of  both commanders -  Garald and Xavier  -
were on those cloud-shrouded hexes, trying to deduce from the position
on the Board, the reports of  spies, and a hundred other factors  what
menace lay concealed within the fog.

    Xavier knew this must be the  army of Sorcerers, but what  weapons
did they carry? What was their plan of attack? Most urgent question of
all, did they carry the Dark-stone?

    Prince Garald little  doubted what lay  beneath Xavier's cloud.  A
warlock, armed  with the  Darksword.  The Prince  had given  his  most
powerful War Master a regiment of  men armed with special weapons  and
one single instruction - at all costs, capture the Darksword.

    Garald would have been astonished to know that Emperor Xavier  had
provided his own most powerful War Master with a regiment and the same
instruction.

    /* WEISANDH1CKMAN Capture the Darksword.

    One other Order was searching for it as well. Prompted by fear  of
the Prophecy, the Order of Dttuk-tearitb had come together in a  rare,
secret conclave the night prior to the battle, meeting in caverns  far
below the world, caverns whose  whereabouts were unknown to kings  and
emperors.

    The black-robed  figures, faceless  in the  eternal night  of  the
caverns, gathered  in  silence  deeper  than  the  darkness  around  a
nine-pointed star embedded in the stone floor. One of their Order rose
into the air above  them, unseen by the  eye, visible in their  minds.
She asked a question.

    "Does the Darksword fight with the armies of Sharakan?"

    "No." The answer came from many  voices on one side of the  cavern
chamber.

    "Does the Darksword fight with the armies of Merilon?"

    "No." Again, many voices answered, this time from the other side.

    "Has the Dead man,  Joram, or the catalyst,  Saryon, been seen  in
this world?"

    "Yes." This time, only one voice replied, coming from the back  of
the circle.

    Instantly, the  witch dissolved  the Conclave.  The black  shadows
slipped into the night, returning to their duties. All except one. The
witch summoned him.

    "Where is Joram? "

    "I do not know. The Darksword shields him well."

    "But he has been seen. By whom? What is your source?"

    A name formed in the mans  thoughts. He did not speak it,  afraid,
perhaps, to let even the night share the secret.

    The -witch, perceiving his thought, nodded in satisfaction.

    The man appeared dubious. "Is that source to be trusted?"

    "Absolutely," said the witch.

    10 Out  Of The  Fog M  losiah sat  upon a  small, L  grass-covered
knoll, his shoulders  hunched against the  thick, oppressive fog  that
wrapped itself around him  like a chill, clammy  hand. He had no  idea
what time of day it was or how long he had been sitting here. It might
have been a half-day since  his unit had been  ordered to take up  its
position. It might have  been a half-month. He  had lost all sense  of
time in this cloud-shrouded world and he appeared close to losing  his
other senses as well.

    He could see nothing through  the impenetrable mist, not even  the
shapes of the others of  his unit. The fact  that the enemy could  not
see him was, he supposed, some sort of comfort. But it did not make up
for the growing uneasiness he was experiencing - something deep inside
whispering that the rest  of humanity had  long ago departed,  leaving
him behind, the only person left in this world.

    He knew that  wasn't true. He  could hear sounds,  for one  thing.
Although distorted  by the  fog, the  noises took  on an  76 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 77  eerie, unnerving quality  almost
worse than silence. Were  those cold and hollow  voices the voices  of
humans or ghosts? Were those footsteps? Was it the enemy, creeping  up
on him from behind?

    "Who goes there?" Mosiah questioned the fog in a quavering voice.

    There was  no answer.  Winding  his words  in  its web,  the  mist
dragged them away. '

    Was that a hand on his shoulder . . . ?

    Drawing his dagger, Mosiah leaped to his feet, whirled around, and
skillfully stabbed a tree.

    "Numskull!" he  muttered.  Sheathing  his dagger,  he  shoved  the
clawed branch that  had brushed  across his neck  out of  his way.  He
glanced around hurriedly, hoping no one had seen him, then let out his
breath in relief and sat  back down on the  hummock, nursing a cut  on
his hand; the branch  having been able to  gain some revenge upon  its
assailant by digging several small twigs into his flesh.

    Had the battle started? Mosiah thought it likely, having convinced
himself that he  had been  sitting here  for several  hours at  least.
Perhaps it was over? Maybe his unit  had been called up and he  hadn't
heard? The  thought of  this was  so alarming  that he  picked up  the
heavy, metal crossbow and  walked a few steps,  peering into the  fog,
hoping to find somebody who knew what was going on.

    Then he stopped, irresolute.

    His orders had  been specific. Remain  silent and unmov-ing  until
the fog lifts. Prince Garald had emphasized the importance of  obeying
this command to the letter.

    "It is you  Sorcerers who hold  the key to  our victory," he  told
them in the dark  hours before the dawn  when they had assembled  near
the Corridor preparatory to being  transported to the Field of  Glory.
"Why? Because  you do  not rely  upon magic!  When our  warlocks  have
drained Xavier's warlocks of Life, when  the enemy s catalysts are  so
exhausted that they can no longer  draw the magic from the world,  you
will come forth and the  enemy will be at  your mercy. Xavier will  be
placed in check, he will be forced to surrender the Field to us."

    Sighing, telling himself that he  hadn't been here five weeks  but
more probably five hours, Mosiah turned back to resume his seat on the
grassy knoll,  only to  find that  the grassy  knoll had  disappeared.
Standing absolutely still, he tried to retrace his steps in his  mind.
He had risen from the knoll and turned to his left, he was certain. He
had taken only four or five steps. Therefore, if he turned back to his
right, he should locate his position easily.

    Twenty steps later, he had not  found it. Worse than that, he  was
thoroughly confused,  having  turned  right,  left,  and  every  other
conceivable direction in the fog.

    "Nowyou've done  it!"  spoke a  peeved  voice right  in  his  ear.
"You've gotten us completely lost." - Mosiah leaped straight into  the
air, his heart climbing  in terror up his  chest and into his  throat.
Dagger in his shaking hand, he whipped around to confront nothing.

    "You 're not going to attack  a tree again, are you? "queried  the
voice sternly. "I've never been so humiliated. . . ."

    "Simkin!" Mosiah hissed  furiously, searching this  way and  that,
trying to calm his  heart, forcing it to  return to some semblance  of
beating normally. "Where are you?"

    "Here," said the voice in aggrieved tones. It came from  somewhere
near Mosiah s ear. "And a more boring few hours I've never spent in my
entire life, not even the time the former Emperor recounted his  lifes
story, from the womb up … or out as the case may be."

    Unslinging the quiver of arrows that  he wore on his back,  Mosiah
flung it on the ground.

    "Ouch!" cried the voice. "I say, that was completely uncalled for!
You've ruffled my feathers!"

    "How about scaring me  half to death!" Mosiah  said in a  seething
whisper.

    "Well, I wUI, if you insist," remarked the arrow in puzzled tones,
"though why you want me to scare you again is - "

    "No, you fool!" cried Mosiah, kicking  at the quiver in his  rage.
"I meant you already 3d  scare me half to  death." He clutched at  his
chest, feeling  his heart  pounding. "I  think I  hurt something,"  he
muttered, sinking down - weak-kneed - on a nearby tree stump.

    "Frightfully sorry," said an arrow, slowly working its way out  of
the quiver. Mosiah, watching it grimly,  saw that it was bright  green
with orange feathers  - a  remarkable contrast from  the plain,  metal
arrows he carried. "You could help me, 78 WEIS AND H1CKMAN TRIUMPH  OF
THE DARKSWORD 79 you know,"  remarked the arrow, twisting and  turning
in its efforts to drag itself onto the grass.

    Not only did Mosiah make no effort to assist the arrow, he told it
in no uncertain terms what it might do with itself.

    "A simple no would have sufficed," the arrow commented,  sniffing.
With one last wriggle, it  wormed its way out of  the quiver and in  a
blur of  green and  orange, Simkin  - large  as life  - stood  stiffly
before Mosiah, arms at his sides, feet pressed together. "I'm stiff as
the late Empress and I've lost all feeling in my toes," he  complained
gloomily. "I say, do  you like my ensemble?  I call it Lincoln  Green.
There was this jolly group of bandits whose leader took to  frolicking
about the woods  in silk hose  and pointy hats  with feathers. He  was
caught doing funny  things to the  deer. Complaints were  made to  the
local sheriff and as a result - "

    "What are you doing here?"  Mosiah grumbled, looking about in  the
fog, trying  to see  or hear  something. He  thought he  could  detect
confused sounds coming from his left, but he wasn't certain. "You know
Garald said he didn't want  to see so much as  the hem of that  orange
silk scarf of yours on the battlefield."

    "Garald is a  dear boy and  I love him  to distraction,"  remarked
Simkin, stretching luxuriously,  "but you  must admit  that there  are
times when hes a pompous ass--"

    "Shhh!" whispered Mosiah, scandalized. "Keep your voice down!"

    "I hate to tell you this, old bean," said Simkin cheerfully,  "but
we're undoubtedly miles from the Field right now. Don't look so  glum.
Whole things a complete bore anyway. Bunch of aging warlocks,  casting
spells at  each other,  when  they can  remember  the words  that  is.
Catalysts snoozing in the sun. Oh,  sometimes you get a young  hothead
who livens things up a bit by tossing a centaur or two into the  fray.
Rather a fun thing to  see the old fellows  hiking up their robes  and
beating a swift  retreat into the  shrubbery. But I  assure you,  it's
dreadfully dull. No orfe's getting killed or anything."

    "Well, no one's supposed to!" Mosiah muttered, wondering  uneasily
if Simkin was right and he had wandered off the Field.

    "I know. But I was  rather hoping a centaur  would get loose or  a
giant run  amuck. But,  no such  luck. I  found myself  growing  quite
bored. To make matters worse, I was sharing the carriage of the  Baron
Von Licktenstein,  who  generally  provides the  most  marvelous  cold
luncheons. He had a large hamper of food with him from which the  most
delectable smells were rising.  But it was still  an hour or so  until
noon, the Baron was a crashing  bore, insisting on describing all  the
plays to me. I told him I was growing faint with hunger, but he missed
my delicate  hints that  a  snack would  help  me revive  my  flagging
spirits. I  finally  decided to  find  you, dear  boy.  Had  something
important I wanted to tell you anyway."

    "Not nearly  noon. What  time is  it now?"  Mosiah asked,  wishing
Simkin hadn't mentioned food.

    "About one-ish  or two-ish,  I should  say. By  the way,  deucedly
clever of me, sneaking in amongst your arrows like that, wouldn't  you
agree - "

    Mosiah interrupted again.  "What do you  mean, you have  something
important to tell me?"

    Simkin raised  an  eyebrow.  "Yes,  indeed,"  he  said  with  that
strange, half-mocking yet  wholly serious smile  that never failed  to
send shivers through Mosiah. "I ran into an old acquaintance of  yours
in Merilon."

    "Mine?" Mosiah glared at Simkin suspiciously. "Who?"

    "Your friend, the witch. Head of the Duuk-baritb."

    "My god!" Mosiah paled, shuddering.

    "Almin's beard, dear boy!" Simkin said, watching him in amusement.
"Don't carry  on  so. You  look  quite  guilty and  you  haven't  done
anything - that I know of, at least."

    "You don't  know what  it was  like!" Mosiah  swallowed. "I  dream
sometimes that I  still see  her face, leering  down at  me …"  Mosiah
stared at Simkin, suddenly  realizing what he'd  said. "What were  you
doing in Meriion last night?"

    "I've been there the past week," said Simkin with ayawn.  Glancing
with distaste at the stump on which Mosiah was sitting, he conjured up
a couch with a wave of his hand  and lay down on it, hands behind  his
head. "The parties there nave been quite marvelous."

    "But Menlon is the enemy!"

    "My dear boy,  I have  no enemies," Simkin  remarked. "But  you've
completely unlinked my chain  of thought. It  was important, too."  He
frowned, stroking his beard. The thick fog rolled over and around him,
partially blotting him from view, so  WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD 81 until  all Mosiah  could see  was the  bright orange  hat
Simkin wore with his  green outfit and the  tips of his orange  shoes.
"Ah, yes. The  witch asked  me, quite casually,  if I  had seen  Joram
lately."

    "Joram!" Mosiah repeated, aghast. Standing up nervously, he  moved
nearer Simkin and laid his hand  on the couch in the forest,  relieved
to touch something solid and real. "But . . . that doesn't make sense!
Maybe you heard wrong, or she didn't mean . . ."

    "Precisely what I  said. I was  quite floored. Literally.  Tumbled
down, plop, right out of the air. 'Bit of fluff in my ear, ' I said to
the witch. 'Didn't hear well. Thought you asked if I'd seen Joram. '"

    "'I did, '  she replied. Straightforward,  these Duuk-ttaritb.  No
beating about the old bush.

    "'Joram? ' I repeated. 'Chap with the remarkable sword who … er  …
passed on about a year ago? '

    "'The same, ' says the •witch.

    "'Are we  speaking  ghostly  manifestation,  here?  '  I  inquired
further m what I fear was a trembling voice. 'Rattling bones, clanking
chains, things going bump in the night, Joram seen stalking the  halls
in his nightshirt? '

    "She did not answer, but stared at me like this." Simkin  imitated
the piercing dagger gaze  of the witch so  well that Mosiah  shuddered
again and nodded hurriedly.

    "I understand," he muttered. "Go on."

    "Then she said,  'I will  be in  touch, 'which-with  them -  means
exactly that. I swear," continued Simkin solemnly with a shiver of his
own that was  not entirely  affected, "that  I have  felt icy  fingers
lingering near my ear. . . ."

    "Don't say things like that!" Beads of sweat dotted Mosiah s  lip.
"Especially not now." He glanced about. "I hate this wretched fog! Did
you hear  something?" He  paused, listening.  A strange  sound -a  low
humming noise-was coming from  out of the mist.  "Whats going on?  Why
don't we do something?"

    "Well, you understand, of course, what all this means?"

    "No," Mosiah snapped, cocking his  head, trying to figure out  the
direction of the odd sound. "But I suppose you're going to tell me. …"

    "It means, dear  boy," said Simkin  loftily, "that Xavier  doesn't
have the Darksword. Not only that,  but either he or the  Duuk-tMiritb
or both believe Joram has returned. And with Joram-the Prophecy."

    Mosiah said nothing. He couldn't hear anything anymore and assumed
it must have been his imagination. Staring out into the fog, he  shook
his head. "Xaviers right, you know," he said finally, reluctantly,  in
a low voice. "Joram u  back. I knew it in  my heart when I stepped  on
that beach and saw Saryon lying there. Joram s the only one who  could
have broken that spell. . . ." He paused, then said heavily. "We  have
to convince Garald - "

    "Hush! The  fogs  lifting!" cried  Simkin,  raising his  head  and
starting to his feet.

    The note of a single trumpet  sounded. A sharp, crisp wind  sprang
up, blowing the fog to wispy shreds that curled about the ground, then
fled completely. The noonday sun shone full upon them.

    Blinking in the bright  light, feeling it  warm his blood,  Mosiah
hurriedly grabbed his crossbow and slung the quiver of arrows over his
shoulder.

    "There's my unit! * He pointed to a band of men forming into ranks
under the leadership of one of the blacksmiths sons. "Not twenty  feet
away! I  didn't lose  them! I'm  over here!"  Mosiah began  to  shout,
waving his arm,  when he  heard the  weird humming  sound again,  much
nearer and louder. Turning, he glanced around behind him.

    Mosiah gasped  in  horror. Fear  impaled  him on  its  sharp-honed
point, driving deep,  draining him. He  could not move,  he could  not
think. He could only stare.

    "Simkin!" Mosiah cried  out wretchedly, praying  for the touch  of
living flesh, needing  it to reassure  him of his  own reality in  the
midst of the blinding  terror that was closing  over him, thicker  and
more chill than the fog. "Simkin!"  he moaned, frozen in fear.  "Don't
leave me! Where are you?"

    There was no answer.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 83 II The Invisible Foe p: "rince  Garald
could not  understand  what  was  happening. He  stared  down  at  His
Gameboard in bewilderment, unable to comprehend.

    On his northern  flank, gamepieces  were under  attack. They  were
fighting desperately, fighting for their lives.

    They were dying. …

    And there was nothing there! No enemy within sight!

    "What is this?" Garald  cried hoarsely. Grasping  the edge of  the
Board with  his hands,  he  gripped it  tightly,  as though  he  might
somehow squeeze the answer from  the unspeaking stone. "What is  going
on?" he demanded of his commanders, who stared back at him blankly.

    "Cardinal?" Garald glared at his minister. But the catalysts  face
was ashen, his lips moving in prayer. Looking at his Prince, he  could
only shake his head.

    "I do not know," he managed to murmur.

    "Xavier!" Garald snarled  in fury,  his fingers  digging into  the
stone. "He is responsible! The Darksword! \fet-"

    "No, Your Grace," Radisovik answered, pointing at the Board with a
trembling hand. "Look! Whatever is  attacking us is attacking  Xavier,
too."

    Garald turned his gaze  back to the  Gameboard. His eyes  widened,
his voice choked.

    Emperor Xaviers  gamepieces  were  apparently  battling  the  same
unseen foe,  for  they  had  broken  off  their  attack  of  Garald  s
gamepieces and were now fighting for their lives as well.

    Gamepieces! Garald groaned.  Those were real  men and women  dying
out there, their  living bodies  represented by the  tiny images  that
populated the  magical  Board.  Watching in  helpless  confusion,  the
Prince saw the ranks of  the War Masters on  the northern part of  the
Board begin to crumble and break apart. The small figures were turning
and fleeing, some of the red-robed warlocks dropping to the ground  as
though struck from behind by an unseen force, their bodies fading away
on the Board as  the life left them.  Other warlocks and witches  were
apparently attempting to stand and  fight the enemy that Garald  could
not see, but  these tiny  figures, too, soon  disappeared, leaving  no
trace behind.

    As for the  catalysts -  they were  not being  struck down,  their
bodies did not fall lifeless to  the Board. The catalysts were  simply
and suddenly vanishing.

    "What is happening? What is going on?" Garald raved. Wrenching his
hands from the Board,  he clenched them into  fists. "The Ariels  from
that sector! Where are they?"  he cried suddenly, scanning the  skies.
"Why don't they report?"

    Cardinal Radisovik  raised  his eyes,  too,  and clutched  at  the
Prince.

    "Your Grace! The  spectators," the Cardinal  said urgently.  "They
don't know what is happening. You must remain calm, or you will  start
a panic."

    Prince Garald  looked  at  the glittering  carriages  circling  or
parked in the skies above him, their wealthy occupants enjoying  their
midday meals. Faintly, mingled with the murmur of voices and laughter,
he could hear the tinkling sounds of clinking champagne glasses.

    "Thankyou, Radisovik,"  the Prince  said, drawing  a deep  breath.
Straightening, he clasped his hands  firmly behind his back and  tried
to assume a  nonchalant attitude.  "Move in  84 WEISANDHICKMAN  closer
around the Board," he ordered  his commanders crisply. "Block it  from
their view. We've  got to get  them out of  here!" he added  in a  low
voice as the nobles gathered  close, crowding around the Board,  their
faces pale. "But under what pretense - "

    "Perhaps a storm, Garald," suggested Radisovik, the catalysts fear
evident in  his  use  of  the  Princes  given  name  in  public.  "The
Sif-Hanar-"

    "Excellent idea!" Garald motioned  to one of  the Ariels, who  was
standing by. "Fly  to the  Sif-Hanar," the Prince  ordered the  winged
man. "Tell them I want storms to sweep across this entire Board! Rain,
thunder, hail, lightning. That might  help stop whatever is  attacking
us from the  north as well,"  the Prince added,  glancing back at  the
Board, his brow furrowed with concern. "Send additional messengers  to
warn the spectators"-Garald  gestured upward-"both here  and in  other
parts of the Field, that storms are imminent."

    The Ariel  bowed,  spread his  wings,  and soared  into  the  air,
motioning others of his kind to follow him. Gazing after them,  Garald
saw several suddenly swerve out of their course, flying over to a dark
object that appeared between two carriages.

    "It's an Ariel," Garald  reported in carefully emotionless  tones.
"They are bringing him in. 1 think he's been injured."

    Two Ariels - one flying on  either side of their comrade,  holding
him gently  by the  arms  -returned to  the  Prince while  the  others
continued on  to  carry out  their  orders. The  Ariels  flew  slowly,
bearing their burden between  them. Waiting impatiently below,  trying
to remain calm, Garald was acutely aware of the sudden silence falling
among the crowd of spectators, then the slow murmur of voices as  they
caught sight of what was transpiring. As the Ariels neared, Garald saw
the man  they carried  and he  caught his  breath in  horror,  hearing
similar reactions from those gathered around him.

    The Ariel's  body was  burned,  the feathers  of the  giant  wings
singed and blackened. His head slumped,  he hung limply in the  gentle
grasp of his comrades.

    "My lord, we caught him falling  from the air," one of the  Ariels
reported as they alighted  on the ground  before their Prince,  easing
the wounded man down on the grass.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD  85 "Send  for  the  Tbctdara\"  Garald
ordered, his heart  wrenched with  pity for  the wounded  man and  the
thought of the courage it had taken to fly in that terrible condition.

    Someone hastened away in search of a healer, but Garald,  kneeling
by the  winged mans  side,  saw that  it was  too  late. The  man  was
unconscious, obviously dying. The Prince gritted his teeth. He had  to
find out what was happening! At a  word, he caused water to appear  in
the palm of his hand. Moistening the Ariels burned lips, he  sprinkled
the cooling substance on the cracked and blackened flesh of the face.

    "Can you  hear  me, my  friend?"  Garald  asked in  a  low  voice.
Cardinal Radisovik, kneeling by his side, began to quietly perform the
ritual rites granted to the dying.

    "Per ittam Sane tarn, …"

    The Ariel's eyes fluttered open. He did not seem to know where  he
was, but gazed around wildly and cried out in terror.

    "You are safe, my friend,"  Garald said softly, touching the  lips
with water. "Tell me, what happened?"

    The Ariel's eyes focused  on the Prince.  Reaching out a  bloodied
hand, the  winged  man  grasped  hold  of  Garald  s  arm.  "Monstrous
creatures …  of iron!"  The man  gasped for  breath, clutching  Garald
tightly, painfully. "Death . . . crawls. . . . No escape!" The Ariel's
eyes rolled back in  his head, the  lips parted in  a scream that  was
never heard, the voice died in the throat with a rattle.

    ". . . Untionem ind&Lgeat tlbi DomintM quidquid dtliq- The hand on
Garald s sleeve slid  from its convulsive  grasp. The Prince  remained
kneeling, staring unseeing at the Stains  upon his robes, the blood  a
dark black against the crimson red of the velvet.

    "Creatures of iron?" he repeated.

    "The poor man was delirious, \bur Grace," said Cardinal  Radisovik
firmly, closing the vacant, staring eyes  of the corpse. "I would  pay
little attention to his ravings."

    "Those weren't  the  ravings  of a  delirious  man,"  Garald  said
thoughtfully, when he felt the  Cardinals hand close tightly over  his
arm. Glancing up, he  saw Radisovik shake his  head ever so  slightly,
with a warning look  in the direction 86  WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH  OF
THE DARKSWORD 87 of the  commanders, who were watching them  intently,
faces pale, eyes wide.

    "Perhaps you  are right,  Holiness,"  the Prince  amended  lamely,
licking his dry lips.

    Above them, the  bright blue  sky was darkening  rapidly as  storm
clouds materialized, surging and boiling like the confused thoughts in
Garald's mind. Though not consciously aware of it, he heard the voices
of the  spectators -  shrill with  irritation or  deep •with  anger  -
demanding to know what was going on. He heard the stern voices of  the
Ariels in  answer, urging  the  spectators to  return to  their  homes
before the full fury of the storm broke.

    The full fury. . . . Creatures of iron. . . . Death . . .  crawls.
What an odd expression. Death crawls. . . .

    Voices clamored.  Everyone  was  talking at  once,  demanding  his
attention.

    "Shut up! Leave me alone! Let me think!" The words swelled in  his
throat, but - with an effort of  will - he swallowed them. They  would
reveal to everyone that he was losing control of the situation. Losing
control? Garald smiled  bitterly. He had  no control to  lose! He  had
absolutely no idea what was going on. He was still inclined -  perhaps
wanted desperately - to believe this  was some trick of Xavier's.  But
another glance at the Gameboard was  enough to convince him that  this
was not so. The forces of Merilon were being routed, destroyed,  along
with the forces of Sharakan.

    Routed and destroyed by an unseen foe. . . .

    Creatures of iron. . . .

    Death crawls. …

    "I'm going  out  there to  see  for myself,"  Prince  Garald  said
abruptly.

    Clouds darkened the  sky, massing  thicker and  blacker. A  sudden
gust of wind flattened the tall grass  and set the limbs of the  trees
creaking. Heralded by a forked tongue of lightning and a sharp thunder
crack, the  storm  broke  around them.  Driving  rain  soaked  clothes
through in an instant, hail stung their skin painfully. The release of
the storm  released  the  tensions  within each  man  as  well.  Chaos
erupted, as panic swept  among the entourage like  the •wind over  the
grass.

    Some tried to dissuade their  Prince from going, pleading that  he
return to Sharakan. Others insisted that he go and take them with him.
One faction decided it was a  clever ploy of Merilon and were  arguing
that they should  hurl everything  they had  against Xavier's  forces.
Several pointed accusing fingers at the blacksmith.

    "Creatures of iron!" cried  one. "Its the  accursed work of  these
Sorcerers!"

    Suddenly all fears had a focus.

    "The Dark Arts!" cried several. "The Sorcerers are taking over the
world!"

    "Emperor Xavier said this would happen," came an angry shout.

    "My lord, I swear!" The agonized voice of the Sorcerer  blacksmith
boomed over the  cracking thunder.  "It isn't  us! You  know we  would
never betray you -!"

    Creatures of iron. . . .

    Ignoring the pleas and the arguments and the clutching hands as he
ignored the rain in his face and the hail that was pelting him, Garald
shoved his commanders aside. Cardinal Radisovik had just drawn his own
cloak over the body  of the Ariel  and was rising to  his feet as  the
Prince approached him.

    "Open a Corridor  to me, Radisovik,"  Garald demanded, glaring  at
the catalyst sternly, expecting further opposition.

    To Garald's surprise, the Cardinal nodded in acquiescence. "I will
do so. Your Grace,  in a moment." Laying  his hand upon Garald's  arm,
Radisovik looked intently at his Prince. "What are your orders in your
absence?" the Cardinal reminded him gently.

    Garald s first impatient  impulse was to  rebuff the catalyst,  to
shove him aside as he had the  others. But the Cardinals touch on  his
arm was firm  and reassuring,  his minister's voice  calm and  steady.
Although there was fear  on the face  of the older  man, it was  being
held in  check  by  wisdom.  Garald saw  his  own  face  reflected  in
Radisovik's eyes, he saw  his own eyes, wild  and staring, he saw  the
beginnings of panic.

    The Prince made himself relax. Rational thought returned.

    "My orders," he repeated, running  his hand through his wet  hair,
noticing as he did  so that though  the rain was  falling 88 WEIS  AND
H1CKMAN around him,  it was  no longer falling  on him.  Someone -  he
supposed it was  a Duuk-foarUb -  had cast a  magical shield over  the
group and the  Gameboard, protecting  them from  the elements.  Garald
cast a shield over his mind in much the same way, creating a tiny calm
in the center  of the mental  turmoil. Slowly, he  turned back to  the
Gameboard.

    "Pull all the warlocks  and their catalysts  back from areas  near
that front immediately," he said,  indicating the eastern flanks  that
were not yet under attack. There were no signs of fighting there  yet,
no one was fleeing or dying  in those sectors. Whatever was  happening
was spreading westward from  the north. "Bring  them down south,  near
where we stand now. Cover their retreat with centaurs, the giants, the
dragons." He  indicated other  areas on  the Board.  "These  creatures
appear to be having some effect in stopping"-he paused - "whatever  is
out there. …"

    "There is also a  pocket of strong  resistance here, Your  Grace,"
said one of the commanders, calling everyones attention to an area  on
the far northwestern corner of the Board.

    "Yes," said Garald, recognizing it as did everyone else there.  It
was Emperor Xavier's position around his own Gameboard. Silently,  the
Prince watched the small group of figures fighting . . . what?  Garald
roused himself. "Do nothing further until you hear from me," he added,
turning and  walking  swiftly from  the  Board. "Radisovik,  open  the
Corridor. \ place you in charge -"

    "I'm going with you, Garald," interrupted the Cardinal, coming  to
stand beside his Prince.

    "Thank you, Radisovik,"  Garald said  in a low  undertone, "but  I
think it would be better if you  stayed here." He looked about at  his
commanders, noting their nervous, darting glances at the Board and  at
each other. "Let me take one  of the other catalysts. Your wisdom  and
cool thinking -"

    " - will be  needed by my  hot-headed Prince," finished  Radisovik
with a slight  smile. Leaning  near Garald  so that  the Prince  alone
could hear, Radisovik added softly, "Remember what we heard about  the
Borderlands?"

    Puzzled, Prince  Garald stared  intently at  Radisovik,  wondering
what he meant, silently interrogating the catalyst with his eyes.  But
the Cardinal - casting a meaningful  look around at the others -  said
no more. Radisovik s  face ap- TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWQRD 89 peared  to
age visibly beneath the Princes  gaze, however, answering Garald  more
eloquently than words.

    The Prince suddenly understood. The Prophecy. . . .

    "Very well,  Radisovik,"  Garald  said, keeping  his  voice  under
control though he felt  that his heart might  have turned to iron,  so
heavy was it with this new burden of fear.

    Radisovik caused a Corridor to  open, a void of quiet  nothingness
set against a background of storm-tossed trees and slashing rain.  The
Prince, his Cardinal, and two Duuk-tMiritb prepared to step inside.

    "I will send Ariels back to  report," Garald said, turning to  his
commanders who were  gathered around  him. "Sorcerer, I  leave you  in
command in my absence," he added, silencing protesting murmurs with  a
glance. This was one decision of which he felt secure. He had  already
considered that this might be a plot by the Sorcerers to take over the
world and he had  discounted it. He knew  these people, he trusted  in
their loyalty. More  important, he knew  their capabilities and  their
limitations.

    Creatures of iron.

    Garald brought forth a mental  image of the blacksmith,  summoning
demons from the forge fire.

    No. It made  no sense. He  had seen them,  working day and  night,
fashioning spear tips and crude daggers. . . .

    Creatures of iron. It was almost laughable.

    "What is your destination, "Your Grace?" asked Radisovik as Prince
Garald entered the Corridor.

    "Take me to Emperor Xavier."

    12 Creatures Of Iron L Life is magic. Magic is life. Magic  poured
from the Heart of Thimhallan, flowing from the Well of Life within the
mountain fortress  of the  Font to  every object  in the  world.  Each
pebble, each blade of grass, each drop of water was imbued with magic.
Every person in the world -even  those declared Dead -was gifted  with
magic. There had been  only one truly Dead  man on Thimhallan, and  he
had been driven beyond its borders.

    But now, it was  as if the  well of magic  had been poisoned,  the
magic laced with a  fear that sprang  from a source  so deep and  dark
that it had - for centuries - been forgotten. As the Watchers screamed
their unheard warnings from the border, so now the rocks of Thimhallan
cried out in terror, the trees swayed their limbs in frenzy, the  very
ground shook.

    Mosiah could not move. A Nullmagic spell could not have robbed him
of life more thoroughly than did his fear, its chill fingers  stealing
reason, breath, and energy,  leaving him TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  91
unable to think, to react when the clouds of fog parted and he saw the
horror that had come to Thimhallan.

    It was a creature  of iron; Mosiah, who  had worked for months  in
the forge, recognized the shining scales  of metal as would few  other
magi in Thimhallan. The creatures squat,  toadlike body was as big  as
that of a griffin, but  it had no wings, it  could not fly. It had  no
legs either, and was  forced to crawl along  the ground on its  belly.
The head swiveled like the head of an owl, and Mosiah thought it  must
be blind, for it appeared  to blunder forward aimlessly. Oblivious  to
anything in its  path, the  creature smashed into  trees, mowing  them
down, wrenching their living roots from the earth. It crushed rock and
churned up the  ground, leaving  marks of  its clumsy  passage in  the
trampled grass and mud.

    Mosiah watched it in helpless terror, wondering what hideous being
this was  and  how it  came  to be  loosed  upon the  wprld.  Then  he
discovered, horribly, that the  creature was not  blind. It had  eyes.
Like the basilisk, it used them for seeing . . . and for killing.

    Hidden in a clump  of trees about twenty  feet from the  creature,
Mosiah saw suddenly a  warlock fly toward  him, fleeing the  lumbering
monster. Hurtling  in  wild  panic  through the  air,  his  red  robes
streaming behind  him, the  War Master  was easily  outdistancing  the
slow, awkward creature.

    The creatures head revolved; it  appeared to be hunting its  prey,
sniffing  it  out.  Suddenly,  a  single  eye  -  hollow,  dark,   and
empty-winked open in the  head and focused on  the flying wizard.  The
eye blinked, shooting forth a thin  beam of light that flashed on  and
off so swiftly Mosiah wasn't even  certain afterward that he had  seen
it.

    The eye beam struck  the warlock in the  back, causing the man  to
plummet to the ground. The momentum of his frantic flight carried  him
forward. He rolled near Mosiah,  who stared at the warlock  hopefully.
At last, he wasn't alone! Surely  this War Master would know what  was
going on. Mosiah waited for the warlock to stand up, for the fall  had
not been particularly severe. But the warlock didn't move.

    "Hes not dead," Mosiah told himself, swallowing the fear that  was
a choking bile in  his throat. Glancing up,  he saw that the  creature
had momentarily come to a halt,  its head staring forward. "How  could
he be dead? Theres no  wound, 92 WEIS AND  HICKMAN nothing but a  hole
burned in his robes. . . . He must just be stunned. I've got to  help.
…"

    But it took several seconds  to grapple with panic's  debilitating
grasp. Finally, keeping  one eye  warily on the  creature, seeing  the
head start to swivel around again  - probably in search of its  downed
prey - Mosiah crept  from the shelter of  the trees and, grabbing  the
warlock by the  collar of  his robes, dragged  the man  back into  the
shadows.

    Mosiah turned  the warlock  over on  his back,  but he  knew  even
before he saw the staring eyes and gaping mouth that the man was dead.
A tiny wisp of  smoke curled upward from  the wizards breast.  Mosiahs
breath caught In his throat and he backed away from the corpse.

    The beam of light  that had flashed for  less than a split  second
had burned , a hole through the wizards body as a red-hot poker  burns
a hole through soft wood.

    The ground shook beneath Mosiahs feet. The creature was coming  in
search of its victim. Mosiah wanted  to run, but all feeling left  his
legs; the sight of the dead warlock and the swift and sudden manner of
the man's death  completely unnerved  him. Raising his  gaze from  the
corpse, Mosiah stared at the great beast as it approached, knowing  it
must see him when it came in  search of the wizard it had felled.  But
still he couldn't move.

    The creature  drew  nearer.  Mosiah could  smell  its  foul  odor,
poisonous fumes spewed out from its underbody, robbing him of  breath.
Choking and coughing, cowering amidst the trees, he had no thought  of
escape, no thought of anything except his fear.

    Undoubtedly, this saved his life.

    The creature swerved and rumbled past him, as a wolf passes by the
rabbit  sitting  frozen  in  the   presence  of  its  enemy,   knowing
instinctively that movement draws unwanted attention.

    Mosiah watched the thing lurch away  from him, its hideous head  -
now seemingly blind  again - turning  this way and  that in search  of
more prey,  crawling past  the body  of the  warlock without  a  look,
without so much as a sniff.

    A centaur kills out of hatred and mutilates the body. Dragons kill
for food, as  do the griffin  and the  chimera. A giant  kills out  of
ignorance, not  understanding  its own  TRIUMPH  OF THE  DARKSWORD  95
strength. But  this thing  had  killed purposefully,  coldly,  without
apparent reason or even interest.

    Though the fog had  lifted and Mosiah could  now Find and join  up
with the rest  of his unit,  he huddled within  the sheltering  grove,
afraid to move, scared to stay. The creature of iron was still  within
sight and sound,  its foul breath  poisoning the air,  its blind  head
turning this way and that as it blundered through the vegetation.

    Were there  more  of its  kind  around? Mosiah  wondered,  leaning
weakly against a  tree. He was  starting to shake,  a reaction to  his
terror. Unwillingly, his gaze went to  the body of the warlock,  lying
some distance from him. What monstrous being was this that Xavier  had
created? Mosiah quickly  averted his  gaze from  the pale,  astonished
face of the corpse,  the tiny curls of  smoke rising from the  charred
fabric of the robes. . . .

    The robes.

    Mosiah looked back  at the  body, his eyes  widening. The  warlock
wore the robes of Merilon!

    "Blessed Almin!"  Mosiah whispered,  his eyes  going back  to  the
creature, which was just vanishing out  of sight beyond a small  hill.
"Is that . . . ours? Is that why it didn't attack me?"

    The Sorcerers! was his  next thought. He put  a trembling hand  to
his lips, wiping away chill  sweat. Hastily, he glanced about,  hoping
to see other members  of his unit. Many  of them were true  Sorcerers,
people who had been born and raised  in the hidden Coven of those  who
practiced the Dark Arts of  Technology. They would know. Perhaps  they
had been .  building this thing  secretly, intent on  taking over  the
world. He had heard them talk of that often enough.

    Closing his eyes, Mosiah pictured the creature - its metal scales,
its breath reminding him of the fumes that rose from the forge.

    \es, he thought with swift anger  and hatred. Yes! They must  have
done it. I never trusted them, never. . . .

    But even as he reached this  decision, some cold part of him  that
was thinking rather than panicking said no. Mosiah looked down at  the
crossbow he held clutched in his hand. (He had completely forgotten in
his terrified state that he even held a weapon.) He saw its crudeness,
its misshapen W WEIS AND H1CKMAN lines. He thought of the time it  had
taken to fashion this tool, of  the men hammering and sweating in  the
forge hours upon hours. He recalled the creature of iron - the shining
metal scales, the way it crawled smoothly over the uneven ground. Even
in days of their power  and glory the Sorcerers  had not been able  to
construct anything like that.  How could they  now? They could  barely
build a working crossbow. . . .

    Drops of rain struck Mosiah's cheek, rising wind blew cold against
his already shivering body. A magical  storm was brewing; the sky  was
darkening with thunderclouds. Jagged  lightning tore through the  air,
thunder rumbled around  him, making nis  heart stand still,  reminding
him of the creature. He looked again at tbe body of the wizard. . .  .
Suddenly, Mosiah started to run.

    Panic drove him from his hiding place. He admitted that to himself
as he stumbled  over the  uneven ground, dragging  the heavy  crossbow
with him, his gaze constantly darting fearfully around him. Panic  and
a desperate need to find other people, someone, anyone who could  tell
him what was going on. His need  for information - his need to know  -
was greater  than his  fear of  the creature.  This horrible  panicked
feeling would leave as soon as be knew for certain what was happening!

    The storm lashed  out at him,  driving him forward  with whips  of
wind and rain  and stinging  hail. Water  streamed into  his eyes;  he
could see nothing,  yet still  he ran,  caroming off  trees like  some
crazed gamepiece, slipping  in the  wet grass,  entangling himself  in
clutching weeds.

    Finally, bruised and  battered, he  stopped, huddling  in a  small
grove of  trees.  Slumping back  against  a tree  trunk,  gasping  for
breath, he thought suddenly, "Simkin!"

    In his terror, he had forgotten all about His erstwhile companion.
"Simkin would  know  whats  happening. Simkin  always  knows,"  Mosiah
muttered bitterly. "But where  the devil did he  get to? "  Unslinging
the quiver of arrows, Mosiah dumped it on the ground and kicked at  it
with his foot. "Simkin?" he yelled above the storm, feeling incredibly
stupid, yet  hoping against  hope to  hear that  insipid "I  say,  old
chap!" in reply.

    There was  no green  and orange  feathered arrow  among the  metal
ones, however. Angrily, Mosiah kicked the quiver again. Only silence.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  95 "Why should I  want that fool  around
anyway?" he mumbled, wiping the rain from his face - rain that mingled
with his tears of fear and  frustration and the knowledge that he  was
now completely lost. "He's only trouble. I - "

    Mosiah hushed, listening.

    The thunder boomed around him, lightning lit the gray gloom  until
it was nearly bright  as day. But through  the noise and confusion  of
the storm, he thought he had heard . . . yes, there it was again.

    Voices!

    Weak with relief, Mosiah nearly dropped the crossbow. Shaking,  he
set it carefully on the  ground and peered out  from the cover of  the
dripping foliage. The  voices were  near nun,  coming apparently  from
another small  grove of  trees  only a  few  yards away.  He  couldn't
understand what the voices were saying; it was difficult to understand
their shouts over the noise of  wind and rain and thunder. Perhaps  it
was  centaurs.  Mosiah  hesitated,  listening  closely.  No,  it   was
unmistakably human speech! Warlocks, undoubtedly.

    Mosiah moved forward cautiously.  He planned to  call out when  he
was close enough. The last thing he  wanted to do was to startle  some
nervous warlock and find  himself mutated into a  frog. He could  hear
the voices quite plainly now; it sounded as if there were several  men
in the small grove, shouting orders of some sort. Words of glad relief
were on his lips, words of thankfulness at finding friends, but Mosiah
never spoke them.

    Reaching the outer trees  of the grove, the  young man slowed  his
pace. Why? Mosiah didn't know. His mind urged him to leap forward, bat
some deeper instinct kept his voice silent, his steps quiet. Maybe  it
was because - even though he couldn't hear clearly above the storm -he
didn't understand the speech  of these men.  Maybe the bad  experience
with the Duuk-tearith in  the Grove long ago  had taught him a  bitter
lesson in  caution. Or  maybe  it was  the  same animal  instinct  for
self-preservation that had kept him safe from the creature of iron.

    Padding softly around a tree, knowing that he himself couldn't  be
heard above the storm; knowing, too, that he would be difficult to see
in the driving rain, Mosiah crept  96 WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD 97 near  the source of  the voices. Gently  parting the  wet
leaves, he saw them.

    He held perfectly still - not out  of fear or caution. He felt  no
emotion whatsoever. It  was as if  his brain had  left him, had  said,
"I've had  enough,  let someone  else  cope  with this  for  a  while.
Good-bye."

    Those speaking were humans.  But they were like  no humans he  had
ever before seen or imagined.

    There were six of  them. They were male,  from the sound of  their
voices and the muscular  appearance of their  bodies. At first  Mosiah
thought they  had  heads  of  iron, for  he  could  see  the  lighting
reflecting off  their shining  scalps. Then  one of  them removed  his
head, wiping sweat from his brow, and Mosiah realized that the strange
humans were  wearing  helms,  similar to  the  bucketlike  contraption
Simkin donned on infrequent occasions.

    In addition to their helms, the strange humans were dressed  alike
in suits of shining metal that Fit them like their own skin. In  fact,
it might have been their skin, for all Mosiah knew, except that he saw
one yank a glove from  a hand, revealing flesh  like his own. The  man
had taken off the glove to toy with an object he held in his hand - an
object that was oval-shaped and Tit neatly in the palm.

    The man showed the object to a companion, saying something in  his
unintelligible language, apparently with regard to it, for he  sounded
disgusted  and  shook  the  object.  The  companion  shrugged,  barely
glancing at his partner.  He was keeping watch,  staring out from  the
grove of trees, and he was obviously tense and nervous.

    The man with the  object in his hand  continued to shake it  until
one of the other men made  a hissing sound. Reacting hastily, the  man
pulled the glove on over his hand, turning to face the same  direction
as his other  five companions.  All of them  crouched low  in the  wet
brush, and now Mosiah could see through the driving rain that each man
held one of the oval-shaped objects in his hand and that they  pointed
them forward, in front of them.

    Mosiah kept  watch  with  them, wondering  what  had  drawn  their
attention. He still felt no fear, not even curiosity. He was numb,  in
shock. If the men had turned around and faced him, he could have  done
nothing but stand  and stare at  them. Once one  did happen to  glance
behind him,  but  he did  so  quickly and  nervously,  obviously  more
worried about what was ahead. Mosiah, well concealed by the brush  and
the cover of the heavy rain, remained hidden, unnoticed.

    A warlock, a witch, and their catalysts emerged from another small
grove of trees  some distance  from the one  in which  Mosiah and  the
strange humans were hiding. The magi  moved cautiously and - from  the
wild-eyed, terrified expressions  upon their  pale faces,  expressions
that Mosiah knew must reflect his own - it was apparent that they  had
suffered similar, frightening  experiences. Their  black robes  marked
them Duuk-tsarith, and  at the  sight of the  magi, the  metal-skinned
humans in the brush crouched down even further.

    A lost child catching sight of  his parents could know no  greater
joy and thankfulness  than Mosiah  experienced at the  arrival of  the
Duuk-Uarith. Flattening  himself  against  the tree  trunk,  he  hoped
fervently he was out of range of the spell he - knew the warlock would
cast on  the  strange  humans  and •waited  for  the  inevitable.  The
metal-skinned humans moved quietly, sinking down into the brush with a
skill that indicated  that they had  been well trained  in the art  of
concealment and  ambush. But  they did  not move  quietly enough.  The
Duuk-t, taritb - it  is said -  can detect a  rabbits presence by  the
sound of its breathing.

    The warlock  reacted instantly.  His black  robes swirling  around
him, he faced the grove. Pointing toward it, the warlock cast a spell,
a Nullmagic spell that is the Duuk-lMiritb's first form of attack. The
warlock was exceptionally  powerful; in  addition, he  must have  been
suffused with Life by his catalyst, for Mosiah felt a slight  draining
effect of his own  magic even though he  stood some distance from  the
enemy. Expecting to see the metal-skinned humans fall writhing to  the
ground, helpless as the spell bereft  them of Life, Mosiah started  to
leave his  own  hiding  place,  hoping to  be  able  to  question  the
Duak-haritb and find out what was going on.

    But he halted, stunned.  The strange humans  were not affected  by
the Nullmagic. Seeing the warlock  aware of their presence,  realizing
that concealment was  no longer  necessary, they rose  to their  feet.
Mosiah, watching, saw in his 98 WEIS AND HICKMAN mind another man  who
had not been affected by the Null-magic - Joram.

    These strange humans were Dead!

    Raising his right arm, one of  the Dead pointed at the warlock.  A
beam of blinding, intense  light streaked out from  his palm. The  air
hummed and  sizzled,  the  warlock collapsed,  dying  without  a  cry,
leaving his catalyst to stare at  him in astonishment, A thin wisp  of
smoke rose up  from the  man's black  robes and  Mosiah recalled  with
awful clarity  the death  he had  witnessed earlier;  the hole  burned
through the man's flesh.

    Mosiah glanced from  the warlock to  his fellow Duuk-tearith,  but
the witch  had vanished.  Her disappearance  appeared to  disturb  the
Dead, who  remained  crouching  in the  trees,  their  metallic  heads
turning this way and that as had  the great metallic head of the  iron
creature Mosiah had  seen earlier. After  a moment, the  Dead man  who
stood in the center of the  group shrugged his shoulders. Pointing  to
the war-lock's catalyst, who was kneeling over the body of his master,
performing the Last Rites, the Dead man began to walk forward.

    Pressed against the  tree, Mosiah  waited, cringing,  for them  to
kill the helpless catalyst. The Dead man walked toward the Priest. The
catalyst heard them coming, but he did not look up. With the steadfast
courage of his faith,  he anointed the head  of the dead warlock  with
oil and spoke the ritual words, "Per utam Mnctam uncttoncm  indulgeat.
. ." in a firm voice.

    The Dead  man  kept  his hand  raised,  the  light-beaming  object
trained on  the  catalyst.  To  Mosiah's  astonishment,  however,  the
strange humans did not murder the  priest. One of the men reached  out
(gingerly, it seemed to the watching  Mosiah) and grabbed hold of  the
catalyst by the arm.

    Angrily, having still to complete his rite, the catalyst shook off
the Dead mans grip. The Dead glanced at another of the strange humans,
as if for instructions.

    This man, whom Mosiah was beginning to realize must be the leader,
spoke in the  unintelligible language of  the Dead and  made a  motion
with his hand. The metal-skinned  human backed off slightly,  allowing
the catalyst to complete his rite in peace.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD 99  A  mistake, Mosiah  counseled  them
silently from his hiding place. Of course, being Dead, they could  not
sense the heightening tension in the air, the magic that was beginning
to build and boil around them.  They couldn't know that the witch  was
still near.

    ". . . quidquu) deliqiwti Amen, " The catalyst came to the end  of
the rite. Reaching out, he closed the warlocks staring eyes and began,
slowly, to rise to his feet.

    Mosiah heard one of the Dead cry out - a shout of fear and  terror
that echoed weirdly from the metal head. Pointing at the corpse of the
warlock, the metal-skinned human began to scream in terror. The corpse
was changing into a  gigantic snake. The warlocks  eyes that had  just
been closed in death  now opened wide, burning  with a red,  unnatural
life. The warlocks body elongated and grew, becoming a reptilian  body
bigger around than an oak. Rearing up  out of the wet grass, its  flat
oscillating head swaying slightly, the dead warlock-now a huge  hooded
cobra -  towered  over the  metal-skinned  humans, its  forked  tongue
flicking in and out of its venomous mouth.

    The leader of the  Dead fell back in  terror. He aimed the  deadly
beam at the snake, but his arm  shook visiblv and the beam missed  its
target, striking a tree branch and setting It aflame. Lunging swiftly,
the giant snake  sank its fangs  into the Dead  mans shoulder,  easily
piercing the metal skin. The Dead man's cry of pain and terror  echoed
through the forest, causing Mosiah to grit his teeth until it ended in
a high-pitched wail of death.

    Wrenching its fangs loose from  its victim, the snake reared  back
to focus  on  its other  enemies.  The  Dead were  fleeing  in  panic,
however, crashing blindly through the woods. Standing near the  snake,
the catalyst watched them run away. When they were gone from sight and
when the sound of  their screams could no  longer be heard, the  snake
shimmered in  the air  and  collapsed to  the  ground. Bereft  of  its
magical Life, the cobra "was once more the corpse of the warlock.

    Mosiah, realizing  he  had quit  breathing,  drew in  a  shivering
breath. Sweat beaded  on his  forehead, he was  shaking violently  and
uncontrollably.  The  sudden  appearance  of  the  black-robed   witch
hovering beside him made his heart  lurch 100 WEIS AND HICKMAN  wildly
in his breast. He  very nearly ran away  himself, but her strong  hand
reached out and grabbed hold of him.

    "I told you I'd find him!"  said an aggrieved voice coming from  a
bit of orange silk  the witch wore tied  around her wrist. "I  brought
you straight to him!"

    "You are Mosiah?"  said the  witch, her eyes  glittering from  the
depths of the black hood, staring at him intently. "Yes," she answered
her own question. "I recognize you."

    Mosiah recognized her as well,  and the recognition robbed him  of
his ability to speak, for this was the witch who had captured him  and
nearly sent him to his death.

    The orange silk disappeared from the witch's wrist, coalescing  in
the air to become the tall, thin body of Simkin. But it was a  changed
Simkin - a pale, distraught  Simkin, a Simkin whose normally  elegant,
fashionable attire  appeared to  have been  flung on  without care  or
thought. He wore breeches  of coarse cotton, such  as might have  been
worn by the meanest Field Magus. A slovenly tunic of leather covered a
drab silk  shirt with  a torn  sleeve. The  bit of  orange silk  still
fluttered bravely in his hand, but the next instant he stuck a  corner
of it into his mouth and began chewing on it distract-edly.

    "What's going on?"  Mosiah managed  to gasp  weakly, looking  from
Simkin to the witch.

    "Precisely the question  we would  ask ydu!" the  witch hissed  at
him, reminding him forcibly of the snake. He glanced nervously at  the
warlocks body and saw the catalyst hurrying in their direction.

    "We  cannot  stay!"  the  catalyst  called  softly.  "One  of  the
creatures of iron is coming this way!"

    "The Corridor!" the  witch said,  and the catalyst  caused one  to
gape open instantly. Simkin leaped inside, almost before the  Corridor
was open, and the catalyst followed.

    Mosiah hesitated. He could hear the low humming noise of the  iron
creature, he could  feel the  ground shake  beneath his  feet. Yet  he
would almost have chosen  to take his chances  with the blind  monster
than the witch, whose presence and touch brought back the pain of  the
binding vines and their flesh-piercing thorns.

    "You fool!" The witch's  hand closed over his  arm. "\bu will  not
survive in its path an instant. It  has no eyes, but it is TRIUMPH  OF
THE DARKSWORD 101 not blind. It  kills with unerring accuracy. I  will
take you with me, whether you choose to go or not. But I would  prefer
that you came voluntarily. We need your help."

    The humming grew louder. Mosiah remembered the wizard, fleeing.  .
. . The hole burned in the flesh. . . . Yet still he hesitated - a man
stranded on a sheer cliff face  with a great boulder crashing down  on
him from above, his one hope a leap into a dark chasm below.

    "Where?" he asked through lips so stiff they would barely form the
word. The Corridor was already starting to close.

    "Emperor Xavier's,"  said  the  witch, the  hands  holding  Mosiah
tightening with an ominous grip.

    "Don't," he said softly, swallowing. "I'll come."

    The Corridor opened, sucked him  inside, and squeezed shut  around
him.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 103 Death Crawls i It was all so quiet.

    Garald, stepping cautiously from the Corridor, wondered briefly if
the Tbon-li - who were in a  pitiable state of confusion - had made  a
mistake and sent him to some distant, peaceful part of the world.  But
it took the Prince only  a moment to realize  that he had reached  his
destination, only a moment to realize that the quiet was not the quiet
of peace.

    It was the quiet of death.

    The Corridor closed hastily behind  Garald. He was dimly aware  of
Cardinal Radisovik covering his eyes with his hand, murmuring a prayer
in a  broken voice.  Garald was  also aware  of his  bodyguards -  the
Dttuk-t.  iaritb,  trained  from   childhood  to  the  discipline   of
silence-gasping aloud in shock  and anger. Garald  was aware of  this,
yet none of it  touched him. It  •was as if he  stood alone upon  this
world and, looking around, saw it for the first time.

    The sun  shone brilliantly,  a startling  contrast to  the  stormy
weather they had  just left. Flaming  in the slate  blue sky, the  orb
blazed with fierce energy, as though trying to burn away all  evidence
of the horrors it had witnessed. Garald could see, looking  southward,
his storm  clouds surging  in  this direction.  By  all the  rules  of
warfare, this  weather  attack  by  Sharakans  Sif-Hanar  should  have
prompted Xavier to order his  own Sif-Hanar to counterattack,  leading
to a rousing,  thunder-clapping battle in  the air. But  this had  not
happened. The sun was out, the day was fine. The reason was obvious.

    Merilons Sif-Hanar lay dead beneath their Gameboard, their  bodies
among several sprawled on the scorched and blackened grass.

    The Board itself  had been destroyed,  chopped completely in  two.
Made of massive stone, an exact copy of the one used by Prince Garald,
half of  it leaned  at an  unlikely angle,  propped up  by the  bodies
beneath it. The other  half lay on the  ground. Staring at it,  Garald
could not imagine the  tremendous blow it must  have taken to  shatter
the magical stone.

    Slowly, looking around him cautiously,  Garald walked over to  the
Board. Kneeling beside it, he touched its smooth surface, cool beneath
his fingers. Like the stone, the Boards magic was broken. No miniature
dragons breathed their flame into the  air from its surface, no  small
giants tromped  across it,  no tiny  figures of  warlocks and  witches
fought their enemies  in enchanted battles.  The Gameboard of  Merilon
was empty and  lifeless as the  eyes of the  bodies that lay  crumpled
beneath it.

    Lifting his gaze from  the Gameboard, Prince  Garald saw the  true
field of battle.

    It was strewn with bodies. The Prince could not begin to count the
number of dead. Cardinal Radisovik walked among them, his red robes of
office fluttering about him in the winds of the approaching storm -  a
bitter wind that blew across the Field of Glory, sucking up the warmth
of the sun and returning it with a breath of ice.

    "If you are searching for those who might yet live, Radisovik, you
are wasting your time," Prince Garald started to advise the  catalyst.
Nothing Jives out there. . . . Nothing. . . .

    104 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  It was  only after  watching Radisovik  for
several moments - moments  that seemed to Garald  to be increments  of
time that he could literally  see and touch as  they slipped by him  -
that the  Prince  realized the  Cardinal  was not  searching  for  the
living. He was granting the final rites to the dead.

    The dead. Garald gazed out  over the sunlit meadow that  stretched
before him. Once smooth and well-kept,  the green grass had been  torn
and uprooted by some  powerful force, blackened  and burned as  though
the sun itself had dipped  down and licked it.  The dead lay all  over
the field, their bodies  in various poses  and attitudes according  to
the manner of their dying. On  each face, however, there was the  same
frozen expression: fear, horror, terror.

    Suddenly Garald cried out in anger. Stumbling across the grass, he
slipped and fell in a pool  of blood. Instantly the Duuk-tearith  were
at his side, helping  him stand, warning him  to be careful, that  the
danger might still be present.  Thrusting aside their hands,  heedless
of their words, Garald  ran to Radisovik, who  was murmuring a  prayer
over the body of a young  woman in black robes. Grabbing the  Cardinal
by the arm, Garald jerked him to a standing position.

    "Look!" the Prince cried hoarsely, pointing. "Look!"

    "I know, milord," Radisovik answered  softly, his face so  altered
and aged by anguish and grief that Garald almost didn't recognize  the
man. "I know," the Cardinal repeated. One of the fancy carriages  that
belonged to the  wealthy of  Merilon had  crashed to  the ground,  its
charred, smoldering  ruins scattered  over a  wide area.  The team  of
magical swallows that had  once pulled it lay  dead nearby, the  birds
still tied together by  strands of gold, the  smell of burnt  feathers
tinging the air.

    A glimpse of  blue fluttering  silk caught  Garalds eye.  Ignoring
Radisoviks remonstrances, he hurried over to the carriage. Grasping  a
piece of smoking wood  that may have  once been a  door, he hurled  it
aside. Buried beneath it was ayoung woman, her burned and broken  arms
wrapped around a child as though  she had tried, in her last  moments,
to shield the baby from death  with her own fragile body. The  pitiful
attempt had not worked. The baby lay limp and lifeless in his  mothers
grasp.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWQRD 105 Near the woman was the body of a man,
lying facedown amid the wreckage. From the manner of his dress and the
elegance of his  clothes, Garald  judged him to  be the  owner of  the
carriage, a noble  of Merilon. Hoping  bleakly to find  some spark  of
life, Garald turned the man over.

    "My god!" The Prince recoiled in horror.

    The grinning  mouth  and eyeless  sockets  of a  charred  skeleton
stared up  at the  Prince. Clothes,  skin, flesh,  muscle- the  entire
front part of the mans body - had all been burned away.

    The world turned upside down. The sun fell from the sky, the earth
slid out from beneath Garalds feet. Strong hands gripped him,  holding
onto him tightly.  He felt  himself lowered  to the  ground and  heard
Radisoviks voice coming  from wherever  it was the  •winds came  from,
somewhere far distant ….

    "Tbttdara . . . fetch one quickly."

    "No!" Garald managed  to croak. His  throat felt swollen,  talking
was painful. "No. I  am all right. It  was . . .  that poor man!  What
kind of fiend could possibly-"

    Creatures of iron.

    "I'm …  all right!"  Thrusting  away the  hands of  his  minister,
Garald forced himself to a sitting position. Lowering his head between
his knees,  he drew  in deep  breaths  of the  chill air.  Sternly  he
reprimanded himself, using the pain  of his own stinging criticism  to
obliterate the horrors he  had witnessed. What kind  of ruler was  he?
When his  people needed  him most  desperately, he  had given  way  to
weakness. This middle-aged man - a  catalyst - had more strength  than
he - a Prince of the realm.

    Garald shook his head,  attempting to bring  order to his  chaotic
thoughts. He had to decide what to  do. My god! Was there anything  he
couQ do? His unwilling gaze was drawn back by a horrid fascination  to
the body of  the nobleman.  Shuddering, he hastily  averted his  face.
Then he stopped and, gritting his teeth, made himself stare fixedly at
the gruesome sight. As  he hoped, it kindled  anger within him and  he
used the anger to warm his fear-chilled blood.

    "Garald," said Radisovik, kneeling at his side, "Emperor Xavier is
not among the dead, nor are any  of his War Mas- 106 WE1S AND  HICKMAN
ters. I believe your original intent was to seek him out. Do you still
want to do so?"

    "Yes," said  Garald,  grateful  to the  catalyst  for  seeing  his
weakness and  tactfully  guiding  him. Hearing  his  voice  crack,  he
swallowed in  an  attempt to  moisten  his aching  throat.  "\es,"  he
repeated more firmly. Putting  his hand to his  brow, he called up  an
image of his own Gameboard in his mind. Once again, he could see  that
small pocket of resistance. "Their location … is more to the east."

    "\es, \kur Grace," said Radisovik. *"Ib the east."

    The Cardinal's tight, constrained manner of speaking caused Garald
to glance up at  him quickly. The Cardinals  eyes were on the  eastern
horizon, where a column of smoke was just beginning to rise above  the
trees.

    "Should we take the  Corridor, milord?" Cardinal Radisovik  asked,
once  more  offering  guidance  •without  seeming  to.  "It  could  be
dangerous. . . ."

    "Undoubtedly," Garald answered,  thinking swiftly,  anger and  the
need for action lending him strength. Refusing assistance, he stood up
and began  to  walk  with  firm, assured  tread  back  to  the  broken
Gameboard. "We were foolish to have used the Corridor the first  time.
We could have emerged right into the middle of … of this"-he  faltered
and grit his teeth  - "unprepared, defenseless. But  we have no  other
means - " He paused, forcing himself to consider the matter coldly and
logically.

    "I believe we should - " Garald began, but one of the Duuk-faarith
interrupted him, silencing him with a swift movement of the hand.  His
companion spoke one word and in an instant a magical shield surrounded
the Pnnce and Cardinal; the black-robed warlocks rose immediately into
the air, one guarding the front, one guarding behind.

    Surrounded by the magical force, Garald strained to hear what  had
attracted the  attention of  his sharp-eared  warlocks. Eventually  he
felt it more than  heard it -  a shivering of the  ground as though  a
large, heavy object was moving nearby.

    Creatures of iron.

    Like  most  mortals,  Garald  had  thought  about  dying.  He  had
discussed death philosophically, speculating about the afterlife  with
his tutors and the  Cardinal. -When he heard  of Jorams death,  Garald
had wondered deep within  himself if TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 107  he
possessed the courage needed to  walk into those shifting mists.  But,
never, until now, had death been  close to him. Never had it  appeared
to him in such a hideous, horrifying aspect.

    He saw the terror  on the faces  of the corpses,  he saw the  pain
that not even the peace of dying could erase from their features. Fear
welled up from deep  within him, cramping  his stomach, weakening  his
legs.

    Hearing the Cardinal  whispering a prayer,  Garald envied the  man
his faith.  The  Prince had  supposed  himself  to be  devout  in  his
beliefs, but he realized  now it had been  lip service. Where was  the
Almin? Garald didn't know, but he certainly doubted He was here.

    The movement  of the  ground became  more pronounced,  and  Garald
could hear a thudding sound. His stomach wrenched, he thought he might
be sick from fear. The vision came clearly to his mind - the Prince of
Sharakan vomiting on the Field of Glory.

    Garald could hear it passed down in legend and song and he laughed
suddenly, shrill  laughter  that  drew  a look  of  concern  from  the
Cardinal.

    He thinks I'm hysterical, Garald  realized, and drew a  shuddering
breath. His sickness eased, the  fear subsided, no longer  threatening
to master  him. So  this is  courage,  he said  to himself  with  grim
amusement. Thinking to the end how we will look in the eyes of others.

    The thudding grew louder and more pronounced. Movement drew Garald
s attention.  He  grasped  Radisovik's arm,  pointing,  releasing  his
breath in a heartfelt sigh of relief.

    The top of a huge head appeared  over the rim of a hill. The  head
was followed by massive shoulders; a vast expanse of body draped  with
animal skins came into view, propelled forward by two thick legs.

    "A giant!" murmured Radisovik, giving thanks to the Almin.

    His thanks  may have  been premature.  Although this  was not  the
monster they  had  feared,  the Duuk-foaritb  maintained  the  magical
shield in  place around  their  Prince, since  giants-though  normally
gentle-were unpredictable  in their  behavior. This  particular  giant
appeared hurt and befuddled and, as he drew nearer, Garald saw that he
had been injured.

    108 WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 700 The giant nursed
his left arm and there were streaks of tears down his filthy face.

    A  wounded  giant  was  even  more  dangerous,  and  one  of   the
Duuk-Uarlth moved to stand directly between the giant and the  Prince.
The other bodyguard, after an exchange  of a few brief words with  his
companion, turned to talk to the Prince.

    *My lord," said the Duuk-foartib, "this could be an ideal means of
transportation to reach Emperor Xavier."

    Startled by the suggestion and  suffering a reaction to his  fear,
Garald at First stared blankly  at the black-robed warlock, unable  to
think coherently enough to make a decision. The man was looking at him
expectantly, however, and Garald prodded his numb mind to working.

    He had to admit, it seemed  a good idea. The giant-with his  great
strength and ground-eating strides - could carry them to the  location
where Xavier was battling  the unknown foe. Not  only could the  giant
carry them there faster than they could fly, but they would be able to
see, from  their lofty  perch  atop the  massive shoulders,  what  was
transpiring a  long time  before they  reached it.  In addition,  once
under the control of the Duuk-faaritb,  the giant would be a  valuable
ally in case of attack.

    "Excellent idea," Garald said finally. "Do what you must."

    But the Duuk-foarith  had already  gone into  action. Leaving  his
companion to  guard  their  charges,  the  warlock  -  who  was  about
one-tenth the giant's  size - lifted  into the air  and flew near  the
mutated human. The giant watched him warily, suspiciously, but did not
appear openly hostile.

    "So it wasn't a  warlock who attacked it  and injured it,"  Garald
reflected aloud. "If  it had  been, the  giant would  have lashed  out
instantly at the sight of the warlock or would have fled in terror."

    "I believe you  have guessed correctly,  milord," said  Radisovik.
"This giant was probably trained by warlocks for the battle and  still
trusts them. Some one else - or some thing - must have hurt it."

    The warlock spoke soothing •words to the giant, as a parent  talks
to an  injured child,  offering to  heal the  injured arm.  Its  tears
flowing  faster  now  that  it  was  receiving  attention,  the  giant
approached the warlock readily, holding up its arm for inspection  and
blubbering incoherently. Seeing  the fiery red  burn that covered  the
massive arm, Garald again tried to imagine what force existed on  this
world that could have inflicted such damage.

    The same force  that could break  a massive stone  in two  halves,
that could fell a carriage  from the skies and  burn the flesh from  a
mans body. . . .

    Creatures of iron.

    The Duuk-foartib,  with a  wave of  his hand,  caused a  salve  to
appear on the giants  arm, spreading over it  with soothing effect  to
judge by the smile  on the tear-stained face.  Conjuring up a roll  of
fabric, the warlock next hastily wrapped the giant's arm in a bandage,
more because these  childlike beings were  fond of such  ornamentation
than because the bandage would  be particularly useful in healing  the
wound. This task  completed, the  warlock made  a gesture  in the  air
above the giant's forehead, then flew back to report.

    "I have laid a geas on  the giant," said the Duuk-foaritb, as  his
companion removed the magical  shield from around  the Prince and  the
Cardinal. "I told  the thing that  it must hunt  down whatever it  was
that hurt  it. Since  this geas  goes along  with the  giants  natural
inclination, we should have no trouble with it."

    "Excellent," Garald replied.  He glanced  to the  east, where  the
columns of smoke were growing larger, thicker, and more numerous.  "We
must hurry."

    "Certainly, milord." Speaking a series of words, the warlock  used
his magic to lift the  Prince and Cardinal into  the air and set  them
down gently upon the giants huge shoulders.

    Settling himself as best he could, Garald wrinkled his nose at the
smell of the giants unwashed body  dressed in animal hides. The  giant
was intensely curious about its riders, and there was several moments'
delay as it twisted its head this way  and that in an effort to get  a
close look at them.  Its breath was even  more foul smelling than  its
skin. Garald gagged and Cardinal  Radisovik covered his nose with  the
sleeve of his robes when the grinning, broken-toothed mouth turned  in
his direction.

    At last, however, the Duuk-faaritb, with a sharp command, was able
to goad the  giant into lumbering  motion. Pointing  110 W E  ; S  AND
HICKMAN toward  the smoke  to  indicate the  direction in  which  they
wished to travel, the  warlocks flew ahead of  the giant, guiding  its
clumsy footsteps.

    Garald had been somewhat afraid that, despite the geas, the  giant
would refuse to go anywhere  near smoke, considering the painful  burn
it had sustained. Perhaps,  however, the giant  did not connect  smoke
with fire, for it stomped forward without hesitation, gabbling away in
its unintelligible language that sounded very much like the prattlings
of a toddler in a state of wild excitement.

    Only half-listening to it, Garald realized suddenly that the giant
was  attempting  to  tell  them  what  had  happened.  Repeatedly,  it
gestured* to its hurt arm - once  with such force that the Prince  was
nearly thrown  off.  Clinging precariously  to  his seat,  both  hands
tangled in the giant's matted, filthy hair, Garald regretted  bitterly
that no one  had ever  attempted to communicate  with these  oversized
humans. Mutated for the  purposes of war, they  had been abandoned  by
their masters, left to  roam the wilds until  needed again. Locked  in
this huge head were  the answers to Garalds  questions, for he had  no
doubt that the  giant had been  attacked by whatever  it was that  had
massacred the people of Merilon.

    They covered the miles of  territory between the broken  Gameboard
and the columns of smoke swiftly, the giant hurrying forward with such
enthusiasm and excitement that the  Duuk-ttaritb were forced to  order
it sternly to slow down or risk losing its passengers.

    Inspecting the Field of Glory  from his observation point,  Garald
saw more bodies, and his lips  tightened grimly as his anger grew.  He
also saw additional indications of the foe - long snakelike tracks  of
churned-up earth that led overland, heading toward the east. The enemy
stopped for nothing,  apparently. Large  trees had  been uprooted  and
pushed aside, smaller ones snapped  in two, vegetation plowed down  or
set afire.  It was  mainly on  either side  of these  tracks that  the
bodies of his people could be seen.

    At one point, near what was  left of a smoldering grove of  trees,
Garald caught sight of a bright flash - metal gleaming in the sun.  He
turned to examine it, risking a fall from his precarious perch on  the
shoulder of the giant. It appeared to TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD ///  be
a body of a human and, if it had not seemed too fantastic, the  Prince
could have sworn that the body had skin of metal.

    Garalds first  thought was  to stop  and investigate,  but he  was
forced to abandon this  idea. The giant -  under the influence of  the
geas and its own mounting excitement -would be difficult to bring to a
halt and would probably charge  off on its own  if left by itself.  By
the time the Prince reached this decision, the giant had carried  them
far past the thing; Garald, looking back, couldn't see any sign of the
grove of trees, let alone a body lying beneath it.

    "I'll probably find out what is going on soon enough," he said  to
himself grimly,  noting that  they were  drawing nearer  the  thickest
columns of  smoke.  Suddenly Garald  could  hear -  above  the  giants
babblings - a low humming  sound, combined with explosions like  those
created by Illusionists to startle  children on holidays. Once  again,
he experienced the cramps in his  stomach, the dryness of his  throat,
and the weakness in his knees. But  this time his fear was laced by  a
strange excitement,  a curiosity,  a strong  desire to  know what  lay
ahead of them.

    At that moment,  the Duuk-foaritb, flying  in front'of the  giant,
topped a steep  hill. Suddenly, their  forward motion slowed.  Garald,
watching them  closely, saw  the hooded  heads turn  to look  at  each
other. Though he could not catch a glimpse of the warlocks' faces,  he
could sense a  shared incredulity  and awe, emotions  foreign to  this
well-disciplined sect.

    Frantic to  see what  they saw,  Garald half-rose  to a  crouching
stance on the  giants shoulder  as it  clamored up  the hill.  Staring
ahead, Garald  and the  giant both  saw the  enemy at  the same  time.
Bellowing in rage, the  giant came to a  sudden halt, and Garald  lost
his footing. Slipping, he fell  backward off the shoulders. His  magic
was enough to  sustain him,  however. Using  his Life  force, he  kept
himself afloat  in the  air, hovenng  just above  trees at  the  hills
crest.

    Looking down, he saw the enemy.

    Creatures of iron.

    14 Legions Of The Dead I hey  crawled over the face of the  earth,
seemingly blind as moles, leaving  death and desolation to mark  their
passing. They  spared no  living thing.  Garald watched,  stunned  and
aghast, as the heads  of the creatures of  iron swiveled this way  and
that, and wherever the heads looked, death followed, swifter than  the
blink of an eye.

    Their movements were  coordinated, purposeful. Twenty  or more  of
the monsters were  converging, coming  from various  positions to  the
north. Once they met up, they  traveled in a straight line,  separated
from each other by about a distance of thirty feet. Walking behind the
creatures were humans, hundreds of them. At least Garald assumed  they
were human. They had legs and arms and heads, they walked upright. But
their skin was metallic.  He could see  them gleam in  the sun and  he
recalled the body he had seen among the trees.

    At least they can  be killed, was his  first thought. His  second,
and more terrifying, was that the enemy - the creatures TRIUMPH OF THE
DARKSWORD 113 and these strange humans - was heading in one  direction
- south.  Tearing his  gaze from  them, Garald  looked ahead,  to  the
south. He could see the storm clouds of the Sif-Hanar that marked  his
lines. In his mind's eye, he  could see his War Masters, the  warlocks
and witches,  standing unknowing,  waiting for  death to  rumble  over
them. He remembered the carnage, now  shattered on the ground, and  he
thought of the hundreds  of spectators, with  their wicker baskets  of
fruit and wine. Certainly the storm  would have prompted some of  them
to leave, but they had probably just  moved off to the borders of  the
Field of  Glory,  where it  was  dry.  Some, perhaps,  might  even  be
traveling m this direction  where they could  undoubtedly see the  sun
shining. . . .

    "Milord!" One of the Dutik-foarith touched his arm, something that
Garald could  not ever  remember occurring,  and a  certain sign  that
these trained and disciplined warlocks were shaken. Garald looked back
down and ahead several miles distant to where the warlock indicated.

    A natural formation of rock had been hurriedly shaped into a crude
fortress of stone. Within that fortress, the Prince could see  figures
moving, their  red  robes  and  black marking  them  as  warlocks  and
witches. The varying shades  of red denoted the  side of the war  they
had been on  before the new  threat made all  things equal. As  Garald
watched, he saw a figure dressed in crimson stride across the compound
of the hastily  conjured fortress,  waving his  arm, obviously  giving
orders, though he could not be heard from this distance.

    "Xavier," Garald murmured.

    "Milord, they  are directly  in  the path  of those  things!"  the
Duuk-ttiarith said, the tightness of his voice indicating his struggle
to maintain control.

    Did Xavier know that?  Did he know the  creatures were coming  and
intend to make a stand here? Or had he simply retreated to this place,
unaware of the forces massing against him?

    And what were these creatures of  iron? These men of iron?  Garald
wondered, his gaze  returning to them  in terrible fascination.  Where
had they  come  from?  Was  it possible  that  another  city-state  in
Thimhallan had somehow  gained knowledge  and power  enough to  create
these things? No. Garald  rejected the idea.  Nothing like this  could
have been J/<? WEIS AND HICKMAN  , kept secret. Besides, the  creation
of these things must have been undertaken by Sorcerers whose knowledge
and power were beyond anything even the ancients had dreamed.

    Yet another question. Why hadn't  they shown up on the  Gameboard?
Why hadn't he been able to see them. . . ?

    The answer was there, so obvious he realized he'd known all along,
surmised it from the very beginning.

    They were Dead.  Every one of  them - the  creatures of iron,  the
strange humans with the metal skin. Dead.

    The  Duuk-foarith  was  touching  him  again.  "Milord,   Cardinal
Radisovik, the giant. . . . What are your orders?"

    Garald tore his gaze from the monsters. Glancing one final time at
the stone fortress of Emperor Xavier, he turned away. As he did so  he
saw one of the creatures pause before a gigantic boulder that  blocked
its path. A beam of light shot from its eye and the boulder  shattered
into a thousand tiny pieces.

    So much for the stone fortress.

    Garald moved quickly now. His mind, no longer tormented by shadowy
fears, was active.

    "We're going to warn Xavier," he said, "and get him to pull  back.
He can't face these things with  that small contingent of people.  And
I'll need messages carried back to our lines."

    Talking to  himself, he  sped through  the air,  returning to  the
giant, having forgotten about it, the Cardinal, and nearly  everything
else in his first paralyzing glimpse of the creatures.

    Cardinal Radisovik  waited  for him  on  the ground,  having  been
carried down by the Duuk-tjaritb.  The enraged giant was barely  being
held in check by the warlock, and Garald felt a twinge of remorse when
he realized that Radisovik had undoubtedly been in some peril and that
his Prince had  left him -a  weak catalyst -to  fend for himself.  The
feeling passed quickly,  however, trampled underfoot  by the need  for
action.

    "You saw?"  Garald asked  his  Cardinal grimly  as he  neared  the
stretch of scorched grass on which he and the giant stood.

    "I saw," Radisovik replied, pale  and shaken. "May the Almin  have
mercy on us!"

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 115 "May He indeed!" Garald muttered, his
sarcastic tone drawing a  look of concern from  the Priest. But  there
was no time for worrying about faith  or the lack of it. Gesturing  to
the Duuk-tearith  who had  accompanied  him -  the other  warlock  was
keeping the giant in hand - Garald began issuing his orders.

    "You and Cardinal Radisovik enter the Corridors -"

    "My lord! I believe I should stay -" interposed the Cardinal.

    " -  and  return to  my  headquarters," Garald  continued  coolly,
overriding the Priest's objections. "Use whatever means you must,  but
get the civilians out of the area. Take them all …" He hesitated, then
continued with a twisted smile, "even our people, to Merilon. Its  the
closest city  and the  magical dome  protects it  best. I  wonder  who
Xavier left  in control?"  he muttered.  "Probably sent  Bishop  Vanya
back. Well, it can't be helped. Cardinal Radisovik, you must go to the
Bishop. Explain what is happening and - "

    "Garaid!" Radisovik said sternly, his  brows coming together in  a
manner that the Prince had not seen since he was a young boy caught in
some misdeed. "I insist that you listen to me!"

    "Cardinal, it is  not for your  own safety that  I am sending  you
back! I need you to talk to His Holiness - " Garald began impatiently.

    "My  lord,"  interrupted  Radisovik,  "there  are  no  bodies   of
catalysts!"

    Garald stared at the Priest, uncomprehending. "What?"

    "On the field near  the Gameboard, on the  Field of Glory we  have
passed over - "  Radisovik waved his  hand - "there  are no bodies  of
catalysts, milord! %u know as well as I that they would never  abandon
their masters to death, or leave their bodies without the final rites.
Yet none of  the dead back  there near  the Board had  been given  the
rites. Where  are the  bodies  if the  catalysts  are dead?  What  has
happened to them?"

    Garald had no answer. Of all the strange things he had seen,  this
seemed the strangest. It was Inexplicable, it made no sense. Yet, what
did make  sense? Creatures  of iron,  destroying everything  in  their
path, killing for no reason. Killing everything except catalysts.

    116 WEIS AND HICKMAN "1 therefore must insist, milord,"  continued
Radisovik coldly and formally, "that - as a high-ranking member of the
Church -  I be  allowed to  stay and  do what  I can  to resolve  this
mystery and find out what has become of my brethren."

    "Very well," Garald said confusedly, trying to grasp the  tail-end
of his thoughts that  had hurried on  ahead of him.  He turned to  the
Duuk~foaritb. "You  . .  .  explain to  Vanya.  Mer-ilon needs  to  be
fortified. Send messengers,  the Ariels, to  the farm settlements  and
begin transporting  the people  into the  safety of  the city's  dome.
Contact members of your Order m other cities and find out if they  are
being attacked."

    The Duuk-foaritb nodded  silently, his hands  clasped in front  of
him as was proper, disciplined  and under control once more.  Perhaps,
like Garald, the warlock felt better now that he had something to do.

    "The War Masters are to remain until the last possible moment. I'm
going to try to convince Xavier to withdraw, to retreat to our  lines.
%u must get word  to my father.  Tell him what  is happening and  that
Sharakan must be prepared  to withstand an  assault as well.  Although
how they  will defend  themselves against  these things  …" His  voice
broke. Garald coughed, clearing his throat, angrily shaking his head.

    "You have your orders? You understand?" he said gruffly.

    "Yes, milord."

    "Then go. But first, instruct your companion to lose the giant."

    *\es, milord."

    Was it Garald's imagination, or did he actually see the flicker of
a smile on the pale face that was barely visible within the depths  of
the hood. "That should buy me  the time I need," the Prince  muttered,
watching the warlock fly up to his comrade, who was holding the  giant
in thrall. He saw the black  hood nod. "\bu*d better open a  Corridor,
Radisovik. When the spell over the  giant is broken, well need to  get
out of here quickly."

    A  Corridor  gaped  open.  The  first  Duuk-tearitb  had   already
disappeared, carrying  out the  Prince's orders.  The second,  with  a
word, released his  hold on the  giant. Shrieking a  deafening cry  of
rage, the giant stomped around  in uncontrolled, undirected fury,  his
thudding, kicking feet felling trees  and shaking the ground.  Ducking
into the Corridor,  the TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 117  Prince and  the
Cardinal waited only for the Duuk-foarith to join them before  closing
the magical gate and beginning their journey.

    "It may take some  time, but the creatures  of iron will kill  the
wretched thing.  You know  that, of  course, Garald,"  Radisovik  said
gently.

    "Yes," said Garald, thinking of the boulder he had seen  literally
disintegrate before his eyes. The thought hurt him and made him angry,
and he didn't quite  know why. Though he  had never hunted giants  for
sport, as did some of the nobility, he had never - before now -  cared
whether they lived or died.

    Now he cared, he cared a great  deal. He cared for the giant,  for
the mother,  and her  dead baby.  He cared  for the  Sif-Hanar,  lying
beneath the Gameboard, he cared for the uprooted trees and the  burned
grass. He cared  for Xavier, for  his enemy, standing  in the path  of
these things.

    Unbidden, unwillingly, he recalled the words of the Prophecy.

    There will be born  to the Royal  Route one who  ut dead yet  will
live, who will die again and live again. And when be return*, be  will
bold in bu band tbe destruction  of the worQ- The giant's world,  that
small baby's world.

    His world.

    No Escape S: sharper  than the thorns of  the murderous Kij  vine,
the witch's fingernails dug into Mosiah s flesh. Thrusting him out  of
the Corridor, she followed immediately  after him, never once  letting
loose her grip on his arm.  Simian appeared inclined to remain in  the
Corridor, but a piercing glance from the witch - a glance as sharp  as
her nails  -  brought  the  young  man  tumbling  out,  still  chewing
nervously on the orange silk.

    "Use it to gag yourself, traitor!" Mosiah snarled.

    Gazing at him with •wounded eyes, Simkin started to reply, choked,
and coughed. Spitting out  the orange silk, he  gazed ruefully at  the
sodden mass, then consigned it to the air.

    "I say,  that  hurts," he  remarked  moodily. "State  of  national
emergency, that  sort of  thing. What  could I  do?" he  asked with  a
helpless glance at the witch. "She appealed to my better nature."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 119  "This way!" said the witch,  shoving
Mosiah forward.

    The Corridor had brought them to a large fortress. Made of  stone,
the fortress had  obviously been  hastily formed from  a natural  rock
formation standing in the center of the Field of Glory. About ten feet
high, the walls straggled  over the irregular  landscape in a  roughly
circular  shape.  It  was  crowded  with  people  -warlocks,  witches,
healers, and catalysts.  "Windows" shaped  into the  rock allowed  the
warlocks to cast spells at their  enermy, or they could float up  into
the air and drop back down, using the walls to shield them instead  of
wasting their  own magic.  The walls  also protected  them from  being
overrun by centaurs.  During the  "battle," this  fortress would  have
served the same purpose that a child's sand castle serves in games  on
the beach. Whichever side held the fortress against the enemy won this
particular area of the Gameboard.

    Looking at the pale faces, the  tight lips, and the clenched  jaws
of the magi crowded into the fortress, Mosiah knew that now the stakes
were much greater: life itself.

    There was no need to tell  Mosiah what enemy the people waited  so
grimly to face. He could  see curls of smoke  rising up into the  air.
The ground trembled beneath  his feet, he could  hear in the  distance
the low humming sound.

    "They're coming,  aren't they?"  he said,  the image  of the  sand
castle lingering in  his mind  . .  . washed  away beneath  relentless
waves. "The creatures. What are you going to do? " he demanded of  the
witch. "Just stay here and die?"

    For the first time since she had taken him into the Corridor,  the
witch looked directly at  him. "Stay here a$d  die, go somewhere  else
and die. What does it matter? * she asked softly, turning from  Mosiah
to address a warlock in crimson  robes who stood with his back  toward
them. "Your Highness," she said crisply, "I have found the young  man,
Mosiah."

    The warlock  was speaking  to several  other War  Masters. At  the
witch's call, however,  he wheeled instantly,  his crimson robes  with
their golden emblems flashing in the bright sun.

    At the  sight of  the man's  face,  Mosiah felt  a swift  stab  of
painful recognition. It was not that  the man resembled Joram, for  he
did not. The face was thinner,  older, sharper. But he had the  black,
glistening hair; the clear, brown eyes; 120 WEIS AND HICKMAN the proud
and elegant grace; the same arrogant tilt to the head.

    Joram - the Emperor's son?

    If Mosiah had not believed Simkin before, he believed him now. The
family resemblance was too strong to  deny. Mosiah was looking at  the
former Prince Xavier, now Emperor of Merilon. Joram's uncle.

    Xavier smiled, or rather the  thin lips expanded into the  mockery
of a smile.

    "I see you recognize me, young man," he said. "

    "You recognize me because of him, don't you?"

    Mosiah could not answer.

    "He's returned! I know  it!" Xavier nodded  wisely, the cold  eyes
probing Mosiah. "He has come back and brought with him the end of  the
world! Where is he?" the Emperor demanded suddenly. Stretching out his
hand, his ciawlike fingers  clutched at Mosiah's  neck. "Where is  he!
Answer me or by the gods 111 tear the words out of your heart!"

    Shocked, Mosiah could  not move.  If Simkin  had not  accidentally
blundered into the  Emperor, nearly  knocking him  over, Xavier  might
well have succeeded in his threat.

    "E'gad! Is that you. Highness? Allow me to assist. … I say! What a
beastly expression! Your face will freeze like that someday, you know.
Unhand me, you lout!" This to  a Duuk-tearlth, who had firmly  grasped
hold of  the  bearded  young  man. "It  wasn't  my  fault!  Chap  over
there"-he gestured vaguely-"made  the most startling  remark. Said  we
were all going to die horribly. A sudden desire to leave came over me,
and I mistook His Highness for a Corridor."

    "Get rid of this fool!" Flecks of saliva speckled Xavier's lips.

    "I'm going. You needn't spit!"  Simkin said loftily, plucking  the
orange silk from the  air and dabbing at  his face. "But first,  don't
waste your  time with  this peasant."  He cast  a scathing  glance  at
Mosiah. "Why don't you  ask me? I  can tell you  where Joram is.  I've
seen him."

    Xavier stared at Simkin, the  wild light in The DKarn-Duuk's  eyes
flaring with such intensity that it seemed he might burn the young man
to the  ground.  An  explosion  shook  the  compound,  causing  nearly
everyone else to start and glance fearfully to the north. The  Emperor
did not move.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 121  "What do  you mean,  you have  seen
him?" Xavier demanded. "Where is he?"

    "He is here," said Simkin imperturbably.

    "Fool! I have had enough of your - " The DKarn-Duuk made a furious
gesture, and Mosiah froze, expecting to see Simkin burst into flames.

    Apparently, Simkin expected much the same thing.

    "Not btrt here," he  amended hastily. "Near  here. Somewhere. I  -
uh- Pick a card!"  he said suddenly, producing  a deck of tarok  cards
out of nowhere. "Any  card." He held them  to the Emperor, whose  eyes
narrowed alarmingly. "Here, 111 do it. Don't trouble yourself." Simkin
held up a  card. "Death."  He drew  another. "Death  again." A  third.
"Death three times. That's Joram, you see. A Dead man. His wife  talks
with the dead and he walks with the dead Priest."

    Xavier clenched his fist.

    "You're right. S-stupid game,"  stammered Simkin, tossing all  the
cards into the  air. They fell  to the ground,  fluttering around  him
like gaudy,  multicolored leaves.  Looking at  them, Mosiah  saw  that
every single card in the deck was Death.

    The air was  hazy with  smoke, the  smell of  burning strong.  The
humming noise grew louder.

    "Your Highness!"  called out  several  voices. War  Masters  began
crowding  around,  shouldering  forward,  vying  for  The  DKarn-Duuks
attention.

    "I will deal  with these  young men, Yjur  Highness," offered  the
witch.

    "Swiftly!" said Xavier,  Fist clenched. His  dark-eyed gaze  going
once again to Mosiah, it stayed with him to the last, when the Emperor
Finally turned his attention to his ministers.

    "I don't  know anything  about Joram!"  Mosiah cried  desperately.
"You can do what you like to me," he continued, the witchs penetrating
gaze staring through his  eyes, searching his  brain. "I haven't  seen
him."

    "But you know he has returned."

    Another  explosion  shook  the   ground.  Mosiah  glanced   around
fearfully.

    "I -I don't know!"

    122 WEIS AND  HICKMAN "Of  course he's  returned!" Simkin  stated,
exasperated. "I've  seen him,  I tell  you! No  one believes  me,"  he
continued, sniffing in wounded dignity. "And if you think I'm going to
hang around here and die  in the company of  people who consider me  a
liar, you have another think coming. No, don't apologize. I find  this
deadly dull.  You  will,  I'm  afraid,  simply  find  it  deadly.  And
therefore I am away."

    Gazing at Mosiah, Simkin suddenly burst into tears.

    "Farewell, friend  of  my childhood!"  He  flung his  arms  around
Mosiah, hugging him close,  nearly choking him. "We  who are about  to
flee to a place of safety salute  you. Go forth bravely, my son!  Come
back with your shield  or on it!" Simkin  raised his hand, the  orange
silk fluttered wildly in the air.  "Once more into our breeches,  dear
friends, once more!" he cried gallantly.

    There was a flurry of orange silk, and Simkin was gone.

    "So he's telling  the truth." It  was not a  question. The  witch,
staring thoughtfully and absently at the place where the young man had
been standing, was obviously pondering Simkin s words.

    "The truth? Simkin?" Mosiah started to laugh, but it caught in his
throat.

    A shattering  explosion  hit  the  fortress  wall,  sending  sharp
fragments of rock skimming through the  air. People cried out in  fear
or pain or both.

    "They're coming!  We're trapped!"  someone yelled,  and the  crowd
began to rush about aimlessly, like mice in a box. Those near the site
of the explosion fled to the rear of the fortress. Those who had  been
standing near the rear wall surged  forward to see what was going  on.
The few Tbeidara in the compound hastened to aid the injured. The  War
Masters were  all yelling  at once.  Emperor Xavier  shouting back  at
them.

    "That can't be the creatures! They're too far away!"

    "Besides they're blind. . . ." • "No, they're not! Why I saw  one.
. . ."

    It was all noise and confusion. The witch was gone; Mosiah had  no
idea where, but he thought he caught a glimpse of her, flying up  over
the wall  to investigate.  Standing  in the  center of  the  compound,
feeling frightened  and TRIUMPH  OF THE  DARKSWORD 123  alone,  Mosiah
cursed Simkin for getting  him here, then leaving  him. But the  curse
was halfhearted.

    I might  still be  out there,"  he muttered,  shuddering.  Another
explosion rocked the stone work. People cried out in pain and  terror;
the confusion within the compound  became general. "Trapped!" He  felt
suffocated. Suddenly, he wanted to be out there, anywhere but  trapped
inside these walls, waiting to die.

    Looking around  wildly, searching  for a  way out,  Mosiah s  gaze
chanced on  Xavier, who  stood  nearby with  his War  Masters.  Mosiah
stopped, staring. A change had come over the warlock. Having been in a
state of near frenzy when demanding to know the whereabouts of  Joram,
now Xavier stood calmly, his face pale but composed. He was  listening
to his ministers who,  as nearly as Mosiah  could figure out from  the
snatches of heated conversation he  overheard, were arguing about  the
most effective means of destroying the creatures.

    "It kills with its eyes, like the basilisk, Your Highness," argued
one. "So we attack it  the same way. One  distracts it from the  front
and the other  attacks the creature  from the rear.  A Sleeping  Death
spell -"

    "Begging your pardon, Highness, but it is the light beam cast from
the eyes of the creature that kills. A simple Darkness spell and - "

    "Reptile. The creature is obviously a reptile, Your Highness..  It
has scales like a dragon. Freeze its blood with an Ice spell."

    It is hopeless, Mosiah  told them silently.  I've seen them.  I've
seen the head that  can turn in all  directions. I've seen the  scales
and they are made of iron. I've seen the Dead men with silver skin who
serve these monsters, men who can kill with the palms of their hands.

    Watching the Emperor, Mosiah realized suddenly that Xavier thought
the same thing. The DKarn-Duuk was listening to the arguments but with
a singular  air of  detachment, his  mouth twisted  in a  wry,  bitter
smile, as though he found the warlocks entertaining but nothing  more.
His eyes were  flat, empty,  uncaring. He  did not  react to  anything
around him. A nearby explosion that caused everyone standing 124  WEIS
AND HICKMAN around him to fling up their arms, shielding their  faces,
did not affect him at alt. Xavier didn't even blink.

    There came another  explosion, then another.  Beams of light  from
the monsters eyes shot into the compound, striking their victims  with
unerring accuracy. There seemed to be no escape from death, no way  to
avoid it. Those  who flung themselves  on the ground  died. Those  who
sprang into the  air died. No  one knew where  the deadly light  would
strike next. The beams  never missed. A druid  standing near the  wall
crumpled over without  a sound,  a hole  burned through  his head.  An
Ariel who  had been  watching from  the skies  crashed to  the  ground
almost at the young mans feet, his feathery wings on fire.

    Those watching from  the walls  cried that the  creatures were  in
sight, others shouted that a giant  could be seen walking among  them.
Judging from sporadic bursts  of lightning and  flame, a few  warlocks
had rallied together, attempting to halt the monsters' approach.

    "I should be doing something," Mosiah said to himself, but he  had
no idea what. He had  no weapon, he'd lost  the crossbow. Not that  it
would have been much  use anyway. Mosiah felt  despair envelop him  in
its winding sheets, wrapping him up tightly, depriving him even of the
will to live.

    "Go!" said Xavier suddenly, and Mosiah heard his despair echoed in
the Emperors voice.

    "Go," Xavier  ordered his  War Masters,  accompanying the  command
with a nonchalant wave of his  hand. "Cast your worthless spelts.  Die
in whatever manner amuses you."

    Stunned-he had caught most of them in midargu-ment-the War Masters
swallowed their words, staring at  their Emperor in disbelief.  Xavier
gestured again, a frown of irritation creasing his brow.

    The War Masters turned to gaze at each other in helpless confusion
and growing fear when a clear  baritone voice rang out, shouting  over
the wails of the dying, the cracking  of rock, and the low hum of  the
approaching monsters.

    "Emperor Xavier!"

    The Emperor  turned,  so  did  Mosiah,  so  did  everyone  in  the
compound. Prince Garald,  Cardinal Radisovik, and  a warlock in  black
robes appeared,  stepping out  of a  Corridor. The  appearance of  the
Prince - their enemy - sent a  ripple TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 125  of
confusion and  interest through  the crowd,  momentarily quelling  the
panic. A tiny flicker of light glimmered through Mosiah s dark despair
and  he  hurried  forward  with   the  rest,  anxious  to  hear.   The
Duuk-foaritb acted  immediately to  keep an  area around  the  Emperor
clear. Xavier  and Garatd  faced  each other,  surrounded by  an  ever
growing circle of tense, strained faces.

    "So you have come  crawling to me at  last, Prince of  Sorcerers!"
Xavier said. "Is this surrender?"

    This unexpected question  took Garald completely  by surprise.  He
stared at  the Emperor,  perplexed.  "Do you  have  any idea  what  is
heading your way, Xavier?" the Prince  asked in a low voice.  Glancing
at the  crowd,  he  drew  nearer  to.  the  Emperor.  "We  must  speak
privately."

    Xavier stepped back, haughtily drawing his robes out of die way of
Garald s  touch. "Say  what you  have to  say. Demon  Prince, then  be
gone."

    Mosiah, pressing close with  the rest of  the crowd, saw  Garald's
face flush in  anger and the  Cardinal lay a  restraining hand on  the
Princes arm.

    "Very well," Garald said, his  lips tightening grimly, and a  hush
fell over those standing  near; a hush broken  by blasts of  exploding
rock or the screams  of the injured.  "1 asked to  talk to you  alone,
Xavier, because I did not want to start a stampede."

    Glancing at  those standing  near, the  Prince continued  gravely,
"But your people are too well trained for that. You've got to evacuate
this position, Emperor, and you mast do so now!"

    Xavier shook his  head. "This is  your fault, you  know," he  said
softly. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at the Pnnce with
flat, cold eyes. "You  had him, and  you let him .  e°'\ "Let who  go?
What are you  talking about?" Garald  demanded in apparent  confusion,
though it was  obvious to  Mosiah that  the Prince  knew exactly  what
Xavier meant. " Joram, of course. Now you pay the piper."

    "Joram! Have you gone mad? Joram is dead!" Mosiah heard the slight
tremor in Garald s voice as he spoke those last words, and undoubtedly
The DKarn-Duuk did too, for he smiled bitterly and, shrugging,  turned
away.

    126 WEIS AND  HICK MAN  Exasperated by the  mans coolness,  Garald
glared at  the •warlocks  back in  anger and  frustration. The  ground
shook. Every few  minutes, someone else  died in the  compound as  the
deadly eyes of the monsters pierced another victim. The Prince pointed
toward the north.

    "Xavier, listen!  There are  twenty or  thirty of  those  monsters
coming straight for this place! You  don't stand a chance! You ve  got
to get your people out of here!"

    The magi stared at each other. Mosiah sucked in his breath, trying
to visualize thirty of the iron creatures.

    "You can't fight them!" Garald  shouted, and his cry echoed  among
the crowd.

    "We can't fight them! We must flee!"

    "Open the Corridors!"

    The panic Garald had feared burst into flame, its Fires fed by the
flashing beams of killing light. Mosiah, like everyone around him, nad
one clear, coherent  thought in  his mind: "Escape!"  when a  Corridor
opened near him, he dove for it, fighting anyone who stood in his way.
The magi turned on each other, fear driving them mad as they struggled
to reach the safety of the Corridors, which only a few could enter  at
one time.

    An enraged shriek rose above the clamor.

    "Stop!" Xavier screamed in fury. "Seal the Corridors, you Tbon-it\
Do you hear me? Seal the Corridors by my command! No one Is to leave!"

    Mosiah caught a quick glimpse  of several pale catalysts,  peering
out from the magical  Corridors. Their eyes  wide and frightened,  the
Tbon-li obeyed  the Emperor  instantly. The  gaping Corridors  slammed
shut, leaving people  stranded in the  compound, wailing  frantically,
some even scrabbling at the empty air with their fingers,  endeavoring
to force the Corridors back open. Others stood as Mosiah stood - numb,
appalled.

    "You're insane,  Xavier!"  Garald  cried.  Breaking  free  of  the
restraining hands of the Cardinal, the Prince lunged at the Emperor  -
whether with the intention  of shaking sense into  him or choking  the
life out of him, no one knew, perhaps not even the Prince himself.

    Xavier, watching him  with a  sneer, raised his  hand, and  Garald
slammed up  against  a  wall  of  ice.  Dazed,  the  Prince  staggered
backward, the Cardinal hurrying to help him.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  127  "Why do  you run,  fools?"  Xavier
shouted and his  voice - amplified  by magic -  rose above the  chaos.
"Why put it off?  Die quickly, here  and now. This is  the end of  the
world!" Extending  his crimson  robed arms,  he slowly  turned a  full
circle within his cold,  glistening barrier. His  eyes stared up  into
the heavens. "The Prophecy is fulfilled!"

    "No, uncle,"  came  a  voice  in  answer.  "The  Prophecy  is  not
fulfilled. I have come to stop it."

    16 The  Destruction Of  TheWorid o  ^b^Y (  ice, when  Garald  was
young, he had  been caught  in an open  field during  a weather  fight
between rival groups of Sif-Hanar,  A lightning bolt struck near  him;
so close that  Garald smelled  it sizzle on  the air.  He could  still
remember quite clearly the dazzling, paralyzing thrill surging through
him, the concussion of  thunder that slammed into  him a split  second
after, knocking the  very breath from  his body "The  Prophecy is  not
fulfilled. ! have come to stop it,"

    The voice that spoke those words had the effect of that  lightning
bolt on him. Its rich timbre- familiar, yet different - sent a  thrill
through him that tingled in his blood; his entire being seemed to glow
with a dreadful, powerful aura.

    "Joram!" he cried, turning.

    As the voice was familiar -yet  wasn't - so Garald recognized  the
man who stood before him-yet didn't.

    Thick, luxuriant  black hair  glistened  in the  sunlight.  Garald
remembered that hair, falling  in long, tangled  curls TRIUMPH OP  THE
DARK§WORD 129 around the face  of an eighteen-year-old youth. But  now
the black curls  were cut short,  worn shoulder-length, combed  smooth
and sleek. A shock  of pure white hair  sprang from the brow,  framing
the left side of the man's face.

    The face itself was  familiar in its  dark, finely carved  beauty.
But here and there  the Master Hand wielding  the chisel had  slipped,
marring  the  visage  with  lines  of  grief,  age,  and  a   strange,
undefinable sorrow. The mans face was so changed, in fact, that if  it
hadn't been  for  the  eyes,  Garald  would  have  doubted  his  first
impression. But he  knew those  eyes. The  eyes were  Joram s.  Garald
could see the fire of the forge smolder in them still - glowing  coals
of pride, bitterness, and anger.

    Prince Garald recognized something else as well - the scabbard the
man wore  strapped  about his  body;  the  scabbard that  had  been  a
present, his present to Joram. Carried in that scabbard, Garald  knew,
was the Darksword.

    "Joram?" the Prince repeated softly, staring at the man dressed in
plain, white robes who stood in the center of the compound.

    Cardinal Radisovik fell to his knees.

    "Yes, Cardinal," Xavier sneered. "Pray to the Almin for His mercy.
The Prophecy is fulfilled. The end of the world is come." With a  wave
of his hand, he  dispelled the ice shield  around him, then,  striding
ahead, he pointed his  finger at the man.  "And this demon brings  it!
Kill him! Kill -"

    A flash of blinding light, and  the Emperors words broke off in  a
horrible, gurgling  sound.  Through  an afterimage  of  red  streaking
across his vision, Garald  saw The DKarn-Duuk  pitch forward onto  his
face, felled like a lightning-struck tree.

    Stunned, shocked, no one dared move or speak.

    One of  the Duuk-Ua.  ritk, coming  to her  senses, knelt  swiftly
beside her Emperor. Turning over the body, she started to call for the
TbcQara. The words died on her lips.

    A charred and blackened hole -a horrible mockery of what had  once
been  the  man's  mouth-was  burned  completely  through  the   skull.
Hurriedly the witch covered the  gruesome wound, drawing the red  hood
of Xavier s robe over what was left of the face.

    130 WEIS AND H1CKMAN But it was  too late. Those who had seen  the
ghastly sight  began  to mill  around  in  a frenay  of  terror,  some
dropping to the ground,  others flying up into  the air, still  others
shrieking for the Corridors to open. The Emperors last words-"the  end
of the world" -were being cried  out in an anthem of hopelessness  and
despair.

    Xaviers bodyguards  sprang toward  the white-robed  man.  Reaching
behind his back,  he drew the  Darksword and held  it before him.  The
weapon began to glow with a blue light.

    "Stop!" Garald  cried out.  The warlocks  reluctantly halted.  The
Prince stared at the corpse, then  looked back at the man holding  the
blue-flaming sword.

    "Listen to me!" the  man said, his eyes  intent upon the  menacing
Duuk-tearith. "You will all  be dead, just like  my uncle, unless  you
act at  once."  Holding  the  sword poised  between  himself  and  the
Duuk-lwiritb, he took a step nearer the Prince.

    "Don't come any  closer!" Garald  cried out, raising  his hand  as
though to ward off a spirit from the grave. "Was Xavier right? Are you
a demon? Did you bring this destruction down upon us?"

    "You brought it on yourselves," the man answered grimly.

    Reaching out  suddenly with  his  left hand,  he grasped  hold  of
Garald's arm.  The Prince  gasped,  flinching at  the touch,  and  the
Duuk-baritb instantly closed on  the man. His  sword flared, and  they
halted  again  uncertainly.  They   could  feel  the   magic-absorbing
Darksword draining the Life, their magical powers seeping out of them.

    The man squeezed the Princes  arm tightly, painfully. "I am  flesh
and blood! I have been Beyond and  I have returned. I know this  enemy
and how to fight  it! You must  listen to me and  follow my orders  or
this tviU. be the end, as my uncle said!"

    Garald stared at the hand clutching his arm, doubting his  senses,
yet knowing he felt the touch of a living person. "Where have you come
from?" he asked in a hollow voice. "Who is this enemy? Who are you?"

    "There is no time for questions!" the man cried impatiently.  "The
giant has stopped the tanks for the moment, but the wretched thing  is
dead now and the enemy is  moving swiftly. Within minutes, there  will
be no one left alive in  this TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 757  fortress!"
Suddenly, he thrust  the Darksword  back into its  sheath. "Look,"  he
said, spreading his  arms wide,  "I am unarmed-your  prisoner, if  you
choose."

    As the Duuk-tearitb sprang forward, a blast shook the ground.

    "The stone wall is breached!"  someone shouted. "We can see  them!
"They are coming."

    "Death crawls. . . ." Garald murmured.

    Tears of frustration and anger and fear blurred the vision of  the
corpse lying at his feet. Confused, shaken, horrified, scared, he  put
his hand to his eyes to  hide them, cursing himself for his  weakness,
knowing he must not give  way. Another explosion rocked the  fortress.
The people cried out to the Prince, begging him to save them. But  how
could he? He was as lost and desperate as they. . . .

    Near him, he could  hear the Cardinal, praying  to the Almin.  Was
this Joram? Was-this salvation or destruction?

    Did it matter. . . .

    "Let him  go!" he  ordered the  warlocks finally.  Drawing a  deep
breath, he turned  to face  the white-robed  man. "Very  well, I  will
listen to you, whoever you are," he said harshly. "What do you say  we
should do?"

    "Gather the magi and their catalysts together. No, Cardinal, there
is no time for that,"  the man said to  Radisovik, who looked up  from
where he was kneeling beside the  Emperors body. "The living need  you
now, not the dead. It will take you and all of the catalysts to  grant
the magi Life enough to cast this  spell. We must build a wall of  ice
around this entire complex, and we must do it without expending all of
our magical energy."

    "Ice?" Garald  stared  at  him  incredulously.  "I've  seen  those
creatures shatter rock with their light beams! Ice - "

    "Do  as  I  say!"  the  man  commanded,  his  fist  clenched,  the
imperious, arrogant voice ringing like a hammer blow through the chaos
around him. Then, suddenly, the stern face relaxed. "Do as I say, Your
Grace," he amended, a dark half-smile twisting his lips.

    A vision came to  Garald, a vision from  long ago, himself and  an
arrogant, hot-tempered youth. . . .

    "Fine words!" Joram  retorted. "Butyou're quick  enough to Jap  up
'Your Grace'  and 'Your  Highness! '  I  don't see  you 132  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN dressed in the coarse rotes of the Field Magi. I don't see you
rising at dawn  and spending your  days grubbing in  the fields  until
your very  soul starts  to shrivel  like  the weeds  you touch!  "  He
pointed at the Prince. "You 're a wonderful talker! You and your fancy
clothes and bright swords, silk tents and bodyguards! /- " Choking  on
his anger, Joram turned and began to walk away.

    Garald caught hold  of him  by the shoulder,  spinning him  around
with his strong hand.  Joram shook free, his  face distorted by  rage,
and struck back, swinging  his fist wildly.  The Prince countered  the
blow with ease, catching it on his forearm and, with practiced  skill,
forced the young man  to his knees on  the ground. Joram struggled  to
rise.

    "I can keep you here with a spoken word of magic!" Garald  hissed,
his arms holding the young man in a strong grip.

    "Damn you, you  - !" Joram  swore, spitting filth.  *You and  your
magic! If I had my sword, I'd-" He looked around for it, feverishly.

    "I'll give you your sword," the Prince said grimly. "Then you  can
do what you will.  But first, you will  listen to me. More  important,
you will listen  to the voice  of your own  soul! It is  true that  in
order to do my  work in this life,  I must dress and  act in a  manner
befitting my station. Yes, I wear fancy clothes and bathe and comb  my
hair, and I'm going  to see to  it that you do  these things, too,  be
fore you go  to Mer-ilon.  Otherwise you will  be laughed  out of  the
city. Why? Because, unfortunately, people judge by appearance. As  for
my title, people call me 'milord'and "Your Grace 'as a mark of respect
for my station.  But I  hope it is  a remark  of respect for  me as  a
person as well. Why do you think  I don't force you to do it?  Because
it is empty for you. \bu don't respect anybody, Joram. You don't  care
for anybody. Least of all yourself!. .."

    "My god!" Garald whispered. "It can't be! It can't. . . ."

    "^bu ore Joram!" Mosiah shoved his way through the crowd,  staring
at the  white-robed  figure with  wide  eyes. "For  once,  Simian  was
telling the truth! It must be the end of the world," he muttered.

    "Trust me, \bur Grace. Give the order!" the man urged.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD /JJ Garald tried to study the mans  face,
but he  found  it too  painful  and unnerving  to  look at  for  long.
Averting his gaze,  he glanced  at the  pale and  shaken Mosiah,  then
silently interrogated the Cardinal, who could only shrug and raise his
eyes heavenward.

    Faith in the Almin? Well and good, but what he needed was faith in
himself, in his instincts.

    "Very well," Garald  said suddenly, with  a sigh. "Mosiah,  spread
the word. We are going to encompass this fortress in a wall of ice."

    Mosiah hesitated one  last moment  to look at  the man  - who  was
regarding him  with an  expression of  sadness and  regret -  then  he
dazedly stumbled off to carry out his orders.

    But  it  seemed  it  might  be  too  late.  The  magi  -even   the
well-disciplined members  of the  Dttuk-boritb  and The  DKarn-Duuk  -
appeared  too  disorganized  to  come  together.  Those  who  had  not
succumbed to panic were acting on  their own, fighting as they'd  been
taught to fight. Floating above the  wall, they were casting balls  of
flame at the creatures. The fire had  no effect on the iron scales  of
the monsters. It  did nothing  except call attention  to the  warlocks
themselves. The  blind  eyes  turned in  their  direction,  the  beams
flared, and the magi fluttered to the ground like dead leaves.

    Others were working  frantically, trying to  repair the breach  in
the stone wall.  Summoning the rock  up from the  earth, they  hastily
shaped it  to fit  the hole.  But  the creatures  of iron  blew  apart
sections of wall faster then the  magi could shape it, and soon  those
standing near  the  wall  fled  before  the  coming  of  the  humming,
foul-breathed monsters.

    One person acted on Garald s instructions. Having been the one who
captured Joram in die Grove of Meriyn,  the witch - head of the  Order
of Duuk-tjoritb - recognized him immediately. When Joram put away  the
Darksword, the witch was able,  by using the mind-searching skills  of
her kind, to probe the man's mind. Though the witch understood  little
of what she saw there, she  learned enough about the creatures in  the
brief span of time she shared Joram's thoughts to comprehend his plan.

    Moving through  the crowd,  speaking  calmly and  forcefully,  the
witch gathered around her the members  of die and any others who  were
standing nearby. All 134 WEIS AND H1CKMAN the magi obeyed her  without
question; some because they were accustomed to doing her bidding, most
because she was authority,  a focal point of  reality in a  horrifying
nightdream. The  witch organized  the  catalysts and,  mumbling  their
prayers, the Priests drew the Life from the world around them, sending
it arcing into the bodies of  the warlocks, the witches, the  wizards,
even those few sorcerers who, like Mosiah, had strayed here from their
disbanded or  destroyed units.  Concentrating  their thoughts  upon  a
single spell, the magi caused a wall of ice to rise, shimmering,  into
the air, completely surrounding the fortress.

    Almost instantly, the  lethal beams of  light ceased. The  killing
stopped.

    The wizards stared in amazement. The frosty breath of the ice  was
visible in  the warm  air. Swirling  about the  feet of  die magi,  it
cooled their fevered blood,  bringing calm and  order where there  had
been only moments before panic and chaos. Silence fell upon the  crowd
inside the fortress, as  they blinked, half-blinded,  at the ice  wall
gleaming in the sunlight.

    A  tight  beam  shot  through   the  ice,  but  it  was   aimless,
directionless. The  creatures  had  no targets  now,  apparently,  and
though they continued to fire the light at the ice, most of the  beams
passed harmlessly through empty air.

    "It worked," said Gar aid, mystified. "But . . . how? Why?"

    "The tanks - the 'creatures' as  you call them - kill by  focusing
their laser weapons - their 'eye'-on anything that moves or gives  off
heat," the white-robed man replied. "Using that, they lock onto  their
targets. Now they can no  longer sense the body  heat of those in  the
fortress."

    Shading his eyes against the glare of the reflected sunlight,  the
Prince peered through the ice at the creatures.

    "So we are safe." He let out his breath in a sigh.

    "Only for the moment,"  the man said grimly.  "This will not  stop
them, Your Grace. It wall merely slow them down."

    "It . will give  us time enough to  contact the Thon-li and  force
them to open the Corridors  again," Garald stated briskly. "Tfou  have
saved us! We will begin the retreat -"

    "No,  Your  Grace."  The  man   caught  hold  of  Garald's   torn,
bloodstained shirt as the Prince was starting to move away.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 135  "You cannot retreat,  not yet.  You
must fight. My uncle  was right about one  thing, there is no  escape,
nowhere to run. If you don't stop  them here, they will take over  the
world."

    "Fight them? How? It is impossible!"

    Garald's gaze returned to the  creatures. Evidently at a loss  for
coping with this  new and  unexpected situation, several  of the  iron
monsters had come together and were focusing their light beams on  the
ice, intent on  melting it  away. This had  little effect  - the  magi
simply used their magic to replace it. Other creatures kept up  random
Tiring, occasionally cutting down a victim but generally doing  little
harm. The shining bodies  of the strange humans  could be seen  moving
among the creatures now, keeping close to them as if for protection.

    But Garald knew  his people  couldn't maintain  their defense  for
long. Already, the magi were growing weak, the Life needed to keep the
huge wall of ice in existence was slowly being drained off. When their
strength gave out, they would be at the mercy of the creatures of iron
and the metal-skinned humans.

    "Our magic is  helpless against them!"  Garald persisted.  "You've
seen that - "

    "Only  because  you  do  not  know  them,  \bur  Grace!"  the  man
interrupted impatiently. "You don't know how to fight them!"

    "Then you must tell me what is  going on! I need to know before  I
can make this decision."

    The man clenched his fist in frustration, and Garald was  strongly
reminded of the  impatient, arrogant youth.  The man checked  himself,
however, swallowing  hot  words.  Fighting some  internal  battle  for
control, he rubbed his fingers over the leather that crisscrossed  his
chest, perhaps feeling a soothing comfort in the touch. When he spoke,
his voice was calm.

    "Look into my face."

    Reluctantly, the Prince did as he was asked. Staring into the face
that he knew yet  didn't know, he realized  that he had been  avoiding
looking at this man, avoiding  dealing with the inexplicable,  fearful
change.

    "Who am I? Say ray name."

    136 WEIS AND HICKMAN  Garald tried to withdraw  his gaze, but  the
brown eyes held him fast. "Joram," he said at last, reluctantly.  "You
are Joram," he repeated again.

    "How long is it since I left this world?" Joram asked softly.

    "A year," Garald faltered.

    Reality struck a telling blow. He was forced to confront the  fact
that only a few  hundred days before he  had walked in the  wilderness
with a youth. Now he faced a man as old or older than himself.

    "I don't understand!" he cried, frightened.

    "Ten years have passed for me," answered Joram. "There is not time
enough for me to explain everything. If I do not survive this  battle,
seek out Father Saryon, who is in Mer-ilon. I have left in his keeping
a record of my life. What I am  going to tell you now you must  accept
on faith. If not faith in the thankless boy you knew and helped"-Joram
paused, sighing-"then faith in what I  thought would be my final  act:
the renunciation  of this  sword I  created, the  voluntary walk  into
death."

    Joram's face was anguished as he  spoke; the hand closed over  the
leather straps, pressing them into his heart.

    Garald recalled all that he had  heard of the final, terrible  day
in Joram's life on  this world, and his  last suspicions vanished.  He
tried to say something to this  effect, but the words would not  come.
Joram saw and understood, removing the need for words by reaching  out
and grasping hold of the Princes hand.

    "I walked into what  I thought was death,  but there is not  death
Beyond, Your Grace," Joram continued  quietly. "There is life! In  our
conceit, we imagined ourselves  safe, protected from  the rest of  the
universe by our magical Border. When we left the ancient world to come
to this one, we thought - we hoped - the Old World would forget us  as
we forgot them."

    Joram looked away, staring beyond the wall of ice into realms that
had been revealed to  his eyes alone. "They  did not forget," he  said
softly. "They missed the magic and they searched for it, knowing  that
somewhere it still lived." Joram smiled,  but it was a dark smile  and
it sent a  shiver through Garald.  "I said before  that there was  not
death Beyond.  I was  TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  137 wrong.  Actually,
there is nothing out there except Death. Those worlds that lie  Beyond
are populated by  the Dead. Some  Life, some magic  exists, but it  is
scattered throughout the universe like atoms in deep space."

    "Atoms . .  . deep  space." The words  were strange,  meaningless.
Garald's gaze turned, like Joram s, to the heavens. His confusion  was
not dispelled, but rather  was growing, as was  his fear. The  ancient
world, the world they had fled  in terror, was searching for them?  He
almost expected to see faces leering at him from the cloudless sky.

    "I am sorry. I know you  don't understand." Joram s gaze  returned
to Garald and it was pleading in  its intensity. "What can I say?"  He
gripped the  Prince's  hand harder,  as  though he  could  communicate
through touch what he was failing  to communicate with words. "They  -
the Dead, if you will  - " there was a  bitter irony in Joram's  voice
that made Garald wince  -"call this an  'expeditionary' force. It  has
been sent to  investigate this world,  to conquer and  subdue it,  and
prepare the way for occupation."

    "What?" Gerald  repeated,  stunned. Conquer,  subdue,  occupation:
these were words he knew, he understood. He forced himself to  attend,
urging his brain to let loose of  its grasp of what he had known  this
morning as reality. "You  say, /Ary - the  Dead"-he stumbled over  the
word, his mind still stubbornly  disbelieving, although all he had  to
do was look  out beyond the  wall of ice  to see the  evidence of  his
senses - "want to conquer us? Why? What then?"

    Removing his hand from that of his friend, Joram thrust it in  the
sleeves of his robes. The temperature inside the icebound fortress was
gradually falling, growing colder and colder.

    "They plan to destroy  the barriers, release  the magic back  into
the universe," he replied. "They will take you prisoner and carry  you
back to their worlds."

    "But if such  is their  object," argued Garald,  with the  strange
sensation that he was  debating a point in  a meaningless dream,  "why
are they  killing everyone  they encounter,  including civilians?"  He
gestured. "They're not taking prisoners!  Or, if they are," he  added,
remembering Radisoviks observation, "they're only taking catalysts!"

    138 WEIS AND HICKMAN "Are they?" Joram appeared startled, his gaze
shifting swiftly to Garald.

    "Yes! I saw - the nobles,  their wives, their children, riding  in
their glittering carriages, coming with  their wine and their  lunches
to watch a game.  These creatures murdered  them!" Once again,  Garald
was turning over that body, seeing the grinning face of the  skeleton.
"Is this how  they fight  in Beyond?"  he demanded  angrily. "Do  they
slaughter the helpless?"

    "No," said  Joram, appearing  grave and  troubled. "They  are  not
savage like the centaur. They do not love to kill. They are  soldiers.
They have rules  of warfare,  handed down through  centuries. I  don't
understand. They  wanted prisoners."  He  paused, his  face  darkened.
"Unless. . . ." He did not continue.

    Garald shook his head. "Make some sense of it for me, Joram."

    "I wish I could!"  It was a murmur,  spoken almost to himself.  "I
thought I knew them. Yet I have  proof now that they betrayed me.  Are
they capable of more . . . ?"

    Garald looked at  him intently,  hearing again  the old,  familiar
bitterness in Joram s tone and now something else as well -an echo  of
pain and loss.

    "All the more reason we must fight them," Joram said suddenly, his
voice as cold as the chill breath blowing from the ice wall. "We  must
show them  that  they will  not  take this  world  as easily  as  they
anticipated. We must make  them fear us so  that when they leave  they
will never return."

    "But what will be our weapons?" Garald asked helplessly. "Ice?"

    "Ice, fire, air. The magic, my  friend," Joram said. "Life -  Life
will be our weapon . . . and Death."

    Reaching behind  him, he  drew the  Darksword from  its  scabbard.
"Longyears have passed since  I made this. Yet  I've often dreamed  of
that night -the night in the  blacksmiths when I forged the metal  and
Saryon gave it Life." Joram turned  the sword, studying it. His  man's
hand fit it  better than  had the  boys, but  it was  still heavy  and
awkward and  unbalanced, difficult  to wield.  "Do you  remember?"  he
asked Garald, the half-smile touching his lips, "the day we TRIUMPH OF
THE DARKSWORD 139 met? When I attacked you in the glade? You said this
sword was the ugliest of its kind you had ever seen."

    Joram s gaze went to  the sword the Prince  wore at his side.  The
sun sparkled  off  the ornately  carved  hilt of  shining  silver.  By
contrast, it  did  not  even  flicker  in  the  beaten  metal  of  the
Darksword. He sighed.

    "Though I didn't know  about the Prophecy, I  knew I was  bringing
something evil into  the world with  this sword. Saryon  knew it -  he
warned me to destroy it, before it destroyed me. I've thought about it
since then, and  I've come  to understand that  I wasn't  the one  who
brought the evtl into  the world with the  sword." He gazed down  upon
the weapon, running his fingers  over the crude, misshapen hilt.  "The
sword « the evil in the world."

    "Then why keep it?" Garald glanced at it, shuddering.

    "Because, like any sword, it cuts two ways," Joram replied.  "Now,
the Almin willing,  I can  use it  to save  us. Will  you fight.  Your
Grace?"

    Still the Prince hesitated. "Why are you doing this for us, Joram?
If, as you say, we brought this fate upon ourselves, why do you  care?
After what we did to you - "

    "You call me Dead! …" Joram murmured, repeating the last words  he
had said before he walked into Beyond.  "But it is you who have  died.
It is this world that is dead."

    He stared at the sword, dark and unlovely in his hand.

    "I was  gone ten  years. I  came back,  hoping to  find the  world
changed, intending to -  " He stopped  abruptly, scowling. "But  never
mind that. It isn't important now.  Suffice it to say that 1  returned
to find that you - this world - had not changed. In an effort to  gain
power, you had tortured and tormented a helpless being. I abandoned my
project,  my  hopes,  and  walked  the  land  in  bitterness,   seeing
everywhere the signs of tyranny, injustice.

    "In my anger, I planned to return to Beyond when I discovered that
it, too, had betrayed me." The dark half-smile twisted his lip. "I had
no world,  it seemed.  I was  willing to  leave you,  alt of  you"-his
bjtter glance included the creatures of iron attacking the wall of ice
- "to your fate, little caring whether either of you won or lost.

    140 WEIS AND H1CKMAN "Then a man, a very wise man, reminded me  of
something I had  forgotten. 'It  is easier to  hate than  to love.  '"
Joram fell silent, his gaze going to the sparkling wall of ice, to the
trees, the surrounding hills, the blue sky, the fiery sun. "I realized
that this world is my home. These people are my people. And  therefore
I cannot  speak of  it in  the second  person. I  say 'you'  tormented
Saryon, but I should say  T tormented that good  man. Had it not  been
for me, he would not have suffered."

    Absently, Joram ran  his fingers through  his dark, tangled  hair.
"And there is  one other  reason," he said,  an inexpressible  sadness
shadowing his  face. "Not  a  day passed  during  those ten  years  in
another world that I didn't dream of the beauty of Merilon."

    He looked quizzically  at Garald. "It  is easier to  hate than  to
love. I've never  done anything  the easy way.  Do we  fight for  this
world . . . Tfour Grace?"

    "We fight," said the Prince. "And call me Garald," he added with a
wry smile.  "I still  hear  those words  'Your  Grace' stick  in  your
throat."

    The Ai>gel Of Death [hey said  afterward - those [that survived  -
that they were led into battle by the Angel of Death.

    Confused rumors  about  Joram  began  to  spread  among  the  magi
fighting for their  lives inside the  fortress of stone  and ice.  Few
knew his true history - Mosiah, Garald, Radisovik, and the witch. Many
more knew fragments of  it, however, and it  was these fragments  that
were hastily  whispered to  companions during  the brief  lull in  the
battle following the raising of the ice wall. Emperor Xavier had  said
enough prior to his  death to enable people  to piece these  fragments
together as they might have  a broken stone statue. Unfortunately,  it
was like putting together a statue  that they had never seen whole  in
the first place.

    Several of the catalysts fighting in the fortress had been present
at the Judgment  of Joram.  Those who  had been  standing near  Prince
Garald heard  him  pronounce that  ;  name, and  they  remembered  it.
Xaviers words. The Prophecy 142 WEIS AND HICKMAN u> fulfilled. The end
of the  worQ  u come,  were  repeated in  hushed  tones, as  was  each
catalysts version of what had occurred that dreadful day on the  beach
when they had all witnessed this man - this Joram - step into Beyond.

    "He is Dead. . . ."

    "He carries a  sword of darkness  that sucks the  life out of  its
victims. …"

    "He murdered  countless numbers,  but  only the  wicked, or  so  I
heard. He was falsely accused and now  he has come back from the  dead
to seek his revenge. . . ,"

    "Xavier fell at his feet! You saw it! What more proof do you want?
The old Emperor dropped out  of sight opportunely for The  DKarn-Duuk,
didn't he? What does it matter who hears me now? Xavier's dead now and
I'll wager he won't come back. . . ."

    "The Prophecy? I heard a tale once that had to do with a Prophecy,
something about the  old wizard,  Merlyn, and  a king  with a  shining
sword that would come back to his land and save them in their hour  of
need. . . ."

    A sword  Joram bore,  but it  did not  shine. When  he called  for
battle and the people gathered around him, it seemed to those watching
that he held a fragment of the  night in his hands. His face was  dark
and unyielding as  the metal of  the weapon he  carried. There was  no
call to glory in his words or the grim tone in which they were spoken.

    "This will not be a day celebrated in legend and song. If we fail,
there will be no more songs. . . ."

    He was dressed in the white robes of those who escort the dead  to
their final rest - the white robes  of a pallbearer. The magi and  the
catalysts who heard  his words that  day knew that  they went  forward
without hope, even as he had gone forward into Beyond.

    "You are  fighting an  enemy who  is not  of this  world. You  are
fighting an enemy who is  Dead, an enemy who  can deal death with  the
swiftness of a lightning bolt. Your  only advantage is your Life.  Use
it wisely, for when it is gone you will be at their mercy."

    When Jorams voice ceased, there  were no cheers. Silence  shrouded
the magi,  silence broken  only  by the  hissing  of the  light  beams
cutting through the ice and the fearsome TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  143
rumblings of the  creatures of  iron. When  the magi  went forth  into
battle, they went in silence.

    According to Jorams orders, the wall of ice came down. Spells  had
to be cast, and the wall was draining the Life from the magi and their
catalysts. Each  warlock, witch,  and wizard  from that  point on  was
responsible for his  or her own  means of protection  from the  deadly
light beams.

    Acting on Jorams advice, some became invisible. Though this  would
not protect them from death should  a beam strike them, he said,  they
were not  obvious targets  and  they could  sneak  up upon  the  enemy
unobserved. Others protected themselves  from the heat-seeking  "eyes"
of the monsters by surrounding themselves with their own ice walls  or
causing their  body temperatures  to  drop drastically.  Still  others
turned themselves  into  were-animals, fearsome  beasts  who  attacked
their prey before the victims knew what was upon them.

    As in the ancient  days, catalysts were  changed into familiars  -
small animals  who traveled  with the  magi, able  to hide  easily  in
bushes or the limbs of trees or beneath rocks.

    Using the Corridors that Prince Garald forced the Tkon-ti to open,
the magi took the field, dividing up, spreading out, fighting in small
groups. There  had  not been  time  to plan  complex  strategy.  Joram
ordered hit-and-run tactics designed to confuse the enemy and keep him
off-guard. Once on the field of battle, he and Prince Garald  traveled
the Corridors, going from  group to group, advising  them on the  best
means of fighting.

    Joram showed  the Duuk-Uarlth  how to  cast lightning  so that  it
would kill  the  creatures  of  iron, not  strike  their  iron  scales
harmlessly as it had done before.

    "See that part of the creature  where the head is attached to  the
body? Like the soft underbelly of the dragon, that is the place  where
it is most vulnerable. Cast the lightning bolts there, not against the
scales."

    The warlocks did  so and were  astounded to see  the creatures  of
iron explode, catch fire, and burn.

    "Use the  Green  Venom spell,"  Joram  counseled the  witch.  "The
creatures have a  vulnerable spot on  top of their  heads. Cover  that
with the poisonous liquid and watch."

    144 WEIS AND HICKMAN  Though this seemed absurd  - after all,  the
poison affected living  flesh, not metal  - the witch  did as she  was
ordered. A  gesture of  her delicate  hand caused  the green,  burning
liquid to coat the top  of the creature of iron  as it would coat  the
skin of a human victim.  To her amazement, the  witch saw the head  of
the creature burst open. Screaming  in pain, the strange humans  flung
themselves out of it,  their skin covered with  the green poison  that
had apparently seeped through the top of the creatures head,  dripping
on the humans concealed inside.

    At Joram's command, the druids sent the forest into battle.  Giant
oak trees with the strength  born of centuries heaved themselves  from
the ground and  lumbered forward to  the attack. Catching  one of  the
creatures of iron,  their huge  roots wrapped around  it, cracking  it
like one of their own acorns.  The stone shapers caused the ground  to
gape beneath the iron  monsters, swallow them  whole, then close  over
them, burying their enemy inside.  The Sif-Hanar called down rain  and
hail upon their enemy, plunged him  into night, then blinded him  with
daylight.

    "When you fight the metal-skinned humans, remember that the  metal
is not skin," Joram told his people.  "It is a type of armor, such  as
that worn by the knights in the  old House Magi tales. There are  gaps
in this armor-the largest between the neck and the helmet."

    Mosiah, changing into a werewolf,  knocked % strange human to  the
ground and sank his sharp teeth into the unprotected throat. With  one
blow of a massive paw, a were-bear caved in a helmet. A were-tlger dug
her claws through the silver skin, shredding and mauling.

    'These humans know little of magic. They are frightened of it. Use
their fear against them, particularly their subconscious fears,  which
are similar to our own," Joram instructed.

    Illusionists created gigantic tarantulas that dropped down out  of
the trees, their  hairy legs  twitching, their  many-faceted red  eyes
burning like  flame.  Blades of  grass  turned into  swaying,  hissing
cobras. Skeletons clutching pale  swords in their  bony hands rose  up
out of the ground.

    "Call upon the creatures of our world to come to our aid."

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 145  A force of  centaurs was  summoned.
Consumed by the wild excitement of bloodlust, they attacked and killed
the strange humans,  then rent  the bodies  limb from  limb and  began
feasting on their victims' raw, mangled flesh.

    Dragons swooped down'out  of the skies,  bringing with them  flame
and darkness. Basilisks and cockatrice used their own lethal stares to
freeze the deadly eyes of the creatures of iron. The serpentlike  tail
of a chimera  swept the  strange humans to  destruction. The  snapping
heads of the hydra caught up its victims and devoured them whole.

    Perhaps the oddest happening on the  field of battle that day  was
the report by several wizards of  seeing a ring of mushrooms  suddenly
appear in a glade. A band of the enemy, charging into the ring,  found
that they  could not  get out.  One by  one, the  strange humans  were
sucked down  into the  ground.  The wizards  reported, not  without  a
shudder, that the  last sounds that  could be heard  were the  raucous
laughter and gibbering voices of the faeriefolk. . . .

    When their attack began in the morning, the creatures of iron must
have been certain of victory. By  late afternoon, the magi had  turned
the tide.  But  they had  not  managed to  stop  the flood.  The  iron
monsters kept coming, the armies of silver-skinned humans  threatening
to drown  the beleaguered  wizards  in sheer  numbers. The  magi  were
weakening, their  Life draining  from them,  their catalysts  dropping
insensible. |" The creatures  of iron rolled on  without the need  for
rest or  , s  food, crawling  over the  land, breathing  their  poison
fumes, casting their deadly light beams.

    It was then that the miracle occurred, according to later tellings
and retellings of this great battle.  The Angel of Death himself  took
the field, or so  it was said.  In his hands, he  •wielded a sword  of
death, and it was this sword that eventually brought the enemy to  its
knees.

    In actuality, no one was more astounded by what happened than  the
Angel of Death himself, but that part of the story was never told,  it
being known only to Joram and Prince Garald.

    The two had just finished destroying one of the iron monsters when
their position was overrun by a  squadron of the 146 WEIS AND  HICKMAN
strange humans. Garald's magic  was nearly gone.  Drained of Life,  he
drew his sword and faced his enemy with grim hopelessness, knowing  he
could  never   survive  the   beams  of   deadly  tight   that   these
silver-skinned humans were capable of snooting from the palms of their
hands. Jo ram, too, drew his sword, prepared to die beside his friend.
He, too, knew that to fight this  enemy with a sword was a  ludicrous,
futile gesture. They would  be dead within  seconds, without even  the
chance to strike back. But, at  least, they would die with weapons  in
their hands. . . .

    As Joram  drew the  Darksword, however,  the metal  began to  glow
blue-white, burning brighter and brighter  in his hands. He stared  at
it in wonder. The only time he had seen the sword flame like this  was
at the Judgment, when it had drawn  the Life cast by the catalysts  to
the Executioner into  itself. It  was reacting the  same way,  drawing
Life from something around it. But from what? Certainly not the  enemy
who were as  Dead as Joram  himself. There were  no catalysts.  Prince
Garald had ordered Radisovik  to stay behind with  the injured in  the
fortress. Whose Life was it draining?

    A silver-skinned human raised his  hand, aimed his deadly beam  at
Joram and Garald, and fired.

    The beam of light streaked from  the Human's palm, but it did  not
strike its target. The light streamed into the metal of the Darksword,
causing it to glow with a radiance so bright that Joram could not  see
for the  blinding light.  The  sword vibrated  in his  hand,  electric
shocks jolted through his body.  He had all he  could do to hold  onto
the weapon, much less try to wield it. He couldn't see a thing, and it
was Garald who told him later that the strange humans, shielding their
eyes, tried everything in their power to fire the light beams at their
victims. It proved impossible.

    The Darksword sucked up the energy from the weapons of the Dead as
it sucked the Life  from the world.  The beams of  light died and  the
Darksword lived, flaring  fiercely and  humming with  an eerie  sound.
Throwing down their  useless weapons,  the strange  humans turned  and
ran.

    Those who witnessed that battle from a distance spread the  report
that the Angel of Death possessed the  power to put out the sun if  he
chose.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 147 o o , When night - true night -  came
to Thimhallan at last, the  battle was over. The  magi had won, or  at
least it seemed so. The creatures  of iron and the strange humans  who
came with them retreated, withdrawing to some place unknown - confused
reports came in of having seen  the iron monsters entering the  bodies
of still larger monsters and that these enormous creatures of iron had
then flown straight up into the heavens and disappeared.

    No one believed these fanciful rumors, however. No one except  one
man - Joram-who looked up grimly into the sky, and shook his head.  He
said nothing, however. Time enough for that later. Now there was  much
to be done.

    The cost of victory had been grievous.

    Mostah, changed back from his form as a werewolf, was returning to
the fortress when he  came across the body  of the witch. Her  enemies
lay scattered around  her, but  in the end  there had  been too  many.
Gently Mosiah covered the pale and beautiful face with the black hood.
Lifting the body in his arms, he carried her back to the fortress.

    Here the dead r- and there were many-were buried beneath piles  of
stone; Cardinal Radisovik spoke  the words over them  in a voice  that
was choked with tears and anger. The bodies of those who had died upon
the field of  battle were left  where they had  fallen. The  surviving
magi protested against  this, but Joram  held firm. He  knew - no  one
knew better, having lived in  the Outland - what terrible  desecration
the centaurs and  other beasts would  commit upon the  bodies, but  he
also knew  that finding  them, bringing  them back,  and burying  them
would take too much time.

    The only  ones  allowed to  return  to the  battlefield  were  the
Duuk-tMtritb. They had an interest in  the dead. Not their own dead  -
the dead of the enemy- Working swiftly and silently under the cover of
night, they stripped the bodies of everything from weapons to personal
artifacts, never touching any  of the objects  but handling each  with
powerful spells  of  levitation,  transporting them  to  their  secret
chambers for future study.

    The warlocks carried out their  task efficiently, then they,  too,
were ordered by Joram to leave the field and return to Merilon.

    148 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN  "What  is there  to  fear?"  Garald  asked
wearily, so tired he could barely stand. "We drove them away - "

    "Perhaps," Joram replied. "We have  no way of knowing for  certain
until our spies return with their reports."

    "Bah! They've left the world."

    "I don't think so.  Their retreat was  orderly, wetl planned,  and
swiftly carried out. It wasn't a rout, by any means. My guess is  that
they  fell  back  to  assess  the  situation  and  reevalu-ate   their
strategy."

    The two stood in the center  of the compound, talking together  in
low voices.  Traveling  the  Corridors, the  magi  Were  returning  to
Merilon. The injured  and dying  had been sent  through the  Corridors
first, then the catalysts,  then the wizards.  Some were so  exhausted
they staggered inside and collapsed.  Others couldn't walk at all  but
had to be carried.

    They evacuated the fortress under the cover of darkness, the weary
Sif-Hanar working until the end; Joram refused to allow even starlight
to shine down upon them.

    Joram's grim tone, his precautions, and his ceaseless searching of
the skies made Garald  increasingly uneasy. "At least  we did what  we
set out to  do," he said.  "We have made  them afraid of  us. We  have
proved to them that they cannot sow the seeds of death without reaping
its bitter harvest as well."

    "\es," Joram agreed, but he remained grave and his eyes  continued
their watchful vigil.

    "What will they do now?" Garald asked quietly.

    "Hopefully they  are confused,  frightened, perhaps  even  arguing
among themselves," Joram replied. "They may - if we are lucky -  leave
this world. But if not, the next time they attack, they will know what
to expect. They •will  be prepared. And so  we had better be  prepared
ourselves."

    Eventually, the magi were  gone. Joram and  the Prince were  alone
now, standing in the rubble of the blasted and ruined fortress of  the
Field of Glory.

    We are alone -if you don't count the dead, Garald thought. Looking
at the  huge  cairn  that had  been  made  of stones  taken  from  the
shattered walls,  he  thought  back  on the  beginning  of  this  day,
remembering with bitter pain his dreams of the glories of battle,  his
delight in the silly game he had been playing.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 149  Some game.  If it  hadn't been  for
Joram, he would be lying beneath that pile of stones. No he  wouldn't.
There would have been no one left alive to bury him.

    "Please, please let this be  ended!" he prayed fervently.  "Please
grant us peace and I promise I …"

    But even  as  he spoke,  he  saw a  dark  figure emerge  from  the
Corridors. Coming up to stand before Joram, the Duuk-foarith gestured,
pointing  toward  mountainous  country  to  the  north.  Joram  nodded
wordlessly and glanced at Garald. Turning away, weary and  despairing,
the Prince pretended he  didn't notice. He  knew without hearing  what
the warlock had reported.  The enemy hadn't fled,  they had done  what
Joram predicted and gone into hiding.

    Now what? Garald wondered bleakly. Now what?

    A hand  touched  his arm.  Turning,  he  saw Joram  at  his  side.
Together, in silence,  the two entered  the Corridor and  disappeared,
leaving the fortress to the night and the dead.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  757  Beyond /  leave this  record  with
Father Saryon to be read in the event that I do not survive my initial
encounter -with the enemy. . . .

    The enemy.

    I call them this, yet how many of them have become'my friends over
these past ten years? I think back on them, especially those who  have
ministered so gently to my wife and who helped me through those  first
few terrible months  when I, too,  feared f might  lose my sanity.  If
word reaches them  of what I  am doing, I  know they will  understand,
however. For they have fought  him - the one  known as the Sorcerer  -
far longer than I.

    I am going to tell you everything, you who read this. I wonder, as
an aside, who that will be. My old friend, Prince Garald? My old foes,
Xavier, Bishop Vanya? It doesn't matter, I suppose, since you will all
find yourselves on the  same side in this  conflict. Therefore I  will
set down everything that has happened to me as best I can explain  it.
It is imperative that you understand this enemy in the event that  you
are forced to fight him alone, without my aid.

    I will start at the beginning, or perhaps I should say the end.

    I can tell you little of my thoughts and feelings when I walked-as
I suppose I  did-into death, into  Beyond. There is  a. darkness  that
comes over me sometimes that I cannot control. This darkness has  been
diagnosed by those in the world that I shall now call Beyond as a form
of/MyebMw - a word they use to describe a mental disorder that is  not
physical in its cause.

    Shortly after my return to Thimballan, Father Saryon asked me if I
was thinking consciously of  the Prophecy when I  made my decision  to
-walk  into  death.  Was  I  actively  working  to  bring  it  to  its
fulfillment as a kind of revenge upon the world?

    Once more, I consider the words of the Prophecy. They are, as  you
might imagine, graven upon my heart as Bishop Vanya once threatened to
carve the image of the Darksword upon my stone chest.

    There will be born  to the Royal  Haute one who  if dead yet  will
live, who will fa again and live  again. And when he return*, be  will
boO in hit hand the destruction of the vwrQ- It would be to my credit,
I suppose, if I  could answer yes  to Saryon $  question. At least  it
would show that I was thinking clearly and rationally.  Unfortunately,
I wasn 't. Looking back, I see myself as I was then -arrogant,  proud,
self-centered-and I  find it  miraculous  that I  had the  mental  and
physical strength to survive at all. That I did, I owe more to fitfher
Saryon than to myself.

    Ispent the hours before the Turningalone in a prison cell.  There,
my mind fell  victim to the  darkness that lurks  within me. Fear  and
despair claimed me. To have suddenly discovered my true parentage  and
the strange accident of my upbringing, to know the terrible fate  that
was to be mine in order to keep me from fulfilling the Prophecy- these
drove Ote almost to madness.  When I stood upon  the sand that day,  I
was aware of very little  going on around me.  I might well have  been
turned to stone already.

    75?

    WEIS AND HICKMAN  The terrible,  noble, loving  sacrifice made  by
Father Saryon was a shining light into the darkness of my soul. By its
bright radiance I  saw the  evil that I  had brought  upon myself  and
those I loved. Overwhelmed by grief for  a man I had come too late  to
love and admire,  sickened by  the corruption  I saw  in the  -world-a
corruption I knew was reflected in me -my only thought was to rid  the
world of the evil  I had brought  into it. I  gave the Darksword  into
Saryons lifeless hands and I walked into death.

    I did not know at the time - so lost was / in my own  despair-that
Gwendolyn had followed me. I remember  hearing her voice as I  stepped
into the mists, calling me to wait,  and I may even have hesitated  at
that point. But my love for her, like everything else in my life,  was
a selfish love. I cast  her from my thoughts  as the chill fog  closed
over me, and I  did not think  of her again until  I found her,  lying
unconscious, on the other side.

    The other side.

    I can almost see the parchment  in your hands tremble as you  read
this.

    The other side.

    Long I walked. I  don't know how long,  for time itself is  warped
and altered by the field of magic that surrounds this world and  keeps
it cut off from the rest of  the universe. I was conscious of  nothing
except the  fact that  I  was walking,  that  there was  solid  ground
beneath my  feet,  and  that  I  was lost  and  wandering  in  a  gray
nothingness.

    I don't recall being  frightened and I think  I must have been  in
shock. I have heard, however, from others I have met in Beyond, others
who passed through the magical  boundary, that it was not  frightening
to me  because I  was  Dead. To  those with  magic,  it is  a  fearful
experience. The ones who survived with their sanity intact (and  there
are not many) cannot talk of it without difficulty. And I will  never,
to my  dying day,  forget  the look  of terror  and  horror I  saw  in
Gwendolyns eyes when she first opened them.

    1 think it probable that,  in my despairing and unreasoning  state
of mind, I might have continued to walk uncaring through the gray  and
shifting mists until I  sank down and died.  Then - with a  suddenness
that literally took my  breath away-the mists ended.  As one can  walk
out of a  patch of TRIUMPH  OF THE  DARKSWORD 153 dense  log and  find
oneself standing in  broad sunlight, so  I emerged from  the realm  of
death (so I  thought) and found  myself standing in  an open field  of
grass.

    It was night, a perfectly clear and lovely night. The sky above me
-yes, there was sky - was smooth, deep black, and every possible  inch
of it sparkled with stars. I never knew there were so many stars.  The
air was crisp ancf cold, a full, bright moon poured silvery light down
upon the land beneath it. I drew in a deep breath, let it out, drew in
another, let it  out and-for  I don't  know how  long -  I just  stood
there, breathing. The blackness lifted from my soul. I considered what
I had done  and knew for  the first time  in my life  that I had  done
something right, something good.

    My religious training had been neglected in my chaotic  childhood.
As I grew older, I had no faith in mankind or in myself;  consequently
I had no faith in  the Almin either. I had  given little thought to  a
life after death, except possibly to fear it if it existed. After all,
for me, life itself was a daily  burden. Why should I want to  prolong
it? At  that instant,  however, I  believed I  had found  heaven.  The
beauty of the night,  the peace and solitude  that surrounded me,  the
sense of blessed a/oneness. . . .

    My soul was content to take  flight and slip away into the  night.
My body, however, stubbornly persisted in living and in reminding me -
by its weakness  - that I  was alive.  A chill wind  blew through  the
grass. I  had  no shirt,  I  was clad  in  nothing but  some  cast-off
trousers that  the Duuk-baritb  had given  me in  prison. I  began  to
shiver with  cold  and with,  undoubtedly,  a reaction  to  my  recent
experiences. I was thirsty  and hungry, too,  having refused all  food
and drink during my captivity.

    It was at that moment I began to wonder where I was and how I  got
here. I  could see  nothing in  any direction  but broad  expanses  of
empty, moonlit  grassland and-strangely-a  small red,  flashing  light
about one hundred feet from me. I suppose the light had been  flashing
all that time, but my spirit had been floating with the stars and  had
paid no attention to it.

    I began to walk toward the  light with some vague idea, I  recall,
that it might be the coals of a  fire, which only goes to •now that  I
was still not thinking clearly  or I would have  real- 154 v WEIS  AND
HICKMAN ized no fire would flash on and off in that persistent manner.
It was while I was walking toward the light that I discovered Gwen.

    She lay in the grass, unconscious. I knelt beside her, caught  her
up in my arms, and pressed her  close all before it occurred to me  to
wonder how and  why she  was here. At  that moment  I recalled  having
heard her voice as I stepped Into the mists and a confused  impression
that I saw a fluttering of her white gown. Perhaps we had been  within
a /ew feef of each other and never  knew it, so thick was the fog.  It
didn't matter. It seemed so right, somehow.

    At my  touch, she  awoke. I  could  see her  face clearly  in  the
moonlight and it was then I saw the madness in her eyes. I knew it for
what it was - how could I not?  I had lived with it all my  childhood.
It was  many  months before  I  could  admit it  to  myself,  however.
Certainly, I did not in that instant.

    "Gwendolyn!" 1 whispered, cradling her in my arms.

    At the sound of my voice, the  eerie glint in her eyes faded.  She
looked up at me -with the same look  of love I had been so blessed  to
receive -a blessing / had changed to a curse!

    "Joram," she said softly,  reaching up with her  hand to touch  my
face.

    I saw my reflection  in her eyes  and then it  began to waver  and
grow dim as the horror and madness banished me from her vision. { held
onto her tightly, as though she  were physically leaving me. Her  body
remained in my arms, but I  could not prevent her spirit from  running
away.

    The wind was  rising. White fire  lit the night  and there came  a
thunderous crash. Looking  up, I  saw darkness  swa/-iowing the  stars
like  some  great  monster  crawling  across  the  heavens.  Lightning
streaked from sky to ground. Even  though the storm was some  distance
from us yet, the  force of the  wind nearly blew  me over. The  clouds
swept toward us, the moon vanished as I watched, and I could smell the
ram and feel its mist blowing against my face.

    I could not believe  the swiftness or the  power of this storm.  I
looked around  in  panic.  There  was no  shelter  anywhere.  We  were
stranded out in the open. A bolt of lightning struck near enough  that
its concussion deafened me.  I saw huge chunks  of earth fly into  the
air. The wind increased, screaming shrilly in my ears. The rain began,
slanting down TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  155 out of  the sky with  the
force of lightning itself. In an instant, both Gwen and I were  soaked
through, though I did -what I could to shield her with my body.

    I had to find help! The lightning danced around us, the wind  grew
stronger. Pellets of ice stung my face, bruisingand cutting my  flesh.
All was total darkness now, except for the brief intervals of terrible
day when  the  lightning lit  the  sky. And  then  I saw  through  the
slashing rain the flashing red light, blinking on and off,  apparently
unaffected by the  storm. Perhaps  there were  people there,  gathered
around a fire, using their magic to keep it alive. Lifting Gwen in  my
arms, I carried her toward the red light, praying the first  unselfish
prayer I probably ever  uttered-that the Almin  would send someone  to
save her.

    Who was I  expecting to  find by  that fire ?  I didn  It know.  I
wouldn't have been  much surprised to  see angels or  devils. I  would
have welcomed either one. We could not survive this storm long. It was
increasing in ferocity, and I had the dim, almost dreamy thought  that
comes sometimes in the midst of  terror that it was battering  against
the Border of the world, trying to break it down.

    There were times I literally could not move against the tremendous
force of the wind;  times when I  had to use all  my strength just  to
stand, clasping Gwens  cold, motionless body  close to my  own as  the
wind buffeted me and the rain and ice drove like sharp needles into my
skin.

    By sheer effort of will, I struggled on. Eventually, I came to the
red light. It was not a fire.  There was no one around- devil,  angel,
no one.  The  red  flashing  light came  from  an  odd-looking  object
sticking out of the rain-soaked earth, and it was not even warm to the
touch. Frustration and despair overwhelmed me. The strength in my legs
gave way, and I sank, with Gwen in my arms, to the ground.

    At that moment, above the noise  of the storm, I heard a  rumbling
sound. It grew louder  as I listened. I  could feel the ground  shake.
The lightning was almost  incessant now. Peering  through the rain,  I
saw-illuminated by brilliant  flashes-a huge  monster crawling  toward
us. It  had a  squat, angular  shape with  two great  flaring eyes  in
front, and it was bearing down on us with incredible speed!

    156 WEIS AND H1CKMAN So  this is how it  ends, I thought. Torn  to
bits by some Soul beast. I gave  myself up to the darkness inside  me.
My last  remembered thought  was  one of  thankfulness that  Gwen  was
unconscious and  would slip  into death  without knowing  these  final
moments of terror.

    They tell me I was conscious when they found me. They said I spoke
to them and it appeared to them  - for they could not understand me  -
that I was prepared  to fight. They tell  me-and they smile to  recall
it-that I couldn't have fought a child. My struggles were feeble,  and
I fainted.

    As for me, I remember nothing until I woke to the sound of voices.
Terror assailed me,  then I calmed  myself. It was  a dream! My  heart
beat rapidly in hope.  The trial, the  sentencing, the execution,  the
storm . . . it was all a dream and when I opened my eyes I would  find
myself back in the house of Lord Samuels. . . .

    I opened my  eyes and stared  into a glaring  light, so bright  it
hurt. My bed was hard and uncomfortable and I realized suddenly that I
was inside  something  made completely  of  iron. It  seemed  we  were
moving, for we rocked back and forth with a sickening, swaying motion.
My dream had been all too real.

    Yet, I still heard voices. Sitting  up, I tried to see,  shielding
my eyes from the light.

    The voices were very close. Dimly I saw two figures, standing near
me, walking unsteadily with the motion of the iron thing. They noticed
me as I sat up and one came over to my side.

    He spoke in  a language I  could not understand  and it seemed  he
realized this, for he  kept patting my shoulder  while he spoke, in  a
reassuring manner, as one comforts a frightened child.

    I was not frightened. By the Almin! After what I'd been through, I
didn 't think I  could ever be frightened  of anything again. My  only
thoughts were for  the poor girl  who had given  up everything tor  my
sake. Where was she? I looked around, but I couldn 't see her. I tried
to get up, but the  man held me down -he  was very gentle. It was  not
difficult to keep me from moving, I was too weak even to sit up long.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  757  All the  while, the  other  figure
inside the iron thing was talking to someone else-someone who spoke in
a crackling voice.

    I know now, of course, that he was talking into a  com-munications
device, located inside his landrover (a  type of vehicle similar to  a
carriage except that it operates by  the Dark Arts of Technology,  not
by magic). I can  still hear the mans  words quite clearly, though  at
the time  I  didn't know  their  meaning.  Months after  that,  in  my
struggles against madness, his  words came to me  over and over in  my
night-dreams.

    "We've checked out the  alarm. There's two of  them on the  Border
this time-a man and a woman."

    I remember nothing after that. The man who knelt beside me pressed
something cold against my arm, and I sank into sleep.

    When I awoke, I found that Gwendolyn and I had been transported to
a new world-or perhaps you might  consider it a very old one-to  begin
living a new  life. I  married my  poor Gwen -  to keep  her safe  and
secure-and part of  every day I  spent with her  in the quiet,  loving
place where she stayed while the healers of Beyond endeavored to  find
some means to help her.

    It has been ten years . . . ten years in our new world . . . since
she has spoken a word to me or to any living person. She talks only to
those her eyes alone can  see. She talks to the  dead, I came to  know
many people in this world  of Beyond, including a  man who was not  of
that world but is of our own. His name is Menju, but he calls  himself
Sorcerer, and I  have spent  much of my  time during  those ten  years
learning his true nature and doing what I could to thwart his rise  to
power.

    I do not have the time, nor is it the intent of this document,  to
describe the world Beyond.  Suffice it to say,  the world Beyond is  a
world of  Technology, a  world beyond  your comprehension.  You  would
understand little and believe less of what I could tell. Alas, you may
come to know it all too well. . . .

    158 WEIS AND HICKMAN  TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  759 In closing,  I
will leave  you with  some thoughts  regarding our  world and  how  it
relates to the universe. One of  you, I pray, will have wisdom  enough
to understand and accept, not  shut your eyes to  it as you have  done
for so many centimes.

    The  ancient  magi,  finding   themselves  persecuted  for   being
"different," fled what they considered a dying world- a world that was
becoming too dependent  on technology,  a world that  denied and  even
feared the magic. Seeking a place where they might live in peace,  the
ancients traveled through time and  space. Their coming to this  world
was no accident,  for here  is contained the  source of  magic in  the
universe. The magi were led here  by the magics siren call. Once  they
arrived on these friendly, welcoming shores, the ancients burned their
ships and vowed never to leave.

    Not only did they cut off  all contact with their old world,  they
built a barrier  around this  one so that  there was  no possible  way
anyone from Outside could enter. So powerful was this magical barrier,
however, that it not only shut  the universe out, it sealed the  magic
within.

    In their  ardent  desire to  secure  their present,  the  ancients
destroyed their past.  Instead of  keeping memories of  the old  world
alive-and thus reminding themselves that it was still out there - they
destroyed the  records and  banished  the memories  until now  it  has
become, for you, a House Magi's tale, less real than the realm of  the
faerie.

    And because  you forgot  there  was a  land outside,  distant  and
remote as it might be, you felt safe and secure-safe and secure enough
to cast out those  you believed did not  belong in this world-even  in
death. Thus evolved the custom of sending people into "Beyond." It  is
a neat and simple  means of dealing with  those who are different.  It
rids the world of them quickly  and efficiently. The punishment is  so
awful that it serves as a fairly effective deterrent. What you did not
realize was that you were sending these magi out, not to death, but to
life.

    Though we forgot  about them,  the world Beyond  has never  forgot
about us. The majority of the magic was shut up, sealed off from them,
that is  true. But  tiny bits  of  it escape,  now and  then,  seeping
through cracks in the  barrier. The world Beyond  is hungry for  Life,
and-when it had the means through its advanced uses of  Technology-the
people of Beyond wenf in search of the magic.

    They found it, of course, but they could not reach it. The magical
barrier was too strong for them to penetrate. They did, however,  find
those who had been cast  out, wandering - as did  Gwen and I - in  the
land across our Border. It is a dreadful land, swept almost hourly  by
terrible storms such as I experienced.  There are few people here.  It
is an outpost, the men wno run if have only one objective - to  search
for a way to gain the magic.

    Thus they found  us, thus they  found others. Alarms  - those  red
flashing lights - are  set along the  Border, detecting anything  that
moves. Whenever  possible,  they  have rescued  magi,  and  now  these
outcasts live in the -world Beyond.

    Most are insane - as is my poor Gwen. But some are not. Some - one
in particular, this man known as "Sorcerer"- are quite sane. He tried,
countless times, to get back across the Border. According to him,  the
barrier is an energy field composed of the magical energy -within this
-world and within  each of  the Living. The  Living who  are cast  out
cannot get back in  due to their  own energy force.  Much as two  like
magnetic fields repel each other, the magic of the world repelled  his
magic. All  these  years, he  has  waited for  this  world to  make  a
mistake, a mistake that would let him back inside.

    I was your mistake.

    A Dead man crossed the magical boundary. The spell was  shattered,
the lock broken.  1 myself,  having no  magical energy,  would not  be
repelled. I could come  back. And if  I did, it  was theorized that  I
would disrupt the field. I would leave the door open behind me.

    As I said, Sorcerer*came to this conclusion after months of study.
We were nof always enemies, you see. Once I . trusted and admired  him
- But that is another story.

    Those in power  managed to convince  me that the  two worlds  must
meld,  become  one.  I  thought  this  would  prove  a  blessing   for
Thimhallan. I believed that a blending  of the two worlds would  bring
about a new order in the universe. My dreams -were bright. The  dreams
of others, however, were twisted and distorted.

    160 WEIS AND  HICKMAN 7  came back  . .  . and  they followed  me,
bringing war.

    They deceived me and betrayed me. I realize now that they mean  to
conquer this world as they have conquered others.

    Will the  Prophecy  be  fulfilled?  Are we  hurtling  to  our  own
destruction as rocks  tumbling down  a cliff  face? The  thought is  a
terrifying one. And  it is made  all the more  frightening because  it
seems we have no choice in our own destiny; that some all-knowing  and
uncaring Master controls our puny  lives and has controlled them  from
time immemorial.

    Is there no escape? I am beginning to think there is not. The only
two right and good things  I have ever done In  my life - choosing  to
leave this world and  choosing to return to  save it -have  apparently
only brought the Prophecy that much closer to fulfillment.

    If this is true, if  our lives are dealt to  us like the cards  of
the tarok, if we  are thrown down to  take a trick or  be lost as  our
Player deems and there is nothing more to life than that, then I begin
to understand Simkin and his way in this world.

    The game is nothing, the playing of it everything.

    B O O K  W O The Enemy  James Boris, com-lander, fifth  battalion.
Marine  Airborne,  was   known  among  his   men  affectionately   (if
unofficially, and never when he was within hearing) as Stump. In build
he was short, thtck-bodied,  and well muscled-physical qualities  that
undoubtedly helped earn him this  nickname. Thirty years old, he  kept
his body  in  top  condition,  and yearly,  during  the  bases  annual
inspection by  the krass  and top  government officials,  Major  Boris
invited as many young recruits as  wanted to endanger their skulls  to
rush him in a group and attempt to knock him off his feet.  (According
to legend, a recruit once stole a tank and drove it straight at  Major
Boris. Legend  has it  that, when  the tank  struck him,  James  Boris
remained standing rooted to the spot, and it was the tank that flipped
end over end.) Those who served  with James Boris from his early  days
as a young recruit knew the true derivation of his nickname,  however.
It came from the classroom, not the locker room.

    WEIS AND HICKMAN TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  165 "James Boris,  you
have all  the imagination  of a  tree stump!"  remarked an  instructor
caustically.

    The name stuck.

    The comment-and the nickname -didn't  bother James Boris one  bit.
He wore it proudly, in fact, as he wore his many medals. This lack  of
imagination was, he considered, one factor that had enabled his  swift
rise through the ranks. Major  Boris was a by-the-book commander.  His
roots were deeply mired in the firm ground of rules and regulations, a
comforting and reassuring thought to those he led. There was never any
need to wonder where James Boris stood on any issue. If it was covered
in the rules and regulations, then  Major Boris stood squarely on  top
of it and nothing-not even the  legendary tank -would move him. If  it
wasn't covered in rules and regulations . . .

    Well, that  point  was moot.  James  Boris had  never  encountered
anything that wasn't.

    Until now.

    This particular aspect  of Major  Boris's personality  - the  fact
that ne  had  no imagination  -  had been  one  of the  major  factors
involved in selecting him for  the expeditionary force to  Thimhallan.
Top government  officials  had  descriptions of  this  bizarre  world,
descriptions provided by  two men:  one known to  casino audiences  as
Sorcerer and another known only to certain secret government  agencies
as Joram. The top officials, many of whom could scarcely believe  what
they heard, decided that it would take  a man of nerve and cold,  hard
logic to survive in Thimhallan without losing his senses.

    It was  easy  to  see  how  they  reached  this  decision  and  it
undoubtedly  had  some  merit.  Unfortunately,  the  decision   proved
disastrously wrong. Although  any person  sent from  the safe,  secure
world of technology  into the  strange and terrifying  world of  magic
must have been shaken to his core, a commander with imagination  might
have been flexible enough to  cope with the mind-boggling  situations.
Major Boris, on the other hand, felt that - for the first time in  his
life -  his solid,  sturdy stump  had been  blasted clean  out of  the
ground. Now he lay helpless, his roots exposed, a pathetic sight.

    "You want  to  know what  I  recommend, Major?"  muttered  Captain
ColUn. "I recommend we get the hell out of here!"

    The Captain, a man of forty-five and a veteran of one of the  most
grueling tank campaigns ever fought on  the Outer Fringes, took out  a
cigarette  with  a  trembling  hand,  dropped  k,  took  out  another,
accidentally snapped it in two, and  finally stuffed the case back  in
his pocket.

    Major Boris looked  gloomily at  his other  captains and  received
emphatic nods  from  the  rest,  except for  one,  who  wasn't  paying
attention, but sat huddled in a chair, shivering.

    "You're suggesting we retreat - " James Boris growled.

    "I'm suggesting we get out of here before we're all dead or looney
as -" Captain Collin bit his words off with a vicious snap, letting  a
glance at  the  shivering  captain sitting  beside  him  complete  his
sentence.

    Major Boris sat  behind a  standard-issue metal  desk, facing  his
company commanders who sat before him in standard-issue metal  folding
chairs,   meeting   inside   Major   Boris's   standard-issue    field
headquarters, a dome of plastic made in the latest geodesic design.  A
series of other  domes - some  larger (supply domes,  mess domes)  and
many smaller,  living-quarter domes  -dotted the  landscape for  miles
about. The  domes could  be dismantled  in a  matter of  minutes;  the
entire battalion could be aboard ship and out of this nightmare  world
in a matter of hours.

    Resting his hands firmly on the  metal top of the desk, the  Major
felt reassured by  its coolness, its  stolid, unyielding .  . .  what?
James  Boris  groped  for   a  word.  Metalness?  Stolid,   unyielding
metalness? He didn't suppose metatne^ was a word, but it said what  he
meant. He could  be out  of here  by 0300 hours,  back in  a world  of
metal. . . .

    His hands clenched on the desk top. He looked around it carefully,
taking in everything from a green teapot with a bright orange lid that
he couldn't recall having ordered -tea was the last thing James  Boris
wanted to drink right  now - to  the papers stacked  neatly in a  pile
next to his standard-issue'field computer. Nervously, unaware of  what
he was  doing, the  Major began  to drum  his knuckles  softly on  the
metal, his gaze switching  to a small  transparent plastic window  set
into the side of the plastic dome.

    It was night, dark as hyperspace,  with no moon or stars  visible.
James Boris wondered, his gloom deepening,  if this was real night  or
one of those terrifying,  magic nights that 166  WEIS AND H1CKMAN  had
been dropped over him and his men like some huge, smothering  blanket.
A quick glance at his watch reassured him of the time, however:  2400.
They'd been here only forty-eight hours.

    Forty-eight hours.  That was  the  length of  time the  brass  had
figured it would take  to intimidate the population  of this world.  A
populace that, according to reports,  was living somewhere just  south
of the Middle Ages. Forty-eight hours and Major Boris was to have sent
back word that the situation was  well under control, his forces  were
occupying the major  capitals, negotiations  for peaceful  coexistence
could begin. . . .

    Forty-eight  hours.  Half  his  men  dead,  over  half  his  tanks
destroyed or out  of commission.  Of those men  surviving, probably  a
third were in little  better shape than  the shivering captain.  Major
Boris made a weary, mental note to turn the man over to the medics and
declare him unfit for command.

    Forty-eight hours. They were safe enough here, he supposed, hidden
in the mountains, but  he kept having the  eerie feeling he was  being
watched, unseen eyes observing him.

    Staring out the  window, Major Boris  heard his captains  talking.
They were  going over  the incidents  of the  last forty-eight  hours,
describing them  for the  hundredth time  in tight,  tense voices,  as
though daring  anyone  to dispute  what  they had  seen.  James  Boris
floated on top of their sea of words, seeing occasionally in his  mind
the fragment  of a  rule or  a regulation  drift by.  Floundering,  he
sought to grasp it, to  hang onto it. But it  always sank, and he  was
left helpless, drowning. . . .

    So lost in this dark sea was  the Major that he never noticed  the
silent entrance of another man.

    Neither did any of the others. This was due, perhaps, to the  fact
that the man did not enter through the headquarters' door, but  simply
materialized inside the dome. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome  man,
he was  dressed in  an expensive  cashmere  suit, a  silk tie  at  his
throat. It was  odd apparel for  a battlefield and,  if his dress  was
odd, his demeanor was odder. He  might have been lounging at the  bar,
waiting for a table in a fine restaurant. Calmly, he straightened  the
cuffs of his white  shirt; a jeweled cufflink  sparkled at his  wrist.
Calmly, TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 167 he regarded Major James Boris.  A
plastic laminated identity  card adorned with  his picture was  tucked
carefully into his suit pocket. Stamped across it in red was his name,
Menju, and the single word: Advisor.

    Although the man made  no sound to draw  attention to himself,  he
did nothing to try  to conceal his presence  either. The captains  sat
with their backs to him. Major Boris, wrapped in his own problems, was
still staring  at his  desk. The  newly arrived  man listened  to  the
captains reports  with interest,  occasionally stroking  the  identity
card he wore with the tips of fingers remarkable for their length  and
delicacy of touch.  When he toyed  with this placard  with the  single
word, Athutor, he smiled, as though he found it all highly amusing.

    "It was when we were attacking  that stone fortress where we  had,
so we  were told"-Captain  Collins tone  was bitter  and ironic  -"the
creeps trapped. One  of my  tank crews  had one  of them,  a woman,  a
uvmaa, mind you"-the  Captains tone  grew dark-"in  their sights  when
this green  goo starts  oozing  through the  hatch. Before  they  know
what's happening, this  . . .  this slime is  eating into their  skin!
They start to glow, like, and within seconds they're a quivering  mass
of green jelly. …"

    "Kid turned into a  wolf right before my  eyes! Leaped on  Rankin,
knocked him down,  and tore his  throat out before  I could move.  God
help me! I'll never forget  Ran kin's scream. . .  . What could I  do?
Run? Hell yes I ran! And the whole time I was running I could feel hot
breath on my neck, hear that thing panting behind me. I can still hear
it. …"

    "We fired at this thing, but  he must have been thirty feet  tall.
We coulda been  tossin' matches  at it instead  of lasers  for all  it
cared. Lifted  one foot  and smash!  That was  the end  of Mardec  and
Hayes. We couldn't even get the bodies outa the wreckage. …"

    "A man in white robes, like  some damn picture in a Sunday  school
book, jumps up and attacks my boys  with a sword. Yeah, a sword.  They
get ready to cut  him in two  with their phaser  guns and -wham!  They
fire and the sword - "

    "-deflects the light?"

    "Deflects, hell! It sucks up the damn light! I saw those  weapons.
Every one was completely drained, and they'd all been recharged  right
before battle. We shoulda been able to 168 WEIS AND HLCKMAN TRIUMPH OF
THE DARKSWORD 169 shoot those  things for a month without  recharging.
Not only that, but the guy in the robes did the same thing to a  tank,
too."

    "Naw - "

    "I saw, I swear! The crew reported their instrument readings going
wild, and then everything went dead. But this sword and the guy in the
robes stood in front of them,  glowing with this weird blue light  and
the last thing the crew  reported was this bright  flash. . . .  There
was an explosion  . . .  and then this  hole in the  ground; the  tank
blown halfway to hell - "

    The  shivering   Captain  suddenly   spoke,  "Halfway.   Half-man,
half-horse. Hair covers their  faces, but I  see their eyes,  horrible
eyes and hooves  - sharp hooves.  …" The Captain  leaped to his  feet.
"They're trampling Jamesson! Stop them! Oh, my god! They've got him  .
. . tearing  his arms  off. He .  . .  he's still alive!  My god!  His
cries! Shoot him! Make him stop!  Make him stop!" The Captain  clamped
his hands over his ears, sobbing.

    "Get him out of here," Major Boris ordered, raising his head,  his
attention caught at last.

    The rest of the commanders ceased their argument and fell  silent,
carefully avoiding looking at their  broken comrade. The Major  opened
his mouth to  call for the  sergeant, ' whose  office was in  another,
smaller geodesic dome  attached to the  main one, and  it was at  this
point that James Boris became aware of the presence in the room of the
man with the word ^ci*0r attached  to his expensive suit, Major  Boris
went cold all over, shivering nearly as violently as the poor Captain.
Noting their  commanders  fixed  and rigid  stare,  seeing  the  hands
clenched upon the desk  suddenly go limp,  the captains looked  around
behind them hastily.  When they saw  the man watching  them, they  all
turned back - some slower than others, Captain Collin in particular  -
casting uneasy glances at their Major.

    They're losing confidence  in me, James  Boris realized  bitterly.
How can I blame them? I'm  losing confidence in myself, in  everything
around me! His  gaze went  reluctantly yet inexorably  to the  weeping
Captain. I'll be as mad as Walters next. . . . I've got to pull myself
together.

    Forcing himself to sit upright, setting his thick jaw rigidly, and
thrusting out his chin. Major Boris bellowed for the sergeant.

    The door opened, the Sergeant entered. "Sir?"

    "I gave orders no one was  allowed inside. What is this man  doing
here? Did you leave your post?"

    The Sergeant looked at the visitor  and his eyes opened wide,  his
skin took on a sallow tinge. "No,  sir! I didn't let him in. Major,  I
swear! I -I haven't left my desk all night, sir."

    The man labeled Advitor smiled.

    James Boris tensed, longing to shove the white, even teeth of that
smile  down   the  silk-necktied   throat.   His  hand   twitched   in
anticipation, and he was forced to  clench it tightly. The Major  knew
well enough how  Menju had gained  entry; he'd seen  him perform  this
trick earlier, just  a few  hours previous.  Only this  was no  trick,
James Boris  reminded himself.  This was  no grand  illusion to  leave
children gasping and adults shaking their heads in wonder. This wasn't
done with mirrors. It was real, at least it was as real as anything in
this unreal world.

    "Never mind, Sergeant,"  Major Boris muttered,  noticing that  his
captains were growing increasingly nervous. "Send for the medics."  He
made a gesture toward the hysterical Walters. "Have him declared unfit
for command. Ill promote  Lieutenant . . .  Lieutenant …" James  Boris
flushed. He had always prided himself on remembering the names of  the
officers under his command, as well as most of the enlisted men,  too.
Now he couldn't recall a lieutenant, a man who'd served under him  for
over a year. "Confound it, whoevers next in line, have him report here
to me in" - he glanced at  his visitor - "half an hour," he  concluded
coldly.

    "\es, sir," said the Sergeant, starting back out the door.

    "Sergeant!"yelled Major Boris.

    "Sir?" The Sergeant turned.

    "Get rid of that damn tea! I never drink the stuff. \bu know that.
Why did you bring it?"

    The Sergeant looked at the  teapot with surprise. "I didn't  bring
it, sir,"  were the  words that  were on  his lips.  A look  at •  his
grim-faced Major,  however, and  he simply  removed the  170 WE1S  AND
HICKMAN teapot, mumbling,  "Sorry, sir,"  as he  picked it  up by  its
handle and carried it into his outer office.

    "Thank you, gentlemen, for coming,"  James Boris said wearily.  It
•was Rules and Regulations talking, not him. If he had to  consciously
think about what to say, he couldn't have spoken a word. "I will  take
your recommendations under advisement. Dismissed."

    There was the sound of metal scraping against the plastic floor as
the captains rose and began to file out. They did so in silence -a bad
sign, James Boris knew.

    Flicking on the computer, he  pretended to be absorbed in  reading
something on the  screen, although  in reality he  hadn't the  vaguest
idea what he was  looking at. He  didn't want to talk  to any of  them
anymore; he didn't want to have to face them or look into their  eyes.
He felt more than saw the sideways  glances they gave him and he  knew
that  they  were  exchanging  looks  with  one  another.  Questioning,
wondering.

    What will he  do? Will he  send for the  ships? Retreat? And  what
were his orders anyway? Already, of course, the rumors were  starting;
the Major was no longer in command  of the battalion. . . . They  were
being led  by Menju  the Sorcerer,  who had  seized control  when  the
battle turned sour.

    Major Boris could hear the voice of the sergeant shouting into the
field phone,  attempting  to raise  the  medics'. They'd  been  having
trouble with  the phones,  something  about this  weird,  energy-laden
atmosphere the techs told him.  One of the captains, probably  Collin,
had grabbed  hold  of poor  Walters  and  was leading  him  out.  When
everyone was gone, the Sergeant - still on the phone - kicked the door
firmly shut.

    "Well, what do  you want?" Major  Boris growled, his  eyes on  the
computer screen, refusing to look at the visitor.

    Menju crossed over to  stand before his  desk. The magicians  eyes
were large and  gleamed with disarming  charm. His skin  was tan,  his
face clean-shaven. His hair was full and thick. Combed back  stylishly
from a  peak in  the center  of his  forehead, its  silver gray  color
contrasted well with his richly tanned skin. State lighting set it off
most effectively. Placing  the tips of  his fingers on  the metal,  he
stared down the length  of his handsome nose  at the thick-necked  and
square-jawed Major.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 171 "Rumor has it that you are  intending
to withdraw," the man said. His voice matched his appearance - a deep,
rich  baritone  cultivated  over  years  of  performing  before   live
audiences.

    "And what if I do? I am still in command here!"

    Major Boris  shut  off  the computer  with  an  irritated  motion,
realizing as he  did so  that he  had been staring  at a  memo he  had
written several months  ago regarding  an infraction  of the  military
dress code by female officers. He swore softly to himself. Turning  to
face Menju, he  burned his  hand on  something hot,  and the  swearing
became louder.

    "What the devil- Sergeant!" he roared furiously.

    There was no answer. Heaving himself out of the chair. James Boris
strode angrily across the floor  and threw open the door.  "Sergeant!"
he thundered. "That damn teapot-"

    There was no one there. Lifting the field phone, he held it fo his
ear. The static and other strange noises it was making nearly deafened
him. Apparently, communications were dead now, too. The Sergeant  must
have gone off in  search of the medics.  Major Boris started to  swear
again, but checked himself.  Swallowing his hot  words, he could  feel
them burn all the way down,  at least that's what it seemed.  Pressing
his hand  against his  hurting  stomach, he  stomped back  inside  his
office, flung himself  down in  his chair -  without a  glance at  his
visitor-and glared at the green teapot with the bright orange lid.

    "Damn it all to hell and back again! I thought I told him to  take
that thing out of here!"

    "So you did,"  said Menju, known  on theater marquees  in all  the
major systems as the  Sorcerer. Sitting casually on  the desk, he  was
now eyeing  the  teapot  with  extreme  interest.  "So  you  did,"  he
murmured. "No, don't touch it." Reaching out a quick, slender-fingered
hand, he intercepted James Boris as he  was about to grab hold of  the
teapot and do something with it  -just what the Major wasn't  certain,
but he'd been considering the window. . . .

    Menjus strong hand closed over Boris's wrist.

    "Let us discuss this rash retreat you are planning," the  Sorcerer
said pleasantly.

    "Rash - "

    172 WEIS AND HICKMAN "Yes, rash. Not only in terms of your  future
career in the military - 1 am not without influence as you well know -
but in terms of your Hfe and the lives of your men. No, don't try  it,
Major."

    James Boris, his face flushed with rage, made a quick move to free
himself of  the Sorcerers  grip. The  smile never  left the  magicians
face. A sound of crunching bone brought a gasp of pain from the Major.

    "You are strong, but now I am stronger." Men jus hand continued to
tighten on  James  Boris's  wrist.  Furious,  the  Major  grabbed  the
magicians arm and tried  •with all his legendary  strength to pry  the
mans hand loose. He might as well  have tried to bend the steel  laser
gun of one of his tanks.

    "Forty-eight hours ago I could have snapped your chicken-leg bones
in two!" James Boris grunted through clenched teeth, staring up at the
Sorcerer in anger that was -he  hoped - concealing his fear. "Is  this
more of your . . . your magic!" He spit the word.

    "Yes, Major James Boris. Just as this is more of my . . . magic!"

    Speaking a word  in a  strange language, Menju  lifted the  Majors
hand.

    James Boris screamed,  snatching his  hand -or what  had been  his
hand - free of  the Sorcerer's grasp. Laughing,  the magician let  go,
and Major Boris  fell backward in  his chair, staring  in horror.  His
hand was gone. In its place was the clawed foot of a chicken.

    A gurgle,  coming  apparently from  the  teapot, caused  Menju  to
glance at it swiftly. But the  teapot hushed instantly, though a  wisp
of steam coiled up lazily from its spout.

    "Change it back!" James Boris clutched his wrist, the chicken foot
that was his hand  twitched convulsively. "Get rid  of it!" His  voice
rose to a shriek, and he choked.

    "There will be no more talk of retreat," the Sorcerer said coldly.

    "Damn it!" Sweat beaded on Boris's forehead. "We're beat! We can't
fight this . . . this . . ." He sought for words, failing. "You  heard
my men! Werewolves,  giants! Some guy  with a sword  that can suck  up
energy. …"

    "I heard them," Menju said grimly.  With a motion of his hand,  he
gestured a  folding chair  to come  scurrying forward  TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD  173   and  position   itself  behind   him.  Sitting   down
comfortably, he  smoothed out  a  wrinkle in  the cashmere  pants  and
continued to watch the  Major, who had never  taken his eyes from  his
mutated hand. "I heard about the man with the sword. Frankly, that was
the  only  thing  I  found  the  least  bit  interesting,  much   less
frightening."

    With a wave of  his delicate Fingers,  the Sorcerer spoke  another
strange word  and the  Major had  his hand  back again.  Shuddering  m
relief, James Boris examined it feverishly, rubbing the skin as though
to assure himself  of its  reality. Then,  wiping the  sweat from  his
upper lip, he stared at Sorcerer with narrow, fear-filled eyes.

    "Pull yourself together, Major," the magician snapped. "You  know,
of course, the identity of the man with the sword."

    Elbows on the desk,  the Major let his  head, with its  regulation
military haircut, sink  slowly into  his hands. "No,"  he muttered  in
hollow tones. "I don't . . ."

    "Joram."

    "Joram?"  Major  Boris   looked  up.  "But   they  told  me   he'd
stay^neutral - " The Major stopped, his mouth twisting bitterly.  "Oh,
I  see.  He  would  have   remained  neutral  if  we  hadn't   started
slaughtering his people!"

    "I suppose." Menju shrugged. "Frankly, I always doubted whether he
would allow us to conquer this world* without reacting in some way  to
stop us. He played his role well, however, and he can be dealt out  of
the game. He has, in fact, increased the stakes immeasurably!"

    The Sorcerer  slid his  bottom  lip beneath  his two  white  upper
teeth, a habit that gave a sinister  cast to his handsome face, or  so
James  Boris  thought,   staring  at  the   magician  with  a   morbid
fascination.

    "Joram has  been able  to retrieve  his Darksword,"  the  Sorcerer
said, after a pause, during which he put the tips of the index fingers
of each hand  together, tapping them  on his cleft  chin. "Blast  it!"
Though he spoke with emotion, his voice was still soft and controlled.
"We must get hold of some of that ore to analyze! Darkstone! According
to him, it (bains the magical energy from this world. Now it seems  it
has the capability of draining the  physical energy used in our  world
as well.

    174 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  "Think  of it,  Major!" Menju  lowered  his
hands,  straightened  his   tie,  adjusted  his   shirt  cuffs  in   a
preoccupied, obviously habitual gesture. "An ore that can drain energy
from one source and convert  that energy to its  own use! Get hold  of
that weapon, and the battle is won. Not only in this world, but on any
other we  might choose  to invade.  Now, Major,  how soon  will it  be
before reinforcements arrive?"

    "Reinforcements?" Major Boris blinked  glazed eyes. "There are  no
reinforcements! We are  an expeditionary  force, our mission  is …  or
was" - his voice cracked - "peaceful."

    "Yes, it  was peaceful.  We attempted  to negotiate,  but we  were
viciously attacked, our  people mercilessly  butchered," the  Sorcerer
said coolly.

    "So tkat'j your game,  is it?" James  Boris responded in  lifeless
tones.

    "That's the game." Menju  spread his hands. "Led  by this Joram  -
who tricked us into  coming here in  the first place  - the people  of
this world were lying in wait for us and attacked us without  warning.
We fought back, of course, but now we are trapped here. We need  help,
to save ourselves."

    "And once these  reinforcements come,  they'll fall  under your  .
control, just like my men, just like me," James Boris continued in the
same dull and uncaring voice.

    "And on my orders they 11 kill every man, woman, and child in this
world, except  the catalysts,  of course,  who -  as you  can see  for
yourself-are helping me increase my magical powers."

    "That's genocide!" The  Major gasped,  his face  flushed red  with
anger. "By god, you're talking about wiping out an entire  population!
Why?"

    "Why?"  The  Sorcerer  smiled  the  charming  smile  that   caused
audiences worlds over to  believe in the fabric  of illusions he  wove
before their dazzled eyes. "Isn't it obvious? I alone will possess the
magic. I and my sons and  daughters. Which reminds me, I need  several
young  women  for  breeding  purposes.   I'll  take  charge  of   that
personally. With the magic,  my family and I  will rule the  universe!
And there will be no magicians left alive with the power to stop me!"

    "I won't obey you! Ill denounce you! Ill break you - " James Boris
swore viciously.  The  words  stopped  cold  on  his  TRIUMPH  OF  THE
DARKSWORD 775 lips as the Sorcerer, rising slowly to his feet, pointed
casually- with one finger - at James Boris's righ, t hand.

    Turning deathly white, the Major,  snatched his hand back and  hid
it beneath the desk.

    "When we talk of  breaking people. Major,  I suggest you  remember
that simply by  speaking a  few arcane words  I can  break you,  quite
literally, bone by bone. There are  whatever two hundred bones in  the
human body? I forget,  biology was never an  interest of mine. But  it
would be, I fancy, an extremely painful way to die."

    "My men will not murder innocent - "

    i "On,  but  they  already  have, Major  Boris,"  the  Sorcerer  i
interrupted with a shrug. "Your men are terrified of the peo-j pie  of
this world. What is that quaint  saying of Joram's? 'What they do  not
understand, they fear.  What they  fear, they  destroy. '  A few  more
battles like the one they've been  «;. through today and they will  be
more than willing to extermi-: '- nate these wizards. Now, I asked you
a question about reinforcements. How long?"

    Major Boris ran his tongue over his lip. He had to swallow several
times before he could speak. "Seventy-two hours, at least."

    The Sorcerer shook his head thoughtfully. "Seventy-two hours! That
won't do, I'm afraid. That's too long. The magi will attack us  before
that. Joram will push them to it." : "Not even your magic can make  it
any quicker, Menju!" ^ James Boris said with a bitter smile. "We  have
to get  the i,  message  through and  we're  having trouble  with  the
communications link-up. The  starbase is  on alert, but  the men  will
have to draw supplies and board the ship. Then there s the jump.  Turn
me and all my men  into chickens, if you  want," he added, seeing  the
magicians tan,  handsome face  flush in  anger. "It  won't help  speed
matters any."

    The Sorcerer  stared  intently at  James  Boris, but  Major  Boris
stared just as grimly back. There are limits you can push a man - even
a shattered man. The magician had apparently reached them. "We need to
stall for  time then,"  Menju  said smoothly,  turning away  from  the
sweating, tight -iipped Major. "And, above all, we need that sword!"

    James Boris, sighing, put his elbows  on the table and rested  his
aching head in his hands.

    176 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  Frowning in  thought, the  Sorcerer  stared
down, unseeing,  at the  teapot  that was,  under the  mans  scrutiny,
suddenly very quiet  and subdued. No  steam rose from  its spout,  the
gurgling noises inside it had ceased.

    The magician began to smile. "I have a plan," he murmured.  "Peace
. . . we  came here in  peace . .  . just as  you said, Major  Boris."
Reaching down, Menju lifted  the green teapot  with the bright  orange
lid in his hands. "Now, all we need is someone to carry our message to
the one man -a pious  holy man -who will  undoubtedly -if we play  our
cards right -be most eager to help us."

    Of Great Price I MMe |t was no longer spring in lerilon.

    Winter had come to  the domed city,  as it had  come to the  lands
outside the city's  magical cover.  It was  not that  winter had  been
decreed to occur  that day,  or that  the Sif-Hanar  were derelict  in
their duties. Winter had  come to Merilon because  there were too  few
Sif-Hanar left to alter the season. Those who had survived the  battle
at the  Field of  Contest were  so weak  that they  barely had  breath
enough to mist the icy air, let alone attempt to conjure the pink  and
fluffy clouds of spring.

    It was snowing inside  the city for the  first time that even  the
oldest resident could remember. It had  started out as rain; the  heat
from thousands of living  bodies combined with  the heat and  moisture
given off by  the trees  and plants within  the Grove  and gardens  of
Merilon had been enough to overburden the air trapped within the city.
Without the Sif-Hanar to govern it, the humidity level within the dome
rose until the 178 WEIS AND HICKMAN air itself began to weep -  crying
for the dead, or so the story went. With the coming of night, the rain
changed to snow and now the city lay Buried beneath a blanket of white
- "-like a corpse," said Lord Samuels heavily, staring out a window.

    The frozen, snow-shrouded garden that he contemplated  sorrowfully
was not the same garden where his Gwendolyn had loved to walk. It  was
not the garden where  her love for Joram  had grown and blossomed.  It
was not the  same garden where  Saryon, nursing his  dark secret,  had
sought to protect the blossom by uprooting the plant. No, this  garden
was far grander,  far lusher than  the one that  had nurtured so  many
dreams in its dark soil.

    The garden  was grander  and so  was the  house, being,  like  the
garden, built on a magnificent  scale. Lord Samuels and Lady  Rosamund
had finally attained their  dream. They were,  at last, nobility.  The
cost had been  nothing more  than they had  been prepared  to spend  -
their daughter. Too late they realized  they had exchanged a pearl  of
great price for a mere bauble.

    Shortly after his daughters disappearance. Lord Samuels had  taken
to haunting the deserted  sands of the  Borderland searching for  her.
Every day, following his  work at the Guild,  he traveled through  the
Corridor to that desolate, barren place, roaming up and down the beach
crying out her name until it  became too dark to see. Then,  exhausted
and despairing, he would return to his home.

    His sleep  was restless,  sometimes  he woke  up and  insisted  on
returning to the  Border in  the middle of  the night,  saying he  had
heard Gwen calling to him. He ate little or nothing. His health  began
to suffer. The TkcQara  - the same blunt  woman who had tended  Father
Saryon -told Lady Rosamund that her  husband was in a dangerous  state
of body disharmony that could cause his death.

    At this juncture Lady Rosamund  had received a visit from  Emperor
Xavier. The Emperor was all  kindness and understanding. He had  heard
that Lord Samuels  was behaving in  a most peculiar  manner, a  manner
that was -  the Emperor  sought to  phrase this  delicately -  causing
renewed public attention  over a deeply  regrettable incident. No  one
felt for the grief of the  bereft father and mother more than  TRIUMPH
OF THE DARKSWORD 179 Xavier. But it was time Lord Samuels viewed  this
tragic incident in  its proper perspective.  It had happened,  nothing
could change that. The  Almin works in  mysterious ways. Lord  Samuels
must have faith.

    Xavier said this last  with a grave voice,  his hand patting  Lady
Rosamunds. Why it should have filled  her with terror •was unknown  to
her. Perhaps  it had  been  the expression  of  the cold,  flat  eyes.
Removing her hand from the  Emperors disturbing touch, she pressed  it
against her  palpitating  heart  and murmured  distractedly  that  the
Tbeldara had recommended a change … a change of scene.

    Excellent idea! the Emperor had remarked. Precisely what he'd  had
in mind.  It was  in his  power to  bestow a  small estate  upon  some
fortunate man. Lord  Samuels would  be conferring  the greatest  favor
upon the Emperor  if he would  accept this trifling  gift. The  estate
consisted of  a small  Field Magi  village, a  castle in  an  outlying
district, and a house  in the city.  It was falling  to rack and  ruin
since the death of its owner - a Count Devon - who had left no  heirs.
It behooved Lord Samuels, as a loyal subject of the crown, to take  it
over and make the estate properous once more. There was a small matter
of back taxes, but a man in Lord Samuels's position . . .

    Lady Rosamund had managed to stammer out that she was certain this
was exactly what her  husband needed to take  his mind off his  grief.
She thanked the Emperor most profusely. Xavier had accepted her thanks
with a gracious inclination of  the head and had  said, as he rose  to
leave, that he presumed her husband would henceforth be much too  busy
to make  those nightly  journeys to  the Borderlands.  He had  further
added that he trusted her husbands  new duties would provide him  with
more cheerful subjects to discuss other than whatever it was he  might
have heard or witnessed concerning the young man called Joram.

    Xavier left Lady Rosamund  with a little homily:  A man who  walks
backward, staring into the past, is likely to trip and hurt himself.

    That night  Lord  Samuels*s  visits  to  the  Border  ceased.  The
following week, he and his family journeyed to Devon Castle, returning
to the Devon  townhouse in Merilon  only for holidays  and during  the
winter season as was customary ISO WEIS AND HICKMAN with the rich  and
the beautiful.  They  had everything  they  had ever  wanted:  wealth,
position, acceptance by their betters, who were now their peers.

    Gwendolyn was spoken  of no  more. Her  things were  given to  her
cousins, but these simple girls could never look at the pretty dresses
and jewelry  without  weeping, and  soon  put them  away.  The  little
brother and sister were taught not to ask for their Gwen.

    Lord Samuels and  Lady Rosamund attended  all the important  court
functions and parties. If the joy  appeared to have gone out of  their
lives - and it often  seemed that they did  not truly care where  they
were or what was transpiring around them -they were merely  exhibiting
the proper attitude of noble indifference. They fit in perfectly  with
their new peers.

    Lord Samuels and his family had  only last night arrived in  their
house in Merilon, having been forced  to leave Devon Castle when  news
of war was brought to  them by the Ariels. It  was to Lord Samuels  *s
credit that he had not fled his lands until assured that the  peasants
who worked for  him would  be protected. Remembering  what he'd  heard
from Joram of the life of the Field Magi and witnessing the  appalling
conditions in  the  village when  he'd  taken over  the  estate,  Lord
Samuels had done what he could to improve the living conditions of his
people, spending his own money and  magical energy. It was now one  of
the few  pleasures  in his  barren,  empty  life to  see  the  peoples
formerly dull, lackluster stares replaced by gratitude and respect.

    "Do you think what we've heard  is true?" Lady Rosamund asked  him
softly, glancing about  to make certain  the House Magi  -were out  of
hearing.

    "About what, my dear?" he asked, turning to look at her.

    "About . . . about the battle yesterday, the death of the Emperor?
You've been locked in your study all forenoon. I heard you talking  to
someone and then the Ariels came. What messages did they bring?"

    Lord Samuels sighed. Taking his wife's  hand, he drew her near  to
him. "The news is not good. Yes, the reports are true. I was going  to
tell you, but I wanted  to wait until Marie  and the children and  the
servants were settled for the afternoon."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 181 "What is it?" Lady Rosamunds face was
pale, but her manner composed.

    "The person I spoke to this morning was Rob."

    "Rob?" Lady Rosamund looked at  him in wonder. "Our overseer?  Did
you go back to the castle? After they warned us - "

    "No, my dear. Rob  is here, in Merilon.  All our people are  here.
The Duak-tMmtb brought them into the city this morning. And it is  not
only ours,  but they  brought in  the Field  Magi of  the  surrounding
villages as well."

    "Name of the Almin!"  Lady Rosamund moved  closer to her  husband,
who put  his  arm around  her  comfortingly.  "Such a  thing  has  not
happened since the Iron Wars! What is going on? Sharakan agreed to the
Field of Contest. Why did they break their solemn vows - "

    "It is not Sharakan, my dear," said Lord Samuels.

    "But - "

    "I know. That is  what Bishop Vanya would  have us believe.  There
are too many  who know the  truth, however, and  who have returned  to
report it. The enemy is rumored to  have come from Beyond. It is  said
that Prince Garald of Sharakan. who, you know, my dear, is reputed  to
be a man of honor and  valor, fought side-by-side with Emperor  Xavier
against this new menace."

    "Then why is Bishop Vanya lying to us?"

    "That, my dear, is what  a great many of  us would like to  know,"
Lord Samuels said  gravely, frowning.  "He won't  even admit  publicly
that Xavier is dead, though  witnesses have come forward giving  their
accounts. The Bishop - may the Almin  forgive me - is old and  infirm.
This responsibility is too much for him, I fear. That is my belief and
the belief of others,  according to the messages  they sent me.  There
will be a meeting this night at  the Palace to consider what is to  be
done. I plan to attend."

    Lord Samuels looked intently at his wife as he spoke. She  gripped
his arm more tightly.

    "Who has  called  this  meeting?" she  asked,  seeing  a  troubled
expression in his eyes.

    "Prince Garald, my dear," Lord Samuels answered calmly.

    182 WEIS AND  HICKMAN Lady  Rosamund caught her  breath, her  lips
parted to protest, but her husband forestalled her.

    "^es, I  know  Vanya  will probably  consider  this  treason.  But
something  must  be  done.  There  is  growing  unrest  in  the  city,
particularly in City Below. Temporary quarters for the Field Magi have
been established in the  Grove, but those poor  people are crowded  in
there like rabbits in a warren. There has always been  dissatisfaction
and rebellion among them. Now they have been dragged from their  homes
and brought here, to be held like prisoners. There is talk among  them
that they are  going to  be mutated  and sent  to fight,  as were  the
centaurs in the ancient days. They plan to revolt - "

    "Merciful Almin!" Lady Rosamund murmured.

    "The lower classes  of Merilon are  in much the  same state.  Wild
rumors fly among them. I have  heard that they are gathering in  front
of the Cathedral, crying  out for Bishop Vanya  to show himself.  Even
among the nobility, families  who have lost loved  ones are angry  and
demanding answers. But the Bishop has shut himself up in his  chambers
in the Cathedral and refuses to see anyone, not even Duke  d'Cham-bray
or the other high-ranking  nobles. Prince Garald  and his retinue  are
staying with the Duke -"

    "With the  Duke?"  Lady  Rosamund gasped.  "Here,  in  Merilon?  A
guest?"

    "

    ""

    "My dear," said  Lord Samuels.  BTne situation is  serious, I  may
even say  desperate.  I don't  want  to alarm  you,  but you  must  be
prepared to face the truth. According  to the message I received  from
the Duke, Merilon itself is in danger."

    "That's ridiculous,"  said Lady  Rosamund crisply.  "The city  has
never been taken, not even during the Iron Wars. Nothing can penetrate
the magic - "

    Lord Samuels appeared about to remonstrate his wife when they were
interrupted by the sound of  a bell ringing in  a distant part of  the
large house.

    "The front  door,"  said  Lady Rosamund,  inclining  her  head  to
listen. "How very strange.  Someone has come out  in this storm!  Were
you expecting anyone?"

    "No," replied Lord  Samuels, puzzled.  "Not even  the Ariels  have
been able to fly in this weather. They used the Corridors- I wonder  .
. ."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 185 The two said nothing more but  waited
nervously and impatiently for the House Magus to appear.

    "My lord," said a wide-eyed  and flustered servant, flinging  open
the door to the  parlor. "P-Prince Garald of  Sharakan and a  catalyst
named Saryon to see you on a matter of extreme urgency."

    "Show them in, please," said Lady Rosamund faintly. Prince Garald!
Here, in  her  house!  She  had  time  enough  to  exchange  a  swift,
questioning glance with her husband, who mutely indicated that he knew
nothing more than she, when the  guests were shown in. The Prince  was
attended by the ever-present black shadows of the Duuk-tMiritb.

    "Your Highness." Lady Rosamund sank into a curtsey but not as deep
as she would have  made to the late  Xavier; after all, Prince  Garald
was the enemy. At least, he  had been an enemy forty-eight hours  ago.
This was all so confusing, so frightening. . . .

    "\bur Grace." Lord Samuels bowed. "We are honored - "

    "Thank you," replied Prince Garald, cutting off milords speech. He
did not  do  so  rudely  or even  intentionally,  but  simply  out  of
weariness. "May I present Father Saryon?"

    "Father," murmured both milord and milady.

    But when  the  catalyst withdrew  his  hood from  his  head,  Lord
Samuels recoiled, staring at him in shock and horror.

    "%u!" he cried in a hollow voice.

    "My lord, I am truly sorry!" Saryons face was drawn and anguished.
"I forgot that you would recognize me  from . . . from the Turning.  I
would not have come upon you m this sudden way had I known - "

    Lady Rosamund went deathly pale. "My  lord, who is this man?"  she
cried, clutching her husband.

    "Lord Samuels,  Lady Rosamund,"  said  Prince Garald  gravely,  "I
suggest that you be seated. The news we bring you will be difficult to
bear and you both must  be strong. It is  unfortunate that we have  to
spring it on you in this abrupt manner, but our time is short."

    "I don't understand!" Lord Samuels  said, looking from one man  to
the other, his face suddenly grown pale. "What news?"

    184 WEIS AND H1CKMAN "It's  about Gwendolyn!" Lady Rosamund  cried
suddenly, with  a mothers  instinct. She  swayed where  she stood  and
Prince Garald  moved to  help her  to  a couch;  her husband  -  still
staring at Saryon in a dazed manner -being totally incapable of coming
to his wifes assistance.

    "Send for the  House Catalyst!" Garald  said aside to  one of  the
Duuk-foarilh, who did as he was instructed. Within moments, Marie  was
at the  side of  her mistress  with a  bowl of  aromatic,  restorative
herbs. Ordering chairs  to come  forward around the  fire, the  Prince
persuaded Lord Samuels to be seated as well.

    A sip or  two of  brandy restored  milords composure  - though  he
continued to stare  at Saryon  - and  milady was  recovered enough  to
flush deeply at the  sight of the Prince  waiting on them. She  begged
His Grace to be seated near the fire and dry his wet robes.

    "Thank you, Lady Rosamund. We  took a carriage here," said  Prince
Garald, noting the color  returning to his  lordships face, yet  still
deeming it wise,  for the  moment, to keep  the conversation  general.
"Despite that,  I am  soaked through.  The Dukes  conveyances are  not
equipped to deal with  snowstorms, and there was  no one in the  manor
this morning with magical energy enough to alter them. By the time  we
arrived, there was an inch of snow in the bottom of the carriage."  He
glanced ruefully down  at his elegant,  wine-colored velvet robes.  "I
fear I am dripping water on your carpet."

    Milady begged the Prince not  to concern himself in the  slightest
degree. The  storm  was  certainly dreadful.  Their  garden  had  been
ruined. . . . Her voice died.  She could not continue. Lying upon  the
couch, holding tightly to Maries hand, she stared at the Prince.

    Garald exchanged glances with Saryon, who nodded slightly.  Rising
to his feet, the catalyst walked across the floor to stand before Lord
Samuels. In his hands, he held a scrollcase.

    "My lord," Saryon began, but hearing his voice. Lady Rosamund made
a choking sound.

    "I know  you!"  she  cried, half-rising,  thrusting  aside  Maries
gentle hands, "You are Father Dunstable! But your face is different,"

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 185 "Yes, I am the man you knew as Father
Dunstable. I was  in your home  in disguise." Saryon  bowed his  head,
flushing in shame. "I beg your  forgiveness. I took the face and  body
of another catalyst when I came to Merilon because - had 1 appeared in
my own form - I would have  been recognized and seized by the  Church.
How . . . how much of my history and of… Jorams do you know, my lord?"
Saryon asked Lord Samuels hesitantly.

    "A great deal," Lord Samuels replied. His voice was steady now. He
gazed fixedly at Saryon,  the horror gone from  his eyes, replaced  by
hope, mingled with  dread. "I  know too much,  in fact,  or so  Xavier
thought. I know about  Joram. I know his  true lineage. I know,  even,
about the Prophecy."

    At this, Garalds face became grave. "Are there many who know about
that?" he asked abruptly.

    "About the Prophecy?"  Lord Samuels  transferred his  gaze to  the
Prince. "Yes, Your Grace. I believe so. Although it is never discussed
openly, I have caught - now and then - oblique references to it  among
several of the higher ranking' nobles. There were, you remember,  many
catalysts present that day. . . ."

    "The Font has ears and eyes and a mouth," murmured Saryon. "Deacon
Dulchase knew. He was  present at that mockery  of a trial Vanya  held
for Joram." The catalyst smiled  faintly, turning the scrollcase  over
in his hand.  "Dulchase was never  noted for his  ability to hold  his
tongue."

    "This makes matters easier. Lord Samuels," Prince Garald remarked,
"at least as far as you are concerned. What it may mean to us later is
difficult to tell, so many knowing of the Prophecy."

    He stared thoughtfully  into the fire.  The flickering flames  did
not brighten the Princes face. They  only made it seem darker,  etched
with deep  shadows  of  worry and  care.  He  made a  gesture  to  the
catalyst. "I am sorry for the interruption. Continue, Father."

    "Lord Samuels,"  began  Saryon  gently,  withdrawing  a  sheaf  of
parchment from  the scrollcase  and holding  it out  to the  man,  who
stared at it but did not take it. "A great shock lie* ahead of you. Be
strong, milord!" The catalyst placed his •hand over the trembling hand
of the nobleman. "We have 186 WEIS AND HICKMAN considered the best way
to prepare  you and,  after  much consultation.  Prince Garald  and  I
decided that you should read this document I now hold in my hand.  The
one who wrote it agrees with us. Will you read it, Lord Samuels?"

    Lord Samuels reached out his hand, but it shook so that he let  it
fall back in his lap. "I can't! You read it for me,. Father," he  said
softly.

    Saryon glanced  questioningiy at  the  Prince, who  nodded  again.
Carefully unrolling  and  smoothing  the document,  the  Priest  began
reading aloud: / leave  this record with Father  Saryon to be read  in
the event that I do not survive my initial encounter with the enemy. .
. .

    As he read Joram's  description of his  entry into Beyond,  Saryon
glanced up now and then to  observe Lord Samuels reaction and that  of
his wife.  He saw  upon  their faces  first perplexity,  then  growing
comprehension, and, finally, unwilling, fearful understanding.

    / can tell you little of  my thoughts and feelings upon walking  -
as I suppose I did -into death, into Beyond.

    A moan  escaped  Lady  Rosamund at  these  words,  accompanied  by
soothing, whispered words from Marie.  Lord Samuels said nothing,  but
his expression  of  grief  and sorrow  and  confusion  touched  Saryon
deeply.

    He glanced at Garald. The Prince  was staring into the flames.  He
had read the document; Joram had given it to him on their return  from
the battlefield  last night.  He had  read it  many times  and  Saryon
wondered if he  fully comprehended  it, fully  understood. The  Priest
didn't think so.  It was too  much to grasp.  He knew it  to be  true.
After all, he had seen the evidence  with his own eyes. Yet it was  so
unreal.

    / did  not even  know-so  lost was  / in  my  own despair  -  that
Gwendolyn had followed me. I remember  hearing her voice as I  stepped
into the mists, calling me to -wait. . . .

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD 187  Lord  Samuels groaned  -  a  deep,
wrenching sob. His  head sank  into his hand.  Saryon ceased  reading.
Rising swiftly. Prince Garald came to kneel by the man's side. Resting
his hand upon milord's arm, he repeated gently, "Be strong, sir!"

    Lord Samuels could not reply, but he laid his hand gratefully over
the hand of the  Prince and seemed  to indicate, by  a weak nod,  that
Saryon was to continue.  The catalyst did so,  his own voice  breaking
once, forcing him to stop and clear his throat.

    When / awoie, / Found myself in a new world, living a new life.  I
married my poor Gwen - to keep her safe and secure -and part of  every
day I spent with her in the quiet, loving place where she stayed while
the healers of Beyond endeavored to find some means to help her.

    It has been ten years . . . ten years in our world . . .

    "My child!" Lady Rosamund cried brokenly. "My poor child!"

    Mane held Lady Rosamund close,  her own tears mingling with  those
of her mistress. Lord  Samuels sat quite still;  he did not raise  his
head or even move. Saryon, after glancing at him a moment in  concern,
continued reading without interruption to the end.

    The game is nothing, the playing of it everything.

    Saryon fell silent. Sighing, he began to roll the parchment in his
hand.

    Outside the window, the falling snow deadened all sound. It seemed
to be covering Merilon in heavy, white silence. The parchment rustling
in the Priests hands sounded  unnaturally loud and jarring.  Cringing,
he stopped.

    Then Prince Garald said, very softly, "My lord, they are here,  in
your home."

    Lord Samuels raised his head. "Here? My Gwen . . ."

    Lady Rosamund clasped her hands together with an eager cry.

    "They are waiting  in the  hall. I want  to make  certain you  are
strong, my lord,"  Garald continued  earnestly, holding  188 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN onto Lord Samuels's arm, restraining  him as it seemed he  was
about to fly  from his  chair. "Remember! It  has been  ten years  for
them! She is not the girl you knew! She is changed - "

    "She is  my daughter,  Your Grace,"  Lord Samuels  said  hoarsely,
thrusting the Prince aside. "And she has come home!"

    "Yes, my lord," replied the  Prince quietly, sadly. "She has  come
home. Father Saryon - "

    The catalyst left without a word. Lady Rosamund, with Marie at her
side, came to stand  by her husband.  He put his  arm around her;  she
clung to him,  hastily wiping away  all traces of  her tears from  her
face and smoothing her  hair. Then she caught  hold of Marie,  holding
the catalysts arm with one hand, her husband's with the other.

    Saryon returned, accompanied by Joram and Gwen, who stood availing
in the doorway,  hesitant to  enter. Both  were muffled  in heavy  fur
cloaks and hoods that they had  retained, not wanting to reveal  their
identity to the servants. On entering,  Joram cast his hood back  from
his head,  revealing a  face that  was- at  first glimpse  - cold  and
impassive as stone. At  the sight of Lord  Samuels and Lady  Rosamund,
however, the mans stern facade crumbled. Tears glimmered in the  brown
eyes. He seemed  to try to  say something  to them, but  he could  not
speak. Gently, turning  to his wife,  he helped Gwen  remove the  hood
from her head.

    Gwen's golden hair gleamed in the firelight. Her pale, sweet  face
with the bright blue eyes glanced curiously around the room.

    "My child!" Lady Rosamund  attempted to float  through the air  to
her daughters side, but her magical energy failed her. Bereft of Life,
she stumbled across the floor. "My child! My Gwendolyn!" Reaching out,
she clasped her daughter in her arms and held her close, laughing  and
crying at the same time.

    Gently pushing  her  mother away,  Gwen  stared at  the  woman  in
amazement. Then recognition gleamed  eerily in her  blue eyes. But  it
was not the recognition for which her parents hungered.

    "Ah, Count Devon," Gwendolyn said,  turning from Lady Rosamund  to
talk - it appeared - to an empty chair. "These must be the people  you
were telling me about!"

    Of Salt  Cellars  And Teapols  |ho  Mno  hough it  was  only  late
after-Lnoon, the snowfall in Mer-ilon  brought premature night to  the
city. The  House Magi's  magic  caused the  lights in  Lord  Samuels's
elegant mansion  to  glow softly,  bringing  cheerful light  into  the
cheerless parlor where Lady Rosamund sat with Marie and her  daughter.
Globes of light brightened guest rooms that had been long closed up as
the servants aired out linen  and warmed beds, scattering rose  petals
about to drive, out the musty odor of long disuse. As they worked, the
servants repeated to  each other  whispered tales  of people  returned
from the dead.

    The only room in the house  that remained dark was milords  study.
The gentlemen  who met  in  there preferred  the shadows  that  seemed
conducive to the nature of their dark conversation.

    "And that  is  the situation  we  face, Lord  Samuels,"  concluded
Joram, staring out  the window,  watching the snow  that continued  to
fall. "The enemy is intent on conquering 190 WE1S AND HICKMAN  TRIUMPH
OF THE  DARKSWORD  m  our  world and  releasing  the  magic  into  the
universe. We have convinced them that such a goal will be difficult to
attain and •will cost them dearly."

    He had spent the past hour describing as best he could the  battle
on the Field of  Glory. Lord Samuels listened  in dazed silence.  Life
Beyond. Creatures made  of iron who  kill with a  glance. Humans  with
metal skin. Gazing from Joram to Lord Samuels, Saryon saw that  milord
was apparently struggling to get a firm grip on the situation, but  it
was obvious from the bemused expression on his face that he felt as if
he were trying to catch hold of fog.

    "What . . . what do we do now?" he asked helplessly.

    "We wait," replied Joram.  "There is a saying  in Beyond. We  must
hope for the best and prepare for the worst."

    "What is the best?"

    "According to the  Duuk-t^aritb who have  been watching them,  the
invaders fled in  panic. It was  a rout, something  better than I  had
hoped. They appear to be - from  what the warlocks can tell -  divided
and  unorganized.  I  know  the  officer  they  chose  to  lead   this
expedition, a Major James Boris. In any other situation he would be  a
good officer, he is rooted in  logic and common sense. But that  makes
him a poor choice to send to this world. He is out of his depth,  over
his head. He won't  be able to cope  with a war that  - to him -  must
come straight out  of a horror  novel. I am  betting he will  retreat,
take his men off-world."

    "And then?"

    "Then, we must find  a way to  seal the Border  once and for  all.
That shouldn't  be  too difficult  -*  "The Duuk-tearitb  are  already
working on it," Garald said. "But it will take an extraordinary amount
of Life.  Some from  each Living  person in  Thimhallan -  or so  they
speculate."

    "And what about the worst?" Lord Samuels asked, after a pause.

    Jorams lips tightened. "Boris  will send for  help. We don't  have
the time or the energy now to stop them on the Border. We must fortify
Merilon. We must wake this city  from its enchanted sleep and  prepare
its people to defend it."

    "First someone  must wrest  control from  that quivering  mass  of
jelly who huddles in his Crystal Cathedral and whines to the Almin  to
protect  him,"  Garald  pointed  out.  "Begging  your  pardon.  Father
Saryon."

    The catalyst smiled wanly and shook his head.

    "You're right,  of course,  Your Grace,  but who  will the  people
follow?" Lord Samuels shifted in his chair, sitting forward. This  was
politics,  something  he  could  understand.  "There  are  some  -like
d'Chambrey - who are intelligent  enough to put aside differences  and
come together to fight this common enemy. But there are others -  like
Sir Chesney, » that thick-headed, stubborn mule. I doubt he'll believe
any of this about other worlds. Merciful Almin!" Lord Samuels ran  his
hand through his graying hair. "I'm not  sure I believe it and I  have
proof before my own eyes. …"

    His gaze  left the  study where  the men  sat talking  and  turned
toward the adjoining parlor.  From within the  cold, formal room  with
its elegant  furnishings,  barely  seen through  the  half-open  door,
Saryon could hear Gwen's voice. Its sad, haunting music was a  fitting
accompaniment - so it seemed to him - to this talk of war and death.

    "Please don't misunderstand," Gwendolyn  was telling her  confused
and distraught  mother.  "Count Devon  is  pleased with  most  of  the
changes you have  made in  his house.  Its just  that he  finds it  so
confusing, what with the new furniture  and all. Then there's so  much
furniture! He wonders if it's all necessary. Particularly these little
tables." Gwendolyn  fluttered a  hand.  "Everywhere he  turns  there's
another little table. He keeps blundering into them in the night.  And
just when he thought he was growing used to the tables, you moved  the
china cabinet. It has stood in the same place for years - on the north
wall of the dining room, wasn't it?"

    "It - it  . .  . blocked the  morning light  . . .  from the  east
windows …" murmured Lady Rosamund faintly.

    "The poor man ran smack into it during the night," said Gwen.  "He
broke a salt cellar - quite by accident, he assures you. But the Count
was wondering if it would be too much trouble to move it back."

    "My poor child!" said Lord Samuels.  With an abrupt motion of  his
hand, he caused  the door  between his study  and the  parlor to  shut
itself quietly. "What  is she talking  about?" he demanded  in a  low,
anguished voice. "She doesn't recog- 192 WE1S AND HICKMAN nlze us, yet
she knows about the . . , the china cabinet and . . . the salt cellar!
The salt cellar! My god! We assumed one of the servants broke it!"

    "What was the name  of the previous owner  of this estate?"  Joram
asked. He, too, had been listening tq his wife, his eyes shadowed with
pain that echoed in his voice.

    Saryon started to  offer comfort, but  Lord Samuels was  answering
Joram s  question and  the catalyst  clamped his  lips shut.  Shifting
restlessly in  his  chair,  the  Priest began  to  rub  his  misshapen
fingers, as though  they ached.  What comfort could  he offer  anyway?
Empty words, that was all.

    "The previous owner? He's dead. His  name was . . ." Lord  Samuels
broke off, staring at Joram in horrified understanding. "Count Devon!"

    "I tried to  tell you,"  Joram said,  sighing. "She  talks to  the
dead. In this world, she would be known as a Necromancer."

    "But the Necromancers  are gone! Their  kind was destroyed  during
the Iron Wars!" Lord Samuels turned his agonized gaze from Joram  back
to the  parlor;  his daughters  voice  could still  be  heard  faintly
through the closed door.

    Joram absently ran  his fingers  through his hair.  "In the  world
Beyond they  consider  her  to  be insane.  They  do  not  believe  in
Necromancy. The healers  theorize that the  terrible trauma  Gwendolyn
underwent caused her  to seek  escape in a  fantasy realm  of her  own
imaginings, a realm where  she feels safe from  harm. I alone  believe
that there is  a certain  sanity in her  madness, that  she can  truly
communicate with the dead."

    "Not you alone. . . ." Saryon corrected ominously.

    Joram s dark brows came together. "No, you are right, Father,"  he
said in a low  voice. "I am  not alone. Menju  the Sorcerer-the man  I
mentioned in my document  - also believes that  she is a  Necromancer.
When he realized how valuable this  ancient skill could prove to  him,
he tried to abduct her. That was when I first became aware of his true
nature."

    "Valuable?" Garald stirred in his chair. Sitting at Lord Samuels's
desk, he'd been studying maps of Thimhallan, but it had grown too dark
in the room  to read them,  and now he  listened to the  conversation.
"How? What can the dead offer the living?"

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 193 "Have  you never studied the work  of
the Necromancers, "Vbur Grace?" asked Saryon.

    "Not much," Garald admitted  indifferently. "They propitiated  the
spirits of the dead -making amends for misdeeds, finishing tasks  left
undone, that sort of  thing. According to  the histories, their  dying
out' after the Iron Wars was no great loss."

    "I beg to  differ with  you, Your Grace,"  Saryon said  earnestly.
"When the Necromancers died  out, the Church made  it appear to be  no
great loss. But it seems  to me that it was.  I have spent many  hours
with Gwendolyn, listening to her talk with those only she can see  and
hear. The dead  possess something  of incomparable  value -  something
that will forever be withheld from the living."

    "And that is - " Garald said  somewhat impatiently, ob- i - i •  •
viously wanting to turn the conversation to more important matters but
too polite to offend the catalyst.

    "Complete understanding, Your Grace! When  we die, we will  become
one with the Creator. We will know His plans for the universe. We will
see, at last, the Cosmic Scheme!"

    Garald suddenly  appeared interested.  "Do you  believe this?"  he
asked.

    "I -I'm not certain." Saryon  flushed, averting his face,  staring
down at his shoes. "It  is what we are  taught," he added lamely.  The
old tormenting questioning of his  faith - questioning he had  thought
answered by Joram  s "death"  - was being  bandied about  by his  soul
again.

    "Say this is true," Garald  persisted. "Could the dead grant  this
knowledge of the future to the living?"

    "Whether or not I believed  it, Your Grace"-Saryon smiled sadly  -
"that would seem to  me to be  impossible. The world  the dead see  is
beyond our ability to comprehend, much  as it is impossible for us  to
understand this world  Joram has seen.  We see time  through a  single
window that  faces  only one  direction.  The dead  see  time  through
hundreds of windows  facing all directions."  The catalyst spread  his
scarred hands in  an effort to  express the enormity  of this  vision.
"How, then, can  they hope  to describe what  they see!  But they  can
offer advice. And they did -through the Necromancers. In ancient days,
the dead  were granted  the  op- 194  WEIS  AND HICKMAN  portunity  to
counsel the living. People venerated their dead, they kept in  contact
with them, and they had the benefit of the dead's insight into the one
Vast Mind. That is what has been lost, Your Grace."

    "I see."  Garald pondered,  his eyes  gazing thoughtfully  at  the
closed door.

    Saryon shook his head.

    "No, Your Grace," he said quietly. "She cannot help us. For all we
know, this  unfortunate  Count, talking  of  china cabinets  and  salt
cellars, may be trying to get our attention to explain something  much
more  important.  But,  if  so,   Gwendolyn  could  not  impart   that
information to us. She can communicate with the dead, but not with the
living."

    The Prince appeared ready to pursue the subject, but Saryon  -with
a glance  at  Lord Samuels  and  another at  Joram  - shook  his  head
slightly, reminding the Prince that -  for two people at least -  this
was a painful subject. The father  gazed through the closed door,  the
expression on his face one of perplexity and grief. The husband stared
out  into  the  dead,  snow-shrouded  garden  in  bitter  resignation.
Clearing his throat, Prince Garald abruptly changed the subject.

    "We were discussing the fact that Merilon needs a leader,  someone
to rally the people,"  he said briskly. "I  have stated before, I  can
think of only one person. . . ."

    "No!" Joram turned from the window with an impatient gesture. "No,
Your Grace," he added more gently, in a belated attempt to soften  the
harshness of his reply.

    "Joram, listen to me!" Garald leaned forward to argue. "You are by
far the - "

    A Corridor  gaped  open  suddenly  in the  center  of  the  study,
interrupting  the  Prince.   Everyone  in  the   room  stared  at   it
expectantly, but for a moment  nothing was visible. Saryon could  hear
voices coming from within, however, and what sounded like a struggle.

    "Take your hands  off me!  Lout! You've crushed  the velvet.  I'll
have fingermarks on my sleeve for a week! I - "

    Simkin, dressed in bright green hose,  an orange hat, and a  green
velvet doublet tumbled out of the  Corridor, landing in a heap on  the
floor. He was followed by Mosiah,  still dressed in the uniform of  an
archer of Sharakan, and by two, black-robed and hooded Duuk-tjaritb.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 795  Apparently nonplussed  at his  less
than graceful  entrance,  Simkin  rose  to  his  feet,  bowed  to  the
assembled gentlemen, and said grandly,  with a flutter of orange  silk
and a graceful wave of his hand, "Your Grace, congratulate me. I  have
found them!"

    Ignoring Simkin, who was preening  himself on his latest  triumph,
Mosiah turned to the Prince. "Your Grace, we found him. He was in  the
enemy's camp.  Acting  on  your  orders,  the  Thon-li,  the  Corridor
Masters, caught  him and  brought  him to  me.  With their  help"-  he
indicated the warlocks -"I managed to drag him here."

    ^Which is precisely where I was coming!" said Simkin with a pained
expression. "Or I would  have been if I'd  known where here was.  I've
been searching everywhere,  quite pining  away for a  glimpse of  your
handsome face,  O  Prince.  You  see,  I  have  the  most  frightfully
important information - "

    "According to the Thon-li,  he was on his  way to the  Cathedral,"
interrupted Mosiah caustically.

    Simkin sniffed.  "I  presumed  %ur Grace  was  there,  of  course.
Everyone who is anyone  is at the Cathedral.  The peasants are  giving
the most jolly riot - "

    "Riot?" Prince Garald looked at the Duuk-tjaritb for confirmation.

    "Yes, Your  Grace," said  the  black-robed warlock,  hands  folded
before him.  "We  were  coming  to report  this  to  you  when  Mosiah
requested our assistance. The Field Magi have broken out of the  Grove
and are  storming the  Cathedral, demanding  to see  the Bishop."  The
black hood lowered  slightly, one  of the hands  making a  deprecating
movement. "We could not  stop them. Your Grace.  Though they have  few
catalysts, they  are  still  strong  in  magic,  and  our  forces  are
weakened."

    "I understand,"  Prince Garald  said gravely,  exchanging  alarmed
glances with Lord Samuels. Saryon saw both of them look toward  Joram,
who refused  to meet  their  eyes, but  stood  with his  back  turned,
staring into the  garden that  could now  barely be  seen through  the
gloom. "What is the Bishop doing?"

    "He refuses to see them. Your  Grace. He has ordered the doors  to
the Cathedral magically sealed. Those members of 196 WEIS AND  HICKMAN
our Order with strength enough to cast spells are guarding it."

    "So the Cathedral is safe for the time being?" '

    "Yes-"

    "They won't attack it, Your Grace!" Mosiah cried. "They don't want
to hurt anyone! They're frightened and they want answers.

    "Is your father among them, Mosiah?" Prince Garald asked quietly.

    "Yes, my lord," Mosiah said. His face flushed. "My father is their
leader. He knows what really happened  m the battle yesterday. I  told
him. Maybe it was wrong of me," he added with half-proud,  half-shamed
defiance, "but they have a right to know the truth!"

    "They do indeed," Prince  Garald said, "and  hopefully we will  be
able to impart  it to  them." He glanced  at Joram,  who continued  to
stare into the night, his face stern and impassive. Shoving aside  the
maps, Prince Garald  stood up  and began  pacing the  room, his  hands
behind him.  "So, Simkin,"  he  said abruptly,  turning to  the  green
velvet clad young man, "you've been to see the enemy."

    "E'gad! Of  course!" said  Simkin. With  a wave  of his  hand,  he
conjured up a fainting-couch. "You will  excuse me, I hope?" he  asked
languidly, stretching out on the couch that sat squarely in the center
of the study, making it impossible  for the Prince to continue  pacing
without running into it.  "And do you mind  if I change clothes?  I've
been wearing this same  color of green  for hours and  I fear it  does
nothing for my complexion. Makes me look quite jaundiced."

    As he spoke,  the green  hose and  doublet transformed  themselves
into a red brocade dressing gown,  trimmed with black fur cuffs and  a
thick fur  collar. Red  slippers with  curled toes  adorned his  feet.
Simkin appeared quite charmed with these and, lifting a foot, regarded
it with delight.

    "The enemy?" Garald reminded him.

    "Oh, yes! Well,  what else  was I supposed  to do,  \bur Grace?  I
trotted about  the  battlefield  for  a  bit,  but  -while  undeniably
entertaining, it struck me  that there was a  chance that I might  see
the light, so to speak, in a most painful manner. Having a hole burned
in one's skull is not my idea of an illuminating experience. However,"
continued Simkin, TRIUMPH  OF THE  DARKSWORD 197  plucking the  orange
silk from  the  air  and  dabbing  delicately  at  his  nose,  "I  was
determined to do something for my country. So, at great personal  risk
to myself,  I  decided"--dramatic flourish  of  the orange  silk  -"to
become a spy!"

    "Go on," ordered Gerald.

    "Certainly.  By  the  bye,  Joram,  dear  fellow,"  said   Simkin,
reclining among an  abundance of silk  pillows, "did I  say that I  am
delighted to see you?" He waved the orange silk. "You're looking well,
though I must say you have not aged the least bit gracefully."

    "If you were  in the enemy's  camp, tell us  what you saw!"  Joram
persisted.

    "Oh, I  was there,"  said Simkin,  smoothing his  mustache with  a
slender finger. "Shall I prove  it to you, my  King? I am, after  all,
your fool. Do  you remember? Two  Death cards? You  dying twice?  They
laughed at me then" - he glanced  slyly at Mosiah and Saryon - "but  1
don't see them  laughing now. I  had a  devil of a  time getting  into
camp. Corridor is crawling with black and creepy things" - a  scathing
glance at the Duuk-baritk-"all lurking about the enemy. . . .

    "Thats going to end, by  the way," Simkin added nonchalantly.  "An
old friend  of  yours  who  calls himself  Dog  Doo  the  Sorcerer  or
something like that has sealed off the Corridors - "

    Joram went white to the lips, becoming so pale that Saryon went to
his side, resting a supportive hand on his arm. So this is it,  Saryon
thought. What he's feared all along has come to pass.

    "Menju." Joram said in a barely audible voice.

    "What did  you  say?  Menju? That's  it!  Beastly  name!  Charming
fellow,  however.  Travels  about  with  a  crude  sort  -  a   short,
thick-necked military type who doesn't drink tea. Nevertheless,  there
I sat, a perfect teapot upon his desk. Crude fellow sent me out with a
heavy-handed  sergeant,  a   dim-witted  man,   fortunately.  It   was
simplicity itself for  me to return  while he wasn't  looking. I  say,
dear boy, are you listening?"

    Joram didn't answer. Gently putting aside Saryon s hand, he walked
blino*ly to  the  fireplace,  his  white  robes  brushing  the  floor.
Gripping the edge of the mantelpiece,  he stared 198 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN
into the embers of the dying fire, his face drawn and troubled.

    "He is here!" he said at last. "Of course, I was expecting it. But
how? Did he escape or did they free him?" He turned, staring at Simkin
with eyes  that  burned  more  brightly  than  the  smoldering  coals.
"Describe this man. What does he look like?"

    "A handsome devil.  Sixty if hes  a day, though  he pretends  he's
thirty-nine. Tall, broad-shouldered, gray hair, lovely teeth. I  don't
think the teeth  are his, by  the way. Dressed  in the most  fearfully
drab clothes . . , ."

    "It's him!" muttered Joram, slamming  his fist into the mantel  in
sudden anger.

    "And he's in charge, dear boy.  It seems this Major Boris was  all
for clearing out and - Ha, ha! There was one highly amusing  incident,
must mention in passing. Sorcerer  . . . ha,  ha … mutated the  Majors
hand . . .  turned it into  a chicken foot! The  look on the  wretched
man's face .  . .  priceless, I assure  you! Ah,  well," Simkin  said,
wiping his eyes, "I suppose you had to be there. Where was I? Oh, yes.
Major was going to chuck it all  and call it quits, but this-what  did
you say his name was? Menju?  \es. This Menju fellow changed poor  old
Boris's hand into a drumstick, causing  the Major to "chicken" out  if
you 11 forgive the expression."

    Simkin appeared quite pleased with his joke.

    "And?" persisted Joram.

    "And what? Oh, that. The Majors not leaving."

    "Joram - " Garald began sternly.

    "What do they plan to do?" Joram asked, silencing the Prince.

    "There was a word they  used," Simkin said, stroking his  mustache
thoughtfully. "A word that described it quite aptly. Let me think. . .
. Ah! I have it! Genocide!"

    "Genocide?" Garald repeated in perplexity. "What does that mean?"

    "Extermination of a  race of people,"  Joram answered grimly.  "Of
course. It makes sense. Menju must kill us all."

    The Almin  tkwe  Mercy  Horam,  keep  your  voice  ^down!"  Mosiah
ordered.

    It was  too late.  The door  between the  rooms opened,  but  Lady
Rosamund appeared. Her  face was  livid. She and  Marie had  obviously
both overheard Joram. Only  Gwendolyn remained unaffected, sitting  in
the parlor and chatting calmly with the late Count Devon.

    "I'm certain  they'll move  the china  cabinet back  to the  north
wall, since I've explained," she was saying. "Is there anything  else?
Mice, you say, in the attic? They're eating your portrait thats stored
up there? Ill mention it, but - "

    Distractedly,  Lady  Rosamund  gazed  from  her  daughter  to  her
husband. "Mice! China cabinets. . . . Now  . . . what I heard him  say
in here!  They're going  to kill  us? Why?  Why is  this happening?  "
Putting her head in her hands, she began to sob.

    "My dear,  calm  yourself," said  Lord  Samuels, hurrying  to  his
wife's side. Taking her in his arms, he laid her head upon 200 W E I S
AND H  I C  K M  A N  his chest,  smoothing her  hair with  his  hand.
"Remember the children," he murmured, "and the servants."

    "1 know!" Biting on her handkerchief, Lady Rosamund sought to hush
her weeping. "I'll be strong. I will!" she said, choking. "Its just  …
all too much! My poor child! My poor child!"

    "Gentlemen, Your Grace," said Lord Samuels, looking back into  the
study, "please excuse me.  Come, my dear," he  said, helping his  wife
stand. "I'll  take you  to your  room. Everything's  going to  be  ail
right. Marie, stay with my daughter."

    "Gwendolyn will be  fine, my lord."  Father Saryon intervened.  "I
will stay with her. Mane should be with her mistress."

    Lord Samuels led  his wife  upstairs, Mane  attending her.  Father
Saryon sat down in a chair near Gwendolyn, looking anxiously at her to
see if this news disturbed her  as well. Apparently not. Perfectly  at
home in  the  world  of  the  dead,  she  was  oblivious  to  anything
transpiring in the world of the living.

    "Father," said Joram abruptly, turning from where he stood  beside
the fireplace in milord's  study, "please move  closer, where you  can
hear us. I need your counsel."

    What counsel can  I offer? the  catalyst wondered bitterly.  Joram
brought this doom upon the woman who loved him, upon her parents, upon
the world. Upon himself.

    Did he have a choice? Did we?

    Patting Gwendolyns hand, Saryon left  her discussing the need  for
acquiring a cat with the Count. Moving his chair nearer the door  that
separated the parlor  from milords  study, he  sat down,  his heart  a
burden almost too  heavy to bear.  What will he  do now? Saryon  asked
himself, his eyes on Joram. What will he do?

    Raising his  head, almost  as  though he  had heard  the  unspoken
question, Joram faced him. The lead weight of Saryon's heart sank, his
fears bearing it down. The pain-filled, anguished lines carved in  the
sculptured face  had been  ground out,  leaving it  smooth, hard,  and
unyielding. The bleeding soul  had crept into  its stone fortress  and
was hiding there, nursing its wounds.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 201 "Genocide. This explains everything,"
Joram said coolly. "The murder of the civilians, the disappearance  of
the catalysts-"

    * Joram, listen  to me!"  interrupted Prince  Garald sternly.  The
Prince gestured  at  Simkin who  was  lounging, eyes  closed,  on  the
fainting-couch. "How did he know what they were saying?"

    "By the Almin!" Joram swore softly. "That's true!" He turned  from
the mantelpiece. "How da? you  understand what they said, Simkin?  You
can't speak their language."

    "I can't?"  Simkins eyes  flared  open wide.  He appeared  no  end
astonished. "By Jove, I  wish someone had told  me! Here I wasted  all
this time,  sitting  on  the Majors  desk,  allowing  that  ham-fisted
sergeant to run  off with me,  listening to them  talk of sending  for
reinforcements, hearing that  the re* inforcements  will be unable  to
get here for seventy-two hours.  . . . Now you  tell me that I  didn't
understand a single word they said? I'm quite put out!" Simkin  glared
round at them indignantly. "The least  you could have done was tell  a
chap beforehand!"

    Sniffing, wiping his  nose with orange  silk, Simkin Hung  himself
back on the couch pillows and stared gloomily at the ceiling.

    "Seventy-two hours," Joram  muttered to himself.  "Thats the  time
from the nearest starbase. . . ."

    "Vbu believe him?" Garald demanded.

    "I must!" Joram flashed back. "And so must you," he added  grimly.
"I don't  know how  to explain  it,  but he's  seen the  Sorcerer  Hes
described him and Major Boris! And  what he claims he overheard  makes
sense. Boris dtdti V come here  with orders to slaughter us! He  came,
undoubtedly, to  intimidate us  with a  show of  force, figuring  we'd
surrender. But Menju doesn't want  that." Joram shifted his gaze  from
Garald back to the  flickering embers. "He wants  the magic. He is  of
this world. He wants to return to it and gain its power. And he  wants
everyone in it who could be a threat to him dead!"

    "That's why he has taken  the catalysts prisoner," said Saryon  in
sudden understanding. "He is using them to give him Life - "

    202'

    WEIS AND H1CKMAN " - and he is using that Life to intimidate Major
Boris and to seal off the Corridor."

    "I don't'believe it! This is ridiculous!" Standing Jn the  shadows
of the study,  practically forgotten, Mosiah  had listened to  Simkins
story in disbelief. Now, coming forward, he looked from the Prince  to
Joram to Saryon pleadingly. "Simkins  made this all up! They  couldn't
kill us all -  everyone in Thimhallan!  That's thousands, millions  of
people!"

    "They can and they will," Joram said flatly. "They Have  committed
genocide before on their  own world, back in  ancient times, and  when
they went forth into the stars and found life there, they did it again
- slaughtering large numbers  of beings whose only  crime was that  of
being 'different. '  They have developed  highly efficient methods  of
killing - weapons that  are capable of  wiping out entire  populations
within minutes.

    "They won't use those  here on this  world, however," Joram  added
thoughtfully. "Menju needs the magic  in this world to remain  intact,
undisturbed. He couldn't  risk using  a high-energy  weapon, one  that
might disrupt Life. . . ."

    Garald shook his head, frustrated, obviously not understanding. "I
agree with Mosiah. It's impossible!"

    "No it isn't!" Joram  cried angrily. "Get that  out of your  mind!
Admit the danger! There  are millions of people  here, yes! But  there
are hundreds  of thousands  of millions  in Beyond!  Their armies  are
enormous. They  can  bring  in  soldiers  numbering  three  times  the
population of Thimhallan if they choose!

    "We fight. We defend our cities."  Joram shrugged. "In the end  we
must lose, overwhelmed  by sheer  force of numbers  alone. Those  that
survive the sieges and the  battles will be systematically rounded  up
and put to death: man, woman, and child. The Sorcerer will keep a  few
hundred catalysts or so, to make  certain their kind doesn't die  out,
but that will  be all.  He will  gain control  of this  world, of  its
magic, and he and those few like  him in the world Beyond will  become
invincible."

    "The end of  the world.  . . ."  Garald spoke  before he  thought.
Saryon saw his face flush, and he cast a swift glance at Joram.  "Damn
it!" the Prince said suddenly,  slamming his TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD
203 hands on the desk. "We've got to stop them! There must be a way!"

    Joram did  not immediately  answer. The  fire flared  and, for  an
instant, Saryon  saw  by its  light  the mans  lips  twist in  a  dark
half-smile and suddenly the catalyst  was no longer in Lord  Samuels's
home, in the snow-bound city of  Merilon. Once again, Saryon stood  in
the forge in the Sorcerers village; he  saw the fire of the hot  coals
shine in dark eyes; he saw  a young man hammering a strangely  glowing
metal; once  again, he  saw  the bitter,  vengeful youth  forging  the
Darksword. . . .

    Someone else saw that youth, too. Someone else in the room saw and
remembered. Mosiah looked at the man who had a year ago been his best,
his only friend.

    He looked at a man he no longer knew.

    In the excitement and danger of the past day and night, MosiaK had
been able to avoid looking at Joram  - a Joram who had aged ten  years
to Mosiah s one, who had lived in another world, who had seen  wonders
that Mosiah could neither imagine nor comprehend. Now, in die  hushed,
fear* laden silence, Mosiah  could no longer  avoid studying the  face
that he knew so  well, yet didn't  know at all.  His eyes misted  with
tears and he chided himself, knowing that he should be concerned  with
this larger  tragedy, the  impending destruction  of his  people,  his
world.

    But that  was too  big, too  awful  to grasp.  He focused  on  his
smaller,  personal  tragedy,  feeling  selfish,  but  helpless  to  do
otherwise. Hearing Joram  s voice was  like listening to  one who  was
dead. It was - to  Mosiah - the ghost  of his friend speaking  through
this stranger.

    Had it been  the same for  Saryon? Mosiah glanced  at the  Priest,
whose eyes were fixed on Joram as well. Grief and sorrow mingled  with
pride and love  on the catalysts  face, and it  made Mosiah feel  very
lonely. No, the catalysts love for the man is as strong and abiding as
it was for the youth. And why  shouldn't it be? After all, Saryon  had
sacrificed his life for that love.

    And Garald?  Mosiah s  gaze  turned toward  the Prince.  That  was
different. It had been  easy for the  Prince to find  in 204 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN this man the admired comrade  he had seen in the young  Joram.
Differences in  age  and maturity  had  made friendship  difficult  to
establish then. Now at  last they were equals.  It was Garald who  had
taken Mosiah s place.

    As for Simian, Mosiah cast him  a bitter glance. Joram could  have
come back  a  salamander and  it  wouldn't have  affected  the  fool's
feelings one way  or the other.  There was no  one else who  mattered.
Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were still in shock, unable to register
any feelings at all except confusion and grief and fear.

    That was how Mosiah  had felt at First,  but the initial fear  had
been submerged in much greater fears,  the shock had worn itself  out.
Now he felt only  empty and sad -a  feeling made worse whenever  Joram
looked at him. For  Mosiah saw, reflected in  the man's eyes, his  own
sense of bitter loss.  Neither could ever regain  what they once  had.
For him, Joram had died when he stepped across that Border. Mosiah had
lost his friend, never to find him again.

    Long minutes passed. The  only sound intruding  on the silence  in
milord's study was Gwendolyns voice, rising and falling, wandering  in
and out like a playful child.  The voice wasn't disturbing. In an  odd
way, Mosiah considered it as much a part of the silence as the silence
itself. If silence found a tongue and could speak, it would talk  with
her voice. And then, Gwen's voice could no longer be heard.  Unnoticed
by Saryon, who was lost in a  frightful dream of the past, she  glided
silently from the parlor.

    . Now a waterclbck, keeping track of the seconds, could be  heard,
its drip, drip of passing time causing tiny ripples to mar the surface
of the silence. Outside, the  snow changed to rain. Drumming  dismally
upon the roof,  it thudded  into the  thick snow  with dull,  plopping
splatters. A miniature avalanche of  snow, loosened by the rain,  slid
off the roof  with a rumbling,  scraping sound, crashing  down in  the
garden outside the  window. So quiet  was the room  and so tense  were
those inside  that  this  caused  everyone  to  start,  including  the
disciplined, unmoving  Duuk-foarith,  Black  hoods  quivered,  fingers
twitched.

    At last, Joram spoke.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 205 "We have seventy-two hours," he said,
turning to face them, his voice firm, resolved. "Seventy-two hours  to
do to them what they intend to do to us."

    "No, Joram!" Saryon rose from his chair. "You can't mean that!"

    "I assure you I do  mean it. Father. It  is our only hope,"  Joram
said coldly. His white  robes, catching the light  of the dying  fire,
gleamed faintly in the gray gloom of the room that was darkening  with
the coming of night. "We must  destroy the enemy utterly, to the  last
man. There must be no one left alive to return to Beyond. Once we have
wiped them out, we can repair  the Border and seal ourselves off  from
the rest of the universe finally and forever."

    "Yes!" said Garald  decisively. "We'll strike  them swiftly,  take
them by surprise!"

    Walking to the  desk, Joram  bent over  a map,  "Here's where  the
enemy is  located." He  pointed,  tracing a  route with  his  fingers.
"We'll bring in  War Masters  from Zith-el here.  Centaurs and  giants
from the Outland. We can attack from these positions - "  Impatiently,
he glanced about. "I can't see. We need light. . . ."

    Globes of flame  burst into  life, the  Duuk-tearitb casting  them
into the air to dispel the shadows.

    "The Field Magi will fight!" Mosiah said eagerly, hurrying over to
the table to join Joram and the Prince.

    "Well present this plan to the nobles at the meeting tonight." The
Prince hurriedly began rolling up the map. "Speaking of that, its time
we were going."

    "How soon can we be ready?"

    "Tomorrow night. Our people will be rested by then. We can  strike
tomorrow night."

    "And we kill them all, every one! No survivors!"

    "I say, how jolly!" Simkin woke  up. "I have just the ensemble.  I
call it Blood and Gubl"

    "May the Aim  In have mercy  on their souls!"  Prince Garald  said
coolly, motioning  for the  Duuk-tMirttb to  bring his  sword and  his
cloak.

    "Almin have mercy!"  Saryons hoarse cry  startled them all.  Joram
and Mosiah turned. Prince Garald looked around.

    206 WEIS AND HICKMAN "I beg your pardon, Father," the Prince  said
apologetically, "I meant no sacrilege."

    "Sacrilege? Don't you fools see? How can you be so blind? There if
no Almin! There will be no mercy! I couldn't admit it to myself  until
now." Saryon spoke feverishly,  his gaze not  on them but  abstracted,
staring far away. "But I've known for a long, long time.

    "I knew It as I watched Vanya carry that tiny baby to its death. I
knew it as I watched  Joram step into Beyond. I  knew it as I  watched
the endless mist  day after day  while they chopped  at my flesh  with
their tools and broke my fingers, trying to take the weapon forged  of
darkness! I knew it as I  watched the creatures of iron rumble  across
our world."

    Saryon clasped his deformed  hands together as  if he would  pray,
but his twisted  fingers turned  the gesture into  a pitiful  mockery.
"And now I hear you talk of more killing, of more slaughter. The Almin
doesn't exist! He doesn't care! We  have been left here alone to  play
this senseless game!"

    "Father!"  Mosiah,  appalled,  hurried   over  to  lay  his   hand
remonstratingly on Saryons arm. "Don't say such things!"

    Angrily Saryon shook himself free. "No Almin! No mercy!" he  cried
bitterly.

    A crash,  sounding from  another room,  interrupted the  catalysts
tirade. A  shout from  the servants  caused everyone  - including  the
Duuk-tearitb - to  run from the  study to the  dining room.  Everyone,
that is, except Simkin, who took advantage of the confusion to quickly
and quietly disappear.

    "Gwendolyn!" Joram caught hold  of his wife.  "Are you all  right?
Father, come quickly! She's hurt herself!"

    The china cabinet was  in ruins, its  wood shattered; the  fragile
porcelain and glass it contained were nothing but splintered fragments
scattered about  the  floor.  In  the  midst  of  the  wreckage  knelt
Gwendolyn, holding  a fragment  of  broken glass  in her  hand.  Blood
dripped from her fingers.

    "He's sorry, he truly is," Gwen said, looking around at them  with
her bright blue eyes. "But you've  changed things so much, he  doesn't
recognize his own home anymore."

    The Emperor's Son T mou [he muttering of the crowd [outside  could
be heard within  the walls  of Crystal  Cathedral, an  ocean of  sound
surging up from the  street and breaking in  rolling waves upon  their
transparent surface.

    Standing beside his chair, staring  out at the hundreds of  people
who hovered in the rain-soaked twilight outside, Bishop Vanya's  right
hand clenched in impotent fury. His  left hand would have clenched  as
well, except that it hung limp at his side. Moodily Vanya reached over
to massage  the limb  that  refused to  obey  his commands,  his  eyes
glaring at the crowd below with increasing frustration.

    "What do they want of me?" he demanded, turning his glare upon the
Cardinal, who recoiled from the baleful gaze. "What do they expect  me
to do?"

    "Perhaps talk to them, say  a few words. . .  . Let them know  the
Almin is with them," suggested the Cardinal in mollifying tones.

    208 WEIS AND HICKMAN The  Bishop snorted, the explosive  discharge
so loud that it startled the Cardinal, already trembling with  nervous
dread. The Bishop was  about to tell his  minister what he thought  of
that idea  when  a hush  fell  over  the people  below,  catching  the
attention of both men.

    "Now what?"  Vanya  muttered, turning  to  look back  through  the
crystal wall, the Cardinal  hurrying to his side.  "See? ' The  Bishop
snorted again. "What did I tell you?"

    Prince Garald had appeared  above the crowd,  riding upon a  black
swan. Accompanying him was Joram. At the first sight of the man in the
white robes, a. ripple  of excitement ran  through the multitude.  The
Bishop, pressed against the crystal waiT could hear their shouts.

    "Angel of Death!" he repeated bitterly. He glanced at his  quaking
minister. "You want me to tell them the Alnun is with them,  Cardinal?
Hah! They  are  being  led  by the  Prince  of  Sorcerers,  the  devil
incarnate, allied with a  Dead man! He is.  marching them straight  to
their doom! And they,  not content to follow  like sheep, rush  toward
it, hurling themselves off the cliff!"

    Pursing his  lips angrily,  the Bishop  turned back  to watch  the
scene outside his walls.

    Prince Garald,  descending  from the  swans  back, walked  onto  a
marble platform that floated in the air above the heads of the  crowd.
Throwing back the hood of his cloak, he stood bareheaded in the  rain,
holding up his hands to call for silence. Joram followed more  slowly.
He appeared uneasy, standing on  the platform's rain-slick surface  so
far above the ground.

    "Citizens of Thimhallan, listen to met" Prince Garald cried.

    The crowds shouting ceased, but  the silence that replaced it  was
an angry silence, almost louder than the noise preceding it.

    "I know," Garald  spoke to  the silence.  "I am  your enemy.  Say,
rather, I was your enemy, for I am your enemy no longer!"

    Vanya muttered something at this.

    "Holiness?" asked the Cardinal, who didn't catch it.

    The Bishop, attending closely to the Princes words that could just
barely be heard through the crystal walls, motioned irritably for  his
minister to keep quiet.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 209 "You have all heard the rumors  about
the battle," the Prince was saying. "You have heard about creatures of
iron that can kill with a glance of their blazing eyes. You have heard
of strange humans who carry death in their hands."

    The silence  remained  unbroken,  but there  was  a  shifting  and
rustling in the crowd as each man glanced at his neighbor, nodding  in
confirmation.

    "It is all true," Prince Garald continued m a low, grim voice. Low
as it was, it  could be heard  quite plainly by  the hushed crowd.  It
could be heard quite plainly by the Bishop and his Cardinal,  standing
in the Bishop's chambers above them.

    "It. is true!"  Garald raised  his voice.  "It is  also true  that
Emperor Xavier is dead."

    Now the silence broke. The crowd cried out in anger, scowling  and
shaking their heads and occasionally their fists.

    "Ifyou don't believe me," Prince Garald called out, "look up there
and you will  see the  truth!". He  pointed -  not to  heaven as  some
supposed at first, but to Bishop Vanya.

    Standing near the transparent wall,  illuminated by the lights  in
his office, the  Bishop was plainly  visible to the  crowd below.  Too
late, he tried to move, but he could not. Although his left leg wasn't
paralyzed as was his arm,  it was weak and  he could not maneuver  his
great bulk about as easily as before. He could do nothing,  therefore,
except stand in  his chambers, staring  down at the  people, his  face
contorted by an outer  struggle to appear calm  and an inner  struggle
with his fury. There was no mistaking  the truth in the pallor of  the
mans jowls, the sagging face, the  writhing grimace of the mouth.  The
ram sliding  down  the wall  made  the Bishop  appear  as if  he  were
melting. Glancing at  one another, muttering,  the people turned  away
from the Bishop to listen to the Prince.

    "An enemy  is out  there," Prince  Garald continued  relentlessly,
shouting above the growing restless voice of the crowd, "an enemy more
terrifying than you can imagine. This enemy has penetrated the Border!
It has come from Beyond, from the realm of Death! This enemy seeks  to
bring death to our world!"

    The crowd shouted loudly, drowning out the Prince's words.

    210 WEIS AND HICKMAN Bishop Vanya  shook his head, a sneer  curled
his lip. "There will be  born to the Royal Hou^e  one who is dead  yet
will live, who wilt fa again and  live again. And when he returns,  he
will hold in hut  hand the destruction of  the world," Vanya  repeated
softly. "Follow him, you fools. Follow him. . . ."

    "We must join together against this enemy!" Garald cried out,  and
the crowd  cheered. "I  have  been meeting  with  the nobles  of  your
city-state. They have agreed with me. Will you fight?"

    "Aye, but whoII lead us?"

    This voice  came from  the front  of the  crowd, spoken  by a  man
dressed in the plain, shabby clothes of a Field Magus. He flew forward
hesitantly, as  though  being  shoved from  behind.  Snatching  off  a
bedraggled hat, he held it awkwardly in his hand and appeared at first
abashed to be standing before the Prince. But once there, hovering  in
the air  in front  of  the platform,  he straightened  his  shoulders,
facing the Prince and the white-robed man with quiet dignity.

    At this  moment, a  young man  who had  been sitting  - quiet  and
unobserved - on the back of the black swan rose into the air and  came
drifting down beside the Field Magus.

    "Prince Garald,"  said the  young  man, "allow  me to  present  my
father."

    "I am  honored, sir,"  the  Prince said,  bowing in  his  graceful
manner. "

    "Your son is  a valiant warrior  who fought the  enemy at my  side
yesterday."

    The Field Magus flushed in pleasure at hearing this praise of  his
boy, but it did not deter him from his purpose. Clearing his throat in
embarrassment, he glanced around at his followers, then continued.

    "Begging your pardon,  Your Grace.  You say you  aren't our  enemy
anymore. You  say that  there's an  enemy out  there bigger'n  we  can
imagine. I guess we know thats true. We've all heard the tales told by
my boy here, and others who were out there with you. An' we're willin*
to fight this enemy, whoever he is or wherever he conies from."

    The murmuring grew louder, and  there were, calls of support  from
the crowd.

    "But," the Field Magus continued, nervously smoothing the hat with
his callused, work-hardened hands, "no matter how honorable or noble a
man you are,  Prince Garald -  and TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 211  I've
heard good things  told of  you, I admit-you're  a stranger  to us.  I
think I speak not  only for us  field workers but  for the people  who
work in this city as well"-cries of assent from the crowd -"when I say
that we would feel  better goin' into battle,  led by someone who  was
one of us, so to  speak. Someone we could count  on to think of us  as
people he knew, not cattle bein' led to slaughter."

    Joram stepped  forward,  watching  his footing  carefully  on  the
slippery platform. "I know you, Jacobias. And you know me, though  you
may find that difficult to believe. I  swear to you - " extending  his
hands, he  looked out  at the  crowd -  "I swear  to all  of you,"  he
shouted, "that you can trust this man, Prince Garald, with your lives!
We have just come from a  gathering of the Albanara\ They have  chosen
Prince Garald as their leader. I pledge  him my support and I ask  you
-"

    "No, no! We won't follow Sharakan!"

    "One of our own!"

    Mosiah, flushing in  embarrassment, was arguing  with his  lather.
Garald glanced at Joram,  as much as  to say "I  told you so."  Joram,
avoiding his gaze, was  trying to make himself  heard when one  single
voice, coming from the center of die crowd, rose above the clamor.

    "You lead them, my son!"

    The crowd  hushed.  The  voice was  familiar.  The  words,  though
quietly spoken, were said with such pride, mingled with a deep sorrow,
that they echoed in the heart louder than a shout.

    "Who said that?" People  hovering in the  air peered down  beneath
their feet, for the voice had seemed to come from below.

    "He did! The old man! Stand aside and let him speak!"

    Several people, floating above an old man, pointed at him. Backing
away, they left him to stand alone in an ever-widening circle. The old
man remained on  the ground; he  did not  rise into the  air with  the
others. No catalyst was with him,  no friends, no family. His  clothes
were shabby and tattered, nearly falling from his body in rags. He was
so bent and stooped that it was difficult for him to raise his head to
peer upward toward the platform,  blinking as the raindrops fell  into
his eyes.

    212 W E  i S  AND HICKMAN  A few  of those  in the  crowd who  had
descended to get a better view  suddenly sprang back up to join  their
fellows. An awed whisper began to circulate.

    "The Emperor! The old Emperor!"

    The circle around the  old man grew  larger, people craning  their
heads to see. Bishop  Vanya, recognizing him,  flushed red, then  went
white in anger. The Cardinal gasped audibly.

    Prince Garald looked swiftly at  Joram to see his reaction.  There
was none. Joram regarded the old man silently, without expression. The
Prince gestured to  the Duuk-baritb,  and the platform  on which  they
stood sank slowly to  the ground, the people  swirling around it  like
leaves in a whirlwind.

    As the platform  came to rest  on the stone  pavement, the  Prince
motioned to the old man, who walked haltingly forward.

    Looking intently into  the old  man's face,  Prince Garald  bowed.
"Your Majesty," he said softly.

    The Emperor nodded absently. He hadn't even looked at the  Prince.
Coming to stand in front  of Joram, the old  man reached out to  touch
him, but  Joram -  his  face impassive,  his  eyes focused  above  his
fathers head  - took  a  step backward.  The Emperor,  smiling  sadly,
nodded and slowly withdrew his hand.

    "I don't blame  you," he  said softly.  "Once, many  years ago,  I
turned my back on you and they took you away to die." He glanced up at
Joram. Though he was level with him, his bent body forced him to twist
his head  to look  into  the face  of the  tall  man standing  on  the
platform. "This makes the fifth time I have seen you, my son. My son .
. ." The Emperors voice lingered  over the words. "Gamaliel. That  was
to have been your  name. It is  a word of the  ancient days. It  means
'reward of God. ' You were to  have been our reward, your mothers  and
mine." The Emperor sighed heavily.  "Instead, the mad woman named  you
Joram -'a vessel. ' It was a  fitting name. In our pride and fear,  we
cast you from us. The  poor mad woman caught  you up, and poured  into
you the sorrows of this world."

    The Emperor gazed into the face of his son, who still did not look
at him.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 213 "\  remember the day  they took  you
from me. I remember the tears your mother shed, the crystal tears that
shattered on your body.  Tiny streams of blood  ran down your skin.  I
turned my back on you,  and they took you away  to die. My fault,  you
say? The Church's fault?"

    Straightening suddenly,  rising almost  to  his full  height,  the
Emperor cast a stern glance about  the crowd. For an instant, the  wan
face was regal again, the crooked old man a proud and noble ruler. "My
fault?" the  Emperor questioned  loudly. "What  would you  have  done,
people of Merilon, if you knew that a Dead child was destined to  rule
over you?"

    The people drew away from him, looking askance at one another. The
word mad was whispered about, and there was much nodding of heads. Yet
there was not  one among  them who could  meet the  old mans  accusing
eyes.

    Unconsciously, Joram's hand moved to touch his chest as though  it
pained him.

    "Yes, my son" -  the Emperor noticed the  gesture - "they tell  me
you bear the  scars of  your mothers tears.  They tell  me that  those
scars helped  prove your  identity. I  knew you  long before  that!  I
didn't have to see the  scars on your chest. I  saw die scars on  your
soul. Do you remember? It  was the day at  the house of Lord  Samuels,
the day I came to rescue Simkln the Fool from his latest folly. I  saw
your face in the sunlight, I saw your hair." The Emperors eyes went to
Joram's black hair, glistening in the rain. "I knew then that the  son
I'd fathered  eighteen years  ago lived!  Yet I  did nothing.  I  said
nothing. I was afraid! Afraid for myself, but more afraid for you! Can
you believe that?"

    Jorams  lips   tightened,  the   hand  on   his  breast   twitched
spasmodically; the only outward signs that he even heard his  father's
words.

    "The next time I saw you was  at the Crystal Palace, the night  of
the anniversary of your Death.  Gamaliel. My reward! \bur name  burned
my heart. I watched you meet  your mother. Your mother -a corpse,  the
Life flowing through her  veins a mockery. And  you - alive but  Dead.
\es, you were my reward."

    Joram averted his face, a low  strangled cry in his throat.  "Take
him away!"

    214 WE1S AND HICKMAN The Duuk-baritk glanced at Prince Garald, who
shook his head. Garald put a hand upon his friends shoulder, but Joram
tore himself free. Gesturing furiously, he tried to say something  but
choked on his words. The Emperor gazed up at him pleadingly.

    "The last time I saw you was  at the Turning," he said in a  voice
as soft as the steady fall of  the raindrops. "I saw the hope dawn  in
your eyes when you recognized me. I knew what you were thinking ~ "

    "You could  have  acknowledged me!"  Joram  looked at  his  father
directly for the  first time, his  eyes burning with  the fire of  the
forge. "Vanya could not have put me to living death if you had claimed
me for your own! "You could have saved me! '"

    "No, my son," the Emperor said gently. "How could I save you  when
I could not save myself?" He bowed  his head and his body bent  again,
crumpling back into the slumped, broken old man dressed in rags.

    "I can't  stay! I  can't  . .  .  breathe!" Clutching  his  chest,
gasping for air, Joram turned to leave the platform.

    "My son!"  The old  man reached  out a  trembling hand.  "My  son!
Gamaliel!" the Emperor  cried. "I cannot  ask you to  forgive me."  He
stared at Jorams back.  "But perhaps you can  forgive them. They  need
you now. . . . You will be their reward. …"

    "Don't say that!" Once again Joram  tried to leave but it was  too
late. People surged around  him, asking questions, demanding  answers,
elbowing the old  man out of  the way. The  Emperor's last words  went
unheard, drowned in the growing  clamor of the crowd., "The  doddering
old idiot," snarled Bishop Vanya from  on high. "Xavier was right.  We
should have hastened his death - "

    The Cardinal uttered a shocked reproof.

    Bishop Vanya,  rolling his  head on  its layers  of paunchy  skin,
fixed  his  minister  with  a  scornful  gaze.  "Don't  give  me  that
sanctimonious drivel. You know  what's been done  in the Almin's  holy
name. %u've been able to close  your eyes as you mumble your  prayers,
but you'll be quick  enough to open them  and snatch the rewards  when
I'm gone!"

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 215  Turning back again  to observe  the
crowd, Bishop Vanya missed the glance of enmity and loathing  bestowed
upon him by his loyal minister.

    It was growing dark. Night, hastened by the storm, was closing its
fingers over  Merilon. Here  and  there amid  the crowd,  the  wizards
caused magical  lights to  flare.  Illuminated by  their  multicolored
flames, Mosiah's father  - now apparently  the unofficial spokesman  -
stepped forward.

    "Is what he says true, milord?" the Field Magus asked the Prince.

    "Yes," Prince Garald replied. Lifting his voice so that all  could
hear, he repeated, "Yes, what you have heard is true - to the shame of
every one of us in Thimhallan, not just Merilon. It was our fear  that
caused this  man"  -he  laid  his hand  on  Jorams  shoulder  -"to  be
sentenced to death, once as a child  and again as a man. Joram is  the
son of the former Empress and  Emperor of Merilon. Xavier, his  uncle,
knew of his existence and  tried to destroy him.  In this, he had  the
cooperation of Bishop Vanya."

    The eyes of  everyone in  the crowd raised  to the  office in  the
Cathedral. Vanya, glaring at them all, reached out his good hand  and,
with a swift  yank at the  pull rope, dropped  down the tapestry  that
covered the crystal wall.

    He could shut out the eyes but not the sounds.

    "The Almin has  sent Joram  to us  in our  hour of  need!" It  was
Prince Garald's  voice. "This  proves that  He is  with us!  Will  you
follow Joram  - the  son of  your Emperor  and the  rightful ruler  of
Merilon - into battle?"

    The crowd responded with a mighty shout.

    Bishop Vanya, peeping  through a  chink in the  curtain, saw  that
Joram did not turn to look  at the people, but remained standing  with
his back to them,  his head lowered, his  face averted. Prince  Garald
leaned near, talking earnestly to him,  and at last, Joram lifted  his
head and slowly  faced the crowd,  his white robes  glimmering in  the
magical torchlight.

    The crowd roared its approval. Surging forward, people  surrounded
their new  Emperor, trying  to touch  him, begging  for his  blessing.
Instantly, the Duuk-tearitb closed  ranks around Joram. Prince  Garald
caused the platform to rise up 216 WEIS AND HICKMAN into the air.  The
people spiraled upward with it, cheering and applauding.

    The old man did not have the magical strength to join them, and so
was  left  standing  alone  on  the  ground  in  the  drizzling  rain,
forgotten.

    "The Prophecy!" Vanya muttered In a hollow voice. "It is upon  us!
There is no escape!"  Fear stood out in  beads of perspiration on  his
forehead and  trickled  down  the  neck of  his  elegant  robes.  With
faltering footsteps,  he lurched  backward,  sinking into  his  chair,
assisted by the Cardinal.

    "Egad! No  escape? What  a defeatist  attitude! Quite  a  touching
little reunion, wouldn't you say. Eminence? What with my tears and the
rain, I'm half-drowned !  * The voice came  from behind His  Holiness.
The Bishop, with a fearful start, squirmed around in his chair to  see
who had entered his private chambers unannounced and uninvited.

    "What  is  the  meaning  of   this  outrage?"  the  Cardinal   was
sputtering.

    A young man - chin and  upper lip adorned by a soft,  well-trimmed
beard - stepped casually from the Corridor. He was dressed in a bright
red brocade dressing gown, decorated  in black fur. The long,  pointed
toes of his  red shoes  curled up  and in  upon themselves,  a bit  of
orange silk fluttered from one hand like a flame.

    "Sink me, \bur Tubbiness," said  the bearded young man,  strolling
across the rug toward  the Bishop and  tripping over his  curly-tipped
shoes, "you don't look  at all well! You  there" -this to the  stunned
Cardinal " - a glass of  brandy. Look lively. Thank you." Lifting  the
snifter, the  young  man remarked,  "To  your health,  Holiness,"  and
drained it at a gulp. "Thank  you." The young man handed the  Cardinal
the glass. "Ill have another.

    "Ah, Bishop," he continued gaily, "you're looking better  already.
One more drink and you'll seem almost  human. Who am I? ^fcu know  me,
my dear Vanya. The names Sim-kin. Why am I here? Because, O Rotund and
Flabby One, I  have two new  friends who  are longing to  meet you.  I
think you'll find them interesting.  They are -quite literally-out  of
this world."

    6 Dona Nobis Paoem re came to this world in peace. Bishop  Vanya,"
said Menju the Sorcerer  in a smooth, melancholy  voice. "We made  the
mistake - as is apparent to us now  - of stumbling in upon your . .  .
um . . . war games. We were attacked, entirely by accident,  according
to you." This spoken reassuringly as ^uiya appeared about to make some
remonstrance. "But, not knowing this, we could only assume that Joram,
a known criminal who is fleeing  the law in our world, had  discovered
our plans and was  lying in wait to  destroy us." The Sorcerer  sighed
heavily. "It is truly a most regrettable incident. The waste of  lives
on both sides, deplorable. Isn't that so, Major Boris?"

    Bishop Vanya glanced  at the  military man, who  had been  sitting
stiff-backed on the edge of  a soft, cushioned chair, staring  fixedly
before him. Simkin had removed the disguises the two men wore  through
the Corridor  and the  Major  was once  again  dressed in  what  Vanya
assumed was the military uniform of his kind.

    218  WE1S  AND  HICKMAN  "Isn't  that  so.  Major?"  the  Sorcerer
repeated.

    The Major did not reply. He had not spoken a word the entire  time
that he, Shnkin, and this man who called himself the Sorcerer had been
in the room. Vanya watched closely  for his reaction to the  magicians
repeated call for confirmation and did  not miss the swift glimmer  of
hatred and defiance that flickered in the blond Majors light eyes. The
man's strong, bulldog jaw  was clenched so tightly  that cords in  the
thick neck were plainly visible.

    Vanya looked to  see the Sorcerers  response. It was  an odd  one.
Raising his right  hand in  the air,  the magician  flexed it  several
times, absently forming the fingers into a semblance of a birds  claw.
Vanya was considerably interested to  note that the Major blanched  at
the sight.  The  Kate-filled glance  was  watered down  by  fear,  the
massive shoulders slumped, and the man appeared to shrink visibly into
his ugly uniform.

    "Isn't that true. Major?" the Sorcerer repeated the question.

    "\es," said Major Boris briefly, quietly. The lips closed  tightly
once more.

    "The Major is extremely uncomfortable  in this magical world  and,
of course, feels very strange here,"  Menju said in apology to  Vanya.
"Though he  has been  studying  the language  for several  months  and
understands what we  have been  saying quite  well, he  does not  feel
confident  of  conversing  yet.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  him  his
deficiencies in conversation."

    "Certainly, certainly," the Bishop said, waving a pudgy hand,  the
hand that functioned.  The other remained  hidden beneath the  massive
desk at which His Holiness sat.

    The Bishop  had  quickly  recovered  from  his  initial  shock  of
receiving guests from a world that  until an hour ago had not  existed
for him. Despite his stroke, Vanya retained all the shrewd observation
and knowledge of  mankind that had  kept him in  power so many  years.
While he began to  chat idly with the  Sorcerer about the  differences
and similarities in the  languages of the two  worlds - both of  which
had their roots in ancient times - he was in reality mentally  summing
up his two visitors, endeavoring to guess their motives for coming.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 219 These two men were similar to  anyone
in Thimhallan, Vanya realized, with  the exception that the Major  was
quite Dead and that the Sorcerer -  having been bereft of magic for  a
number of years -was crude and clumsy at the art.

    Studying the Major, Vanya almost immediately dismissed Boris  from
consideration. The  Major,  a  blunt  and  honest  military  man,  was
obviously completely  out of  his  depth and  drowning in  these  deep
waters. He was overawed by this  world; he feared the Sorcerer.  Boris
was under the magician's  control, which meant  that the Sorcerer  was
the only true player in the game.

    Menju the Sorcerer  was lying when  he claimed that  he came  here
with peaceful  intent. Of  that, Vanya  had no  doubt. Menju  did  not
remember Vanya,  but  Vanya  knew and  remembered  Menju.  The  Bishop
recalled something of the mans  history. A secret practitioner of  the
Dark Arts of Technology, Menju had attempted to use his arts to  seize
control of a dukedom  near Zith-el. Captured  by the Duuk-foarith,  he
had been summarily tried  and sentenced by their  tribunal to be  cast
into Beyond. The execution had been handled quickly and quietly;  most
of the people  in Thimhallan  probably never knew  anything about  it.
That had been what -  four years ago? Menju  had been twenty then,  he
appeared to be about  sixty now, and had  spent, he told Vanya,  forty
years in the world Beyond.

    The Bishop didn't  understand that at  all, although the  Sorcerer
had patiently attempted to explain - something to do with the speed of
light and dimension  doors. The  Almin works in  mysterious ways,  the
Bishop told himself,  dismissing the matter  as unimportant. What  waj
important was the  feet that  this powerful man  was here  now and  he
wanted something. What did he want? And what was he willing to give up
in return? Those were the urgent questions.

    As for what he wanted, that at First seemed obvious to the Bishop.
Menju wanted the magic.  Forty years without Life  had gnawed at  this
Sorcerer. Vanya could see the hunger In Men jus eyes. Now, back on his
home world, the Sorcerer had once more partaken of Life. He had  dined
sumptuously, and the  Bishop saw  Menju's firm resolve  that he  would
never go hungry again.

    220 WEIS AND HICKMAN Hes lying  about coming here in peace,  Vanya
repeated inwardly, outwardly  speaking of nouns,  gerund phrases,  and
verbs. The attack upon our forces  was no accident. It was too  swift,
too  organized.  That  much  I  know  from  Xavier's  early   reports.
According, to the Dituk-tjaritb, the strange human army is in  serious
trouble now.  Our  magi inflicted  heavy  casualties, forced  them  to
retreat. Why is the Sorcerer here? What is his plan?

    How can I make use of him . . . ?

    "Speaking of language, I am amazed  that Simkin was able to  speak
ours so quickly," said the Sorcerer.

    "Nothing about Simkin  amazes me," growled  Vanya, glaring at  the
red-clad figure.  Reclining  leisurely  on  a  couch  in  the  Bishops
luxurious office,  the young  man had  apparently dozed  off during  a
discussion of prepositional phrases and was snoring loudly.

    "Joram has  a  theory about  him,  you know,"  said  the  Sorcerer
casually, though the Bishop  thought he detected a  glint in the  mans
eyes, the look  of a  card player  endeavoring to  calculate what  his
opponent holds. "He claims that Simkin is the personification of  this
world - magic in its purest form."

    "An ugly thought and one typical of Joram," Vanya said sourly, not
liking this sudden interest in Simkin. The Fool was a wild card in any
deck, and the Bishop had been trying for well over an hour to consider
how best to toss  him away. "I  trust that we as  a people are  better
represented than by this undisciplined, amoral, unfeeling-"

    "I say!" Simkin  sat up, blinking  and peering around  in a  dazed
state. "Did I hear my name?"

    Vanya snorted.  "If  you are  bored,  why  don't you  leave  ?  rr
"E'gad!" Simkin yawned,  slumping back  down on the  couch. "Is  there
going to be much more  vocabulary? Because, if so,  I think I will  go
dangle  my   participle   in   more   entertaining   and   interesting
surroundings. …"

    "No, no," said Menju,  his teeth Hashing in  a charming smile.  "I
beg your pardon,  Simkin, my good  friend, for putting  you to  sleep.
Linguistics is a  hobby of  mine," he  added, turning  back to  Bishop
Vanya, "and  I  find this  discussion  of  our language  with  one  so
knowledgeable as yourself a true treat.  I hope that in the future  we
will spend many pleasant  TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  221 hours in  such
discussions, if  that is  agreeable to  Your Eminence?"  Vanya  nodded
coolly "But Simkin quite  properly reminds us that  time is short.  We
must exchange these pleasant topics for others of a serious nature."

    Menjus handsome face grew grave. "I know you will concur with  our
earnest desire that  this tragic  and accidental  war come  to an  end
before irreparable  damage is  done  to any  relations that  might  be
established between our two worlds. Holiness."

    "Amen!" said the Cardinal fervently.

    Vanya started, having forgotten his ministers presence, and,  with
an icy glance,  silently rebuked  him for  speaking out  of turn.  The
Cardinal cringed. Simkin, with a prodigious yawn, propped his feet  up
on the arm of the sofa and  lay there admiring the curled toes of  his
shoes, humming a tune on a shrill, off-key note that had the effect of
instantly irritating everyone present.

    "I concur in your desire for peace," Bishop Vanya said cautiously,
feeling his way ahead, his pudgy hand crawling over the desk, "but  as
you said there  were, tragically, many  lives lost. Not  the least  of
which was the life of our beloved Emperor Xavier. The people feel  his
loss quite  keenly -  Will you  stop that!"  This to  Simkin, who  had
launched into a funeral dirge.

    "Beg pardon," Simkin said meekly. "Got carried away by my feelings
for the deceased!" Covering his face-with a sofa cushion, he began  to
weep loudly.

    Vanya sucked in a quantity of air through his nose and shifted his
great bulk in  his chair, keeping  his mouth tightly  shut so that  he
would not say something he might later regret. He noticed the  flutter
of a knowing smile on the Sorcerers lips. Obviously, the magician knew
Simkin. . . .

    But why should that surprise me? Vanya thought resignedly, letting
out the air with  a whoosh, like a  deflating bladder. Everyone  knows
Simkin.

    "I truly understand your peoples grief," Menju was saying, "and  I
am certain that,  although there is  nothing we can  do to bring  back
their beloved leader, some sort of reparation can be made."

    "Perhaps, perhaps." Vanya  sighed heavily.  "But much  as I  agree
with you, sir, I fear the matter is out of my hands.

    22?

    WEIS AND H1CKMAN  Joram, that notorious  criminal, has  hoodwinked
not only your people but  ours as well. There  are even rumors to  the
effect," the  Bishop  added  casually,  "that it  was  Joram  who  was
responsible for Xaviers death. …"

    Menju smiled, understanding Vanyas plan instantly.

    The Bishop turned over his  fat hand, reluctantly showing ail  his
cards. "Be  that as  it may,  Joram caused  himself to  be  proclaimed
Emperor of Merilon. He and a vainglorious man - one Garald, Prince  of
the city-state of Sharakan - are going to pursue this terrible war."

    The magician and the  Major exchanged glances at  this - the  cold
and wary glances of reluctant allies, but allies nonetheless.

    "I know  that  we  are technically  enemies.  Bishop  Vanya,"  the
Sorcerer said hesitantly, "but in the name of peace if you could  tell
us what you know about their plans, perhaps we could find some way  of
forestalling them, of keeping more lives from being lost. …"

    Bishop Vanya  frowned, his  hand  closed into  a  fist. "I  am  no
traitor, sir - "

    "They're  attacking  you   tomorrow  night,"  interposed   Sim-kin
languidly. Casting aside  the sofa cushion,  he blew his  nose on  the
orange silk. "Joram and  Garald plan on  wiping you out.  Obliterating
you from the face of this world. Not even a trace of your bodies  will
be left behind," he continued cheerfully, tossing the orange silk away
into the air.

    "It was  Jorams idea.  When your  world doesn't  hear the  tiniest
little peep  from you,  they will,  hopefully, presume  the worst  has
happened. The shell  crushed, the  chick dead; the  cuckoo wilt  think
twice about laying eggs in this nest again. By which time, of  course,
we will have the henhouse  repaired, the magical Border firmly  intact
once more. Lovely, isn't it?"

    "Traitor! Why have you told them!" Bishop Vanya cried with a great
show of anger, slamming his good hand down on his desk.

    "Its only  fair,"  Simkin  returned, glancing  at  the  Bishop  in
astonishment. "After all," he continued, raising a foot in the air and
causing the toe of the shoe to uncurl, "I told Joram all their plans -
the reinforcements coming. . . . Just as I was instructed. …"

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  227 "Reinforcements! Simkin  instructed!
What is the meaning of this?" Vanya demanded. "You said you came  here
in peace! Now I find that  you are apparently adding to your  military
might. Not only  that"- he waved  a fat hand  at Sim-kin-"but you  are
using this young man as a spy! Perhaps that is why you are here now! I
will call for the Duuk-tearith."

    The Sorcerer's composure slipped the  tiniest bit. The Bishop  did
not miss the  swift, intense flare  of anger in  Menju's eyes, or  the
look he cast at  Simkin. If this  Sorcerer were Dutik-foarith,  Simkin
would be a smudge of grease  upon the sofa. So, Vanya thought  smugly,
Menju doesn't know the FooJ that well, after all.

    "Please do nothing  in haste, Holiness,"  Menju said m  mollifying
tones. "Surely  you can  understand that  we have  to act  to  protect
ourselves! The additional troops we called for are to be used only  if
we are attacked again by your people."

    Major Boris's boot  scraped against  the floor.  Vanya, darting  a
swift glance at him, saw the man shift nervously in his seat.

    "As for  spies,  we  stumbled  upon  this  fellow  spying  on  our
headquarters and - "

    Simkin, with a smile, caused the toe of his shoes to curl back up.
"What can I say?" he responded modestly. "I was bored."

    "-and finding that he took a sensible view of this situation," the
Sorcerer continued, somewhat irritated  at the interruption, "we  sent
him back to Joram, hoping, I  confess, to frighten him into suing  for
peace."

    Menju paused, then  leaned forward,  laying his  hand upon  Vanyas
desk. When he spoke, his voice was low and earnest. "Let us be  candid
with each other, Holiness. Joram is the cause of this dreadful war.  A
dark  and  passionate  nature  such  as  his,  combined  with  a  keen
intelligence, must make him  a criminal, an  outcast in any  society."
The Sorcerer's handsome face grew shadowed. "I understand he committed
murder on this world. He has done that and worse in ours."

    Bishop Vanya was appearing carefully dubious.

    "Joram was gone for ten years from Thimhallan! Why do you think he
bothered to return? Because  of his great love  for it?" The  Sorcerer
scoffed at the idea. "You and I both 224 WEIS AND HICKMAN know  better
than that! Often Joram has bragged to me how he escaped the punishment
he so richly deserved. In the same way, he escaped punishment to which
he was sentenced in our world. He  came back here because he is  being
hunted, pursued! He came  back here, so  he has told  me, to have  his
revenge! To fulfill the Prophecy!"

    Major Boris sprang to his feet. Shoving his hands in his  pockets,
he walked rapidly to the end of the room. Vanya could see a red  flush
spreading up the back of the  man's thick neck, just above the  collar
of his shirt. Arriving  at the transparent  wall, the major  stretched
forth a hand to push aside the tapestry.

    "I would not touch that if  I were you, Major," Bishop Vanya  said
coolly. "The Duuk-tjaritb  are standing guard  outside the  Cathedral.
Should they catch  a glimpse  of you, I  could do  nothing to  protect
you."

    "Its too damn hot  in here!" the Major  said hoarsely, fugging  at
his collar.

    "The Major is somewhat claustrophobic," began the Sorcerer.

    "There is no need to apologize for the Major," interrupted  Bishop
Vanya. "I know his type."

    Menju, leaning  back in  his  chair, regarded  the Bishop  with  a
narrow-eyed, speculative gaze.  Standing at  the opposite  end of  the
room, Major Boris wiped his sweat-covered head with a handkerchief and
tugged at his collar. The Cardinal, responding to a swift gesture from
his Bishop, rose noiselessly from his chair and went to keep the Major
company. Coming up beside the  Major, he began a desultory,  one-sided
conversation.

    Bishop Vanya  glanced toward  Simkin, but  a snore  from the  sofa
indicated that the young man had, once again, fallen asleep.

    His Holiness, having  appeared to allow  himself to be  persuaded,
regarded Menju with  due seriousness.  "I will,  for the  sake of  the
world, listen to what you have to  offer. I do not think it  necessary
to concern the military in these matters, do you? They have so  little
understanding of the arts of negotiation and diplomacy."

    The Sorcerer made an assenting  motion with his graceful hand.  "I
couldn't agree with you more, Holiness."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 225 "Very well. My only desire is that we
end this tragic  war. As  you say,  I, too,  believe Joram  to be  the
cause. What is it, then, that you want of me?"

    'Joram . . . ant) his wife. Alive."

    "Impossible."

    "Why?" the Sorcerer shrugged. "Surely you - "

    Vanya cut him off.  "Joram is protected  by the Duuk-tearitb.  You
have been gone a long time, but you 1)0 remember them, don't you?"

    It was obvious that the Sorcerer  did. His face a shade paler,  he
glared at Vanya irritably. "I recall that you catalysts have a  member
of the Duuk-Lforitb who acts for you alone."

    "Ah, the Executioner." The Bishop nodded.

    The Sorcerer became paler still, his breathing labored.

    "I trust you are not claustrophobic, yourself?" the Bishop asked.

    "No," the Sorcerer answered with  a ghastly smile. "I am  troubled
by … old memories." Nervously, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

    "The Executioner might serve our purpose," began Vanya,  frowning,
though he  saw the  discomfiture of  the magician  with  satisfaction.
"However, the Font has  ears and eyes  and a mouth.  Joram is now  the
mobs darling. I cannot be involved in any incident - "

    "I say," came  a fatigued voice,  "just what do  you intend  doing
with Joram anyway?"

    The Bishop looked sharply at the magician, who looked sharply back
at the  Bishop. Both  glanced warily  at Simkin.  Still lying  on  the
couch, his head  propped up on  his hand, he  was regarding them  with
bored curiosity.

    "He will be returned  to my world for  his just punishment,"  said
Menju.

    "And his mad wife?"

    "She will be given the care she needs!" the Sorcerer said sternly.
"There are people on  my world who are  trained in treating  insanity.
Joram has refused to allow them near her-* "So Joram is to go back  to
your wor&," Simkin continued,  with "a dreamy  emphasis on the  words,
"while everyone on this world - "

    226 WEIS AND H1CKMAN " - remains here to live in peace and safety,
secure from  the  machinations of  Joram  the archfiend,  just  as  we
discussed earlier,"  Sorcerer  interjected smoothly,  his  gaze  fixed
unwaveringly on Simkin.

    "Quite," said Simkin, and rolled over on his back.

    "In fact,"  Menju  continued, turning  to  face the  Bishop  after
watching Simkin one final moment longer, "I can make arrangements  for
Joram s  trial to  be broadcast  to this  planet. It  will be  a  bond
between our  worlds.  I think  you  will find  it  quite  fascinating.
Eminence. We have large metal boxes that  we can set up right here  in
your office. By attaching some wires and cable, you can look into this
box and see  images of what  is transpiring in  our world millions  of
miles away - "

    "Metal boxes! Wires and cable! Tools of the Dark Arts!"  thundered
Vanya. "Take Joram from this world, then leave us in peace!"

    Menju smiled,  shrugging. "As  you will,  Holiness. All  of  which
brings us back to the question of Joram. …"

    "Oh, bosh!" said Simkin irritably, sitting up. "Doyou realize that
its past dinner time? And  I haven't had a thing  to eat all day!  All
this talk of Duuk-tearitb and Executioners. Not conducive to  whetting
the appetite." The orange silk came fluttering out of the air to  land
in Simkin's hand. "You want Joram? Nothing simpler. You, O Toothy One"
-he waved  the silk  at the  Sorcerer  - "are,  I assume,  capable  of
capturing him."

    "Yes, of course. But he must be taken unawares - he and his  wife.
He mustn't suspect - "

    "Nothing simpler!  /  have  a plan,"  interposed  Simkin  loftily.
"Leave everything to me."

    Both Sorcerer and Vanya eyed Simkin warily.

    "Begging your pardon,  friend Simkin,"  Menju said,  "if I  appear
hesitant to accept your generous offer. But I know very little of you,
except what Joram has told  me, and we know him  to be capable of  any
falsehood or deceit. Should I trust you?"

    "I wouldn't,"  Simkin remarked  frankly, smoothing  his  mustache.
"There isn't a soul who does  -except one." Humming to himself  again,
he formed the orange silk into a loop.

    "And this is?"

    "Joram."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 227 "Joram! Why should he trust you?"

    "Because his is a perverse nature." Simkin knotted the orange silk
above the loop. "Because  I have never given  him any reason to  trust
me. Quite the contrary.  Yet trust me  he does. I  find it a  constant
source of amusement."

    Thrusting his head  through the noose  he had made  in the  orange
silk, Simkin looked at the Sorcerer and winked.

    Menju frowned.  "I  must  protest. Holiness.  I  don't  like  this
scheme."

    Simkin yawned. "Oh, come now! Be  honest. It's not the scheme  you
don't like. Its me!" He sniffed. "I'm highly insulted. Or I would be,"
he added after reflection, "if I weren't so frightfully hungry."

    Bishop Vanya made  a noise  that might have  been a  laugh at  the
Sorcerer's expense.  Turning to  confront him,  the magician  saw  the
sneer on the Bishops face and flushed.

    "He admits we can't trust him!" Menju said with some asperity.

    "That is just his way," Vanya said crisply. "Simkin has done  work
for us before and has proven  satisfactory. From what you say, he  has
done work for you  as well. Time  is short. Do  you have an  alternate
proposal?"

    Menju regarded  the  Bishop  coolly  and  thoughtfully.  "No,"  he
replied.

    "Ah!" Simkin laughed gaily. "As the Duchess d'Longville cried when
her sixth husband dropped dead at her  feet: At last! At last! '  Now,
down to business." He  rubbed his hands  together excitedly. "This  is
going to be an incredible lark! When shall we do the deed?"

    "It must be tomorrow," the  Sorcerer said. "If, according to  you,
he plans to attack  us at nightfall, he  must be stopped before  then.
After his capture, we can begin the peace negotiations."

    "There is just one small thing." The Bishop hedged. "You may  keep
Joram and  do  what  you  like  to him,  but  we  want  die  Darksword
returned."

    "I'm afraid  that is  quite  out of  the question,"  the  Sorcerer
responded smoothly.

    \fcnya glared at him, scowling. "Then there is no further point in
negotiating! Your terms are unacceptable!"

    228 WEIS AND  HICKMAN TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  229 "Come,  come,
Holiness! After all,  we are the  ones threatened by  your forces!  We
must protect ourselves from attack! We will keep the Darksword."

    The Bishops scowl became more  pronounced - a difficult matter  to
achieve, with one side  of his face hanging  limp as his useless  arm.
"Why? What can it possibly matter to you?"

    The Sorcerer shrugged. "The Darksword has become a symbol to  your
people. Losing  it  - and  discovering  that their  'Emperor'  is,  in
reality, a murderer  -will demoralize  them. "Vbu  hesitate over  this
trifle, Eminence! It's just a sword, isn't it?" he asked blandly.

    "It is a weapon of evil!" Vanya replied in stern tones. "A tool of
the devil!"

    "Then you  should  welcome  the  opportunity to  be  rid  of  it!"
Stretching  his  arms,  the  Sorcerer   adjusted  the  cuffs  of   his
shirt-sleeves.  This  time,  however,  his  air  was  confident,   his
composure restored. "In return  for this token  of goodwill from  your
world, I will have Major Boris  send a message to my world,  canceling
the reinforcements. Then your people and mine may begin serious  peace
negotiations. Do you agree?"

    The Bishop's nostrils flared. Glaring  at the Sorcerer, he  sucked
air into  his nose,  the pudgy  hand suddenly  ceasing its  spiderlike
crawl over the desk, its fingers  curling up like the toes of  Simkins
shoes. "It appears I have little choice."

    "Now, have you any suggestions regarding where and how we  capture
Joram?"

    The Bishop shifted his  body in his  chair, causing the  paralyzed
left arm to slide off his lap. Surreptitiously, he caught hold of  it,
giving a sidelong  look to see  if the magician  was watching. What  a
fool he takes me for! Vanya said to himself, settling the arm back  in
its place once more. So it's the  sword he's after! Why? What does  he
know of it?

    The Bishop appeared  indifferent. "Capturing Joram  must be up  to
you and Simkin, I'm afraid. I know  nothing of sordid matters. I am  a
churchman, after all."

    "Oh, really!" Simkin heaved an exasperated sigh. "This has gone on
quite long  enough! Which  was something  else the  Duchess said,  her
sixth taking an interminable length of  time over dying. I told you  I
have it all planned."

    Spreading the orange silk out upon Vanya's desk, Simkin waved  his
hand over it and letters appeared on its surface.

    "Shh - "he hissed as Menju •was about to read it aloud. "The  Font
has ears and eyes, you know.  Meet me here"-"he indicated the name  of
the place written on the silk scarf- "tomorrow at noon. You will  have
Joram and his wife, both completely at your mercy and unsuspecting  as
babes."

    Bishop Vanya,  his lips  pursed, his  eyes practically  buried  in
rolls of fat, took one  look at the name  of the location •written  on
the silk and grew extremely pale. "This place is out of the question!"

    "Why?" Menju asked coldly.

    "Surely you know its history!" Vanya said, regarding the  Sorcerer
incredulously.

    "Pah! I  have  not believed  in  ghosts  since I  was  five!  From
descriptions I vaguely recall reading of this place, it will suit  our
purposes admirably. Plus I begin to  see the inklings of Simkins  plan
to get Joram there without suspicion. Most ingenuous, my friend."  The
magician glanced down  his elegant nose  at the Bishop.  "You are  not
using this  pretense  to  wriggle  out  of  our  agreement,  are  you,
Holiness?"

    "Far from it!" Vanya protested earnestly. "I am concerned only for
your safety, Menju."

    "Thank you. Eminence." The Sorcerer rose from his chair.

    "Remember, you have been warned. You will handle everything?"  The
Bishop remained seated, concealing his handicap.

    "Certainly, Holiness."

    "Then I believe that it is all we have to say to each other."

    "Yes, although  there if  one more  matter we  need settled."  The
Sorcerer turned to Simkin. "You are entitled to a handsome reward  for
your services, Simkin. That is, I assume, why you're doing this, after
all. . . ."

    "No, no!" protested Simkin, looking deeply offended. "Patriotic. I
regret that I have but one friend to give for my country."

    "I insist that you accept something!"

    "I couldn't possibly," said Simkin  loftily, but with a glance  at
Menju from beneath half-shut eyelids.

    230 WEIS AND HICKMAN "My world, and this one"- Menju gestured,  at
\£uiya - "will be eternally grateful."

    "Well, perhaps there  if one small  favor you can  do for me,  now
that you mention it." Simkin drew  the orange silk slowly between  his
fingers.

    "Name it! Jewels? Gold?"

    "Bah! What do I  need with filthy  lucre? I ask  onH/ one thing  -
take me back to your world."

    The Sorcerer  appeared considerably  astonished at  this  request.
"Are you serious?" he asked.

    "As serious as I  generally am about  anything, 1* Simkin  replied
offhandedly. "No, wait.  I take that  back. I fancy  I'm more  serious
about this than usual."

    "Well, well.  Is  that  all?  Take you  with  me?"  Menju  laughed
expansively. "Nothing easier!  It's quite a  brilliant idea, in  fact!
The hit you will make as part of my act! You will be the toast of  the
universe without doubt,  my friend! I  can see the  marquee now!"  The
magician waved his hand. "THE SORCERER and Simkin!"

    "Mmmm. . . ."  The young man  smoothed his mustache  thoughtfully.
"Well, well. We  can discuss thai  later. For now,  we really must  be
going. Collect  the Major,  don  our disguises,  and return  to  those
remarkably ugly buildings in which you odd people choose to dwell."

    Rising slowly  up into  the  air, his  red brocade  dressing  gown
flashing like  flame in  the bright  lights of  the Bishops  chambers,
Simkin drifted over to the tapestry-covered wall.

    As he passed by Menju, muttered words came floating back.  "SIMKIN
and the Sorcerer , . ."

    Eye In The Sky sun sank down into the [horizon hurriedly,  without
calling  attention  to  itself.  Night  came  quickly  to  Thimhallan,
therefore, and a new moon rose.  Curved In a malicious grin, it  might
well have been laughing at the follies of mankind that met its eyes. .
. .

    "The magician take's me for a fool!"

    Left alone with the  Cardinal after the  departure of Sim-kin  and
his "friends," Bishop Vanya sat behind his desk, glaring at the  empty
chair the Sorcerer had lately occupied.

    The Bishop had been all pleasant smiles - or at least the half  of
his face that could  smile had been smiling  - until his guests  left.
But once they were  gone - Simkin s  voice prattling away merrily  the
while, its irritating tones the last sound Vanya heard as the Corridor
closed about them - the  smiling side of the  face became as cold  and
frozen as its paralyzed other half.

    232 WEIS AND  HICKMAN "The  Darks word!  That is  what he  wants,"
Vanya snarled, the  pudgy hand  crawling over the  desk, the  Cardinal
staring at it in a horrible kind of fascination. "A token of goodwill!
Bah! He knows the  truth about it, about  its powers. Joram must  have
told him.  Menju knew  about  Simian, after  all.  He knew  about  the
Turning, he knew about Joram crossing into Beyond. \es! He knows about
the sword!

    "You are the  fool, Menju,  to think I  would give  it up!"  Vanya
muttered, his  plans bubbling  and fermenting,  coming to  a  frothing
head. It appeared, from the perspiration on his brow, that his  mental
cup was overflowing.

    "You Sorcerer! You devil of the  Dark Arts! No wonder you have  no
fear of demons in that  cursed place you have  chosen to do your  foul
deed. \bu are one yourself, no doubt.  But you might as well serve  me
as serve a Darker Master. Rid me of the Prophecy. Rid me of Joram. Ill
make of him a martyr and throw  you to Prince Garald and the mob  that
will be howling for your blood. They'll have you and your pitiful army
to crucify. I'll have the Darksword. . . ."

    With the heat of his emotions, the ice thawed, the smile  returned
to half the face.

    "Send for the Executioner," ordered the Bishop.

    "The  fat  Priest  takes  me  for  a  fool,"  the  Sorcerer   said
complacently.

    Staring  into  a   mirror  he  had   conjured  up,  he   carefully
straightened his  tie  and  smoothed  nonexistent  wrinkles  from  his
lapels. He and the Major were back at their headquarters seated in the
Major's office.  He had  divested  himself of  his disguise  -  though
Simkin had assured 'him, before leaving, that the red brocade dressing
gown "is you\"

    "/ think you are mad!" Major Boris muttered in hollow tones.

    "What did you say, James?" the Sorcerer asked, though he had heard
well enough.

    "I said I  don't understand!"  the Major  returned heavily.  "What
have you done except put us  in a more desperate situation than  ever!
Why did you reveal our plans to Joram! "You knew it would force him to
attack us Before the reinforcements arrive - "

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD  235  "Assuredly,"  the  Sorcerer  said
coolly, combing his thick, wavy hair.

    "But why?"

    "Major" -the magician continued to look critically into the mirror
- "consider this. We  have sent a  frantic message for  reinforcements
back to our world. They arrive and find us seated calmly in the  midst
of this enchanged realm, not a  shot being Fired. Then we regale  them
with tales of giants and dragons, whimpering that we don't dare  Tight
because the bad bogeymen are going to get us! They will double up with
laughter!" His  usual suave  and  unruffled appearance  restored,  the
Sorcerer banished the  mirror with a  clap of his  hands. Turning,  he
faced the Major. "Instead, they find us battling for our lives against
monsters and crazed  wizards! TTieyll  enter the  fight, kill  without
mercy, and be only too glad to wipe out this demonic populace."

    "And by provoking Joram  to attack, you've forced  me to fight  as
well," Major  Boris said,  staring  out into  the night  with  glazed,
unseeing eyes.

    "It isn't  that I  don't trust  you, Major."  Reaching across  die
table, the Sorcerer patted James Boris's right hand. Shuddering at the
touch, the Major snatched his hand away, thrusting it protectively  in
his pocket. "It was just that I needed  . . . insurance. I think it  a
bit naive of you to believe that Joram would have let you escape  this
world unharmed anyway. You saw them mobilizing Merilon for war …"

    Major Boris  had  seen, and  he  remembered. Darkening  die  room.
Bishop Vanya had invited  his guests, before they  left, to look  upon
Merilon the Beautiful.

    Preparing for war, Merilon s twilight had been changed into day  -
its streets lit by countless angry, flaring suns. The Majors grim face
grew grimmer still as he gazed upon nightmare monsters flying  through
the air,  legions of  skeletons  marching down  the street.  He  could
repeat the  Bishop's  scornful  words, tell  himself  that  they  were
illusions, incapable of harm. But who would tell his men, facing these
things on the field of battle? And if he did tell them, why would they
believe him? Especially if they had  just seen their comrades torn  to
shreds by the beaks of real cockatrice, their invincible 254 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN tanks crushed beneath  the feet of real  giants. There was  no
separating illusion from reality in this awful world.

    Fear chewed at Boris, like  centaurs devouring the flesh of  their
living victims. His right hand, hidden in die pocket of his  fatigues,
shook. It was all he could do to keep from bringing it out to  examine
it, to see if it still was a hand. . . .

    "My men may be hunks of meat  in your trap," he told the  Sorcerer
bitterly, "but we're not going to wait  for the wizards to fall on  us
like ravening wolves. I'm  going to attack  their city tomorrow.  Take
them by surprise."

    The Sorcerer shrugged. "I don't care  what you do. Major, as  long
as you do not interfere with my plans for acquiring the Darksword."

    "I won't," James Boris returned  heavily. "I need the damn  sword,
remember? I'll launch the attack at noon. You're certain Joram will be
out of the way by then?"

    "Absolutely,"  Menju  said,  rising  and  preparing  to  take  his
departure. "And now, if you  II excuse me, Major,  I have plans of  my
own to make for tomorrow."

    The Major continued to look glum.

    "What about this . . . Simkin? I don't trust him."

    "That fop?" The Sorcerer shrugged. "Hell do what he's promised. He
wants his reward, after all."

    "But you've no  intention of taking  him back with  us, have  you.
Sorcerer?" Major Boris  stood up  as well,  keeping his  hands in  his
pockets. "He may be a  fop, but he's a  dangerous one. From what  I've
seen, he's a better magician than you can ever hope to be!"

    The Sorcerer regarded the Major with a cool, unfaltering gaze.  "I
trust that shot made you  feel better, James. Now  you can go to  your
bed with some shreds of  dignity clinging to you.  Not that I have  to
explain, but to be quite honest I bad considered taking him. He  would
be an  undoubted  asset to  my  act. But  you  are right.  He  is  too
powerful. He would -  so to speak  - demand top  billing. Once he  has
given me Joram,  Simkin will meet  the same fate  as everyone else  in
this world."

    "And what about Joram?"

    "I want him alive. He  will be useful to me.  Hell tell me of  the
powers of the Darksword and how to construct more of these weapons - "

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 23% "He won't, you know."

    "He'll have no choice. I'll have his wife. …"

    The  moon  roamed  across  the  sky,  perhaps  in  search  of  new
diversion. If so, it found little.

    Following a highly satisfactory meeting with the Executioner,  the
Bishop retired to his  bedchamber. Here, assisted  by a novitiate,  he
was engulfed in a  voluminous nightshirt and helped  to his bed.  Once
there, Vanya  realized he  had  forgotten, in  the excitement  of  the
evening, his nightly  prayers. He did  riot get back  up. Surely  this
once the Almm could make  do without receiving instruction and  advice
from his minister.

    In another part of the world.  Major Boris, too, went to his  bed.
Lying on  his  regulation  cot,  he was  ostensibly  trying  to  rest,
although he didn't  know which  alternative he feared  worse -that  he
wouldn't fall  asleep …  or that  he would.  Either way,  he knew  his
dreams were likely to be extremely unpleasant.

    Two men were still awake - the Sorcerer and the Executioner,  both
planning how to take their prey upon the morrow.

    The moon, finding nothing  interesting in that,  was about to  set
when, after all, it did run across something amusing.

    A bucket  with a  bright orange  handle  sat in  a corner  of  the
geodesic dome  that  served as  the  headquarters for  the  army  from
another world. This was by no means an ordinary bucket. Having  worked
itself into a state of indignation, it was, literally, coming apart at
the seams.

    "Menju, you cheat! You're  not playing at  all fair! Taking  Joram
back to a brave, new world and not me!" The bucket flipped its  handle
about quite  savagely.  "Well,  we'll  see  about  that!"  the  bucket
predicted ominously. "We'll see. . . ."

    Per Islam Sanetem.

    C kount  Devon is  truly sorry  about the  china cabinet,  but  it
happened, he thinks, because he is  uneasy in his mind about the  mice
nibbling his portrait. The painting would be glad to return to its old
place upon  the wail  if only  someone would  so instruct  it. He  has
tried, but it doesn't hear his voice.

    "He doesn't want the portrait  destroyed, for without it he  can't
recall what he looks like.

    "The mice concern him.  He says there are  far too many. It  comes
with being  shut  up  in  a  closed,  comfortable  attic  without  any
predators; his late wife being terrified of cats. The mice have had  a
comfortable life and are  now fat and sleek  with a decided taste  for
art. Yet he has discovered in his solitary, wakeful ramblings (for the
dead who can sleep do  so, never to wake,  while those who can't  find
sleep roam constantly  in search of  rest) many small  corpses in  the
attic.

    "The mice  are dying,  and  he can't  understand why.  Their  tiny
bodies litter the floor, more each day. And here is a very TRIUMPH  OF
THE DARKSWORD 257 strange  thing. He has heard  from a woman who  once
lived across the street and who, it seems, died from lack of attention
and it took three days  for somebody to notice,  that the mice in  her
attic are suffering the very same fate.

    "Sealed up, safe and secure, they are, she says, suffocating."

    BOOK THREE Emperor Of Merifon Iight attempted to lull Mer-ilon  to
sleep, but its soothing  hand was thrust away  by those preparing  for
war. Joram took command of the city, naming Prince Garald his military
leader.  He  and  the  Prince   immediately  began  to  mobilize   the
population.

    Joram met  with his  people  in the  Grove. Gathering  around  the
ancient tomb of the wizard who had brought them to this world, many of
the citizens  of  Merilon wondered  if  that almost  forgotten  spirit
stirred restlessly in his centuries-old sleep. Was his dream about  to
end and yet another enchanted kingdom fall to ruin?

    "This is a fight to the death," Joram told the people grimly. "The
enemy intends to wipe out our  entire race, to destroy us utterly.  We
have seen proof of this in  the wanton attack upon innocent  civilians
on the Field of Glory. They have  shown no mercy. We will show  none."
He paused.  The silence  that flowed  through the  crowd grew  deeper,
until 242 WEIS AND H1CKMAN they might have been drowned in it. Looking
at them from where he stood on the platform above the tomb, Joram said
slowly, emphasizing each word, "Every one of them must die."

    No one cheered  when Joram  left the Grove.  Instead, they  turned
quickly and quietly to their duties. Women trained alongside the  men;
the very old and the infirm staying behind to mind the children - many
of whom might be orphans when night fell again on Thimhallan.

    "Better that,"  Mosiahs  father said  to  his wife  as  they  both
prepared to practice for battle, "than dead."

    A call went forth for War Masters, who came to Merilon through the
Corridors from  all parts  of  the world.  Under their  tutelage,  the
civilians, including the Field Magi,  were given hasty instruction  in
fighting the enemy, aided by their own catalysts.

    Mosiahs parents took  their places beside  old Father Tolban,  the
Priest who had served the village of Walren for so many years. Due  to
his advanced  age,  the  meek,  dried-up  Field  Catalyst  could  have
remained behind with the children. But he insisted on going to  battle
with his people.

    "I have never done a worthwhile thing in my entire life," he  told
Jacobias. "I have never known a proud moment. Let this be it."

    Though the  outside world  was dark  and slumbering,  the city  of
Merilon burned with light. It might have been day beneath the dome - a
terrible, fear-laced day whose  sun was the fiery  glow of the  forge.
The Pron-atban had hastily conjured up a workplace for the blacksmith.
He and his sons and apprentices  like Mosiah worked to repair  weapons
damaged in the  previous battle  or create  new ones.  Though many  in
Merilon looked with horror upon  the Sorcerers, practicing their  Dark
Art of Technology,  the citizens  swallowed their fears  and did  what
they could to assist.

    The TbeQara tended the injured, buried the dead, and hastily began
working on  enlarging  both  the  Houses of  Healing  and  the  Burial
Catacombs. The druids knew  that, by the rising  of the moon  tomorrow
night, they would need many more beds . . . and graves.

    City  Below  was  thronged  with  people:  War  Masters   arriving
continually from all over Thimhallan, catalysts coming TRIUMPH OF  THE
DARKSWORD 243 from  the Font,  refugees pouring in  from the  Outland,
fleeing the  nameless  terror. The  streets  were so  crowded  it  was
difficult to either fly or walk. University students filled the  cafes
and taverns, singing martial  songs and thirsting  for the glories  of
battle. Moving  through  the  crowd,  the  Duuk-t<taritlj  walked  the
streets like  death personified,  keeping order,  quelling panic,  and
quietly whisking  away  those  of  the  students  whose  eagerness  in
practicing their spell-casting seemed  likely to prove more  dangerous
to themselves than -the enemy.

    City Above was wide  awake as well. Like  the Field Magi, many  of
the nobles were  'also practicing for  battle. Sometimes their  wives,
too, stood beside them. But more often the noble ladies could be found
opening their large houses to the  refugees or tending the injured.  A
Countess might  be seen  brewing  herbal tea  with  her own  hands.  A
Duchess played  at  Swan's Doom  with  a group  of  peasant  children,
keeping them amused while their parents prepared for war.

    Joram watched over everything. Everywhere he went, people  greeted
him with cheers. He was their savior. Taking die romantic  half-truths
Garald had woven around the true story of Joram's lineage, the  people
further embroidered  it  and decorated  it  until it  was  practically
unrecognizable. Joram tried to protest, but the Prince silenced him.

    "The people need a hero right now  - a handsome king to lead  them
into battle  with his  bright  and shining  sword! Even  Bishop  Vanya
doesn't dare denounce  you. What  would you give  them?" Garald  asked
scornfully. "A Dead man with a weapon of the Dark Arts who is going to
bring about the  end of the  world? Win this  battle. Drive the  enemy
from the land. Prove the Prophecy wrong! Then go before the people and
tell them the truth, if you must."

    Joram agreed reluctantly. Surely Garald knew what was right. / fan
afford honor, the Prince had once told him. You cannot.

    No, I  suppose I  can't,  Joram thought.  Not  with the  lives  of
thousands in my hands.

    "The truth shall make you free!" he repeated to himself  bitterly.
"I am destined, it seems, to spend my life in shackles!"

    244 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  It  was nearly  midnight. Joram  walked  by
himself in the garden of Lord Samuels's home. Leaving the city. He had
come back - at Father Saryon's insistence - to get what rest he  could
before the morrow.

    He could have  moved into  the Crystal Palace.  Glancing up  above
him, through the leaves of a  myrtle tree, Joram could see the  Palace
hanging over him  like a dark  star. Its lights  extinguished, it  was
barely visible, shining in the pale light of a new moon.

    Shaking his head,  Joram looked  hastily away. He  would never  go
back there. The  Palace held too  many bitter memories.  There he  had
first seen his dead mother. There he had heard the story of the  death
of Anja's child.  There he had  believed himself nameless,  abandoned,
unwanted.

    Nameless. . . .

    "I wish to the Almin that fate had been mine!" Pausing beneath the
snow-laden boughs of a  drooping lilac bush,  Joram leaned against  it
for support, ignoring the  chill water that  dripped from the  leaves,
soaking his white robes. "Better to be nameless than to have one  name
too many!"

    Gamaliel. Reward of God. The name  haunted him. The memory of  his
father haunted him.  He could  still see  the old  man's eyes.  . .  .
Realizing, he was shivering  violently, Joram began  to walk the  dark
paths again, trying to warm himself.

    At least the rain had stopped. Several Si/-Hanarr arriving through
the Corridors this evening from  other city-states, brought an end  to
the deluge. A few  of the nobility demanded  that the magi change  the
weather to spring  again-immediately, but Prince  Garald refused.  The
Stf-Hanar would be needed for the upcoming battle. They could end  the
rain and keep the temperature moderate in Merilon this night, but that
was all. The  nobles grumbled,  but Joram -  their new  Emperor-agreed
with Garald, and there was nothing the nobles could do.

    But Joram supposed he could look forward to future arguments  like
that. He stumbled as he  walked. He was tired  almost to the point  of
exhaustion,  having  slept  fitfully  last  night  after  the  battle,
troubled by dreams of  two worlds, neither of  which wanted him -  the
real him.

    Nor do I  •want either  of them,  he realized  wearily. Both  have
betrayed me. Both hold nothing for me but lies, deceit, treachery.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 245  "I won't  be Emperor,"  he said  to
himself in sudden resolve. "When this is ended, I'll turn Merilon over
to Prince Garald to rule. He is a good man; he will help change it  to
a better place."

    But would he? Could  he? Good and honorable  and noble as he  was,
the Prince was Albanara, those born  with the magical gifts needed  to
rule. He was accustomed to diplomacy and compromise; he reveled in the
intrigues of court. Change, if  it came at all,  might be long in  the
coming.

    "I don't  care,"  Joram  said  tiredly.  "I'll  leave.  I'll  take
Gwendolyn and  Father  Saryon  and we'll  live  quietly  by  ourselves
someplace where it won't matter to anyone what my name is."

    Moodily pacing  the garden,  hoping to  wear himself  out so  that
sleep -deep  and dreamless  - would  claim him  at last,  Joram  found
himself walking near  the house. Hearing  voices, he glanced  up at  a
window.

    He stood  outside a  downstairs room  that had  been made  into  a
bedchamber for Gwendolyn. Clad in a rose-colored nightgown with  long,
flowing sleeves,  his wife  sat  in a  chair  at her  dressing  table,
allowing Marie to brush  out her lovely, golden  hair. All the  while,
she talked animatedly to the dead  Count and a few other deceased  who
had apparently joined the party.

    Lord Samuels and Lady  Rosamund were in  their daughter's room  as
well. It was  the sound  of their voices  that had  attracted Joram  s
attention. They stood close to the  window, talking to a person  Joram
recognized as the  TkeBara who  had treated Father  Saryon during  his
illness in the Samuels's house.

    Taking care that  he didn't allow  any of the  light shining  from
inside the house to fall upon him, Joram crept softly through the  wet
foliage and, hidden by the shadows  of the dark garden, drew near  the
window to hear their conversation.

    "There is nothing, then, you can do for her?" Lady Rosamund  asked
in pleading tones.

    "I'm afraid not,  milady," the  TbtQara said  bluntly. "I've  seen
madness in many forms in my life, but nothing to equal this. If it  if
madness, about which I have my doubts."

    246 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  Shaking  her head,  the drmdess  poked  and
picked at various packets  of powders and bunches  of seeds and  herbs
that she carried in a  large wooden container that hovered  obediently
in the air beside her.

    "What do you mean? Not  madness?" Lord Samuels demanded.  "Talking
to dead Counts, going on about mice in the attic - "

    "Madness is a state into which the subject falls whether he or she
wills it or not," said the Thetiara, thrusting out her jaw and glaring
at Lord Samuels.  "Sometimes it's brought  on by upsets  in the  bodys
harmonies, sometimes by upsets  in the souls. And  I tell you,  milord
and milady, that  there is nothing  wrong with your  daughter. If  she
talks to the dead, it's because she obviously prefers their company to
that of the living. And from the way I gather some of the living  have
treated her, I don't much blame her."

    Having fussed over and arranged her medicines to her satisfaction,
the Thel^ara called briskly for her cloak.

    "I've got to get back to the Houses of Healing and tend those  who
were wounded  in  that  terrible  battle," she  said  as  the  servant
assisted her with her  wrap. "You were lucky  I happened to be  making
another call out near here or I  wouldn't have had time to look in  on
this case. Too many others are dependent on me for life itself."

    "We're very grateful, I'm sure," said Lady Rosamund, twisting  the
rings on her fingers,  "but I don't understand!  Surely there must  be
something you can do!"

    They followed the Theldara  to the door  of Gwens bedchamber,  and
Joram, moving  close to  the  window, was  forced  to press  his  face
against the pane in order to hear the druidess's reply. He might  have
spared himself the trouble, however, for the Thfldara spoke in a loud,
clear voice.

    "Madam," she said, raising a finger in the air as though it were a
flagpole and she was  going to hoist her  words on it, "your  daughter
chooses to be who  she is and  where she is. She  may live her  entire
life in this  manner. She may  decide at breakfast  tomorrow that  she
doesn't want to anymore. 1 can't say and I can't force her to come out
of that world into one  that doesn't appear to  me to be much  better.
Now I  must get  back- to  those who  truly need  me. If  you want  my
advice, TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWQRD 247 you'll do as your daughter says -
hang up that painting of Count Whosit and buy a cat."

    The Corridor opened wide, swallowing the druidess at a gulp.  Lord
Samuels and his  lady stared  bleakly after  her. Turning  listlessly,
they looked back into  the bedchamber where  Marie was endeavoring  to
persuade Gwen  to go  to  bed. But  Gwendolyn, blithely  ignoring  the
catalyst, continued to talk to her unseen companions.

    "My friends, you are all so agitated! I can't understand why.  You
say dreadful things are going to happen tomorrow. But dreadful  things
are always  happening  tomorrow. I  don't  see why  this  should  make
tonight any different. I  will sit with you  tonight, however, if  you
think it will help.  . . .  Now, Count Devon, tell  us more about  the
mice. Dead, you say, with no trace of blood. . . ."

    "Dead mice!" Lady Rosamund laid her head on her husbands chest. "I
wish she were dead herself, poor child!"

    "Hush, don't say  such a  thing!" said Lord  Samuels, holding  his
wife close.

    "Its true!"  Lady  Rosamund  cried.  "What kind  of  life  is  she
leading?"

    His arm around his wife, Lord  Samuels led her from her  daughters
room. Marie remained with her charge, sitting in a chair near the bed.
Gwen, relaxing, propped up among her pillows, chatted with the air.

    Though he was chilled to the bone, Joram remained standing in  the
dark garden, his head pressed against the Your grooms gift to her will
be grief. . . .

    The catalysts words echoed mournfully  in his soul. Once long  ago
Joram had dreamed of being a Baron. Everything would be right with his
life when he had wealth and power. Now he was Emperor of Merilon.  Now
he had  wealth,  but  there was  nothing  he  wanted to  buy.  He  had
squandered the only thing  he'd ever had of  value. Now he had  power.
And he was using  it to fight  a war-a war  that would cost  countless
Kves.

    Dead bodies lying in the scorched grass. . . .

    Tiny, furry bodies littering the attic. . . .

    '248 WE1S AND HICK, MAN My fault! My doing! The Prophecy is coming
to fulfillment despite everything I do! Maybe theres nothing I can  do
to stop  it! Maybe  I don't  have a  choice. Maybe  I'm being  dragged
inexorably to the edge of the cliff. . . .

    "Damn You!" He swore at the dark and cheerless heavens. "Why  have
\bu done this to me?"

    In despairing, bitter anger, he slammed his fist against the trunk
of a young spruce tree.

    "Oooof!" gasped the spruce. With  a painful cry, it toppled  over.
Branches writhing, leaves  rustling, the  tree lay  moaning at  Jorams
feet.

    Simkin's Bark I 1"

    I say!" gasped the spruce. "Tfou've killed me!"

    TTie  air  shimmered  around  the  tree,  eventually   coalescing,
somewhat weakly,  into the  prostrate form  of Simkin.  Clutching  his
stomach, he rolled on the ground, his clothes every which way,  leaves
stuck in his hair and beard, the orange silk wrapped around his neck.

    "Simkin! I'm sorry!" Fighting a wild desire to laugh, Joram helped
the young man stagger to his feet. "Forgive me. I - I didn't know that
tree . . . was you."

    A chuckle escaped him. Recognizing in it a note of hysteria, Joram
firmly forced himself to swallow it. His lips twitched, however, as he
assisted the weak-kneed, doubted-over Simkin inside the house.

    "Blessed Almin!" Lady Rosamund cried, meeting them in the hallway.
"What  has  happened?  Simkin!  Are  you  all  right?  Oh,  dear!  The
Zfefibra's just left!"

    250 WEIS AND HlCKMAN Wheezing  pathetically, Simkin gazed at  Lady
Rosamund with pain-filled eyes, mouthed  the word brandy, and  fainted
dead away, collapsing in a pitiful heap on the floor.

    Between Joram, Mosiah, and Prince Garald, they earned the comatose
Simkin - red brocade dressing  gown, fur-trimmed collar, curly  shoes,
and all - into the sitting  room. Lady Rosamund, her hands  fluttering
helplessly, hurried along behind,  calling distractedly for Marie  and
generally alarming the entire household.

    "What happened  to  him?"  Garald asked,  dumping  Sim-kin  rather
unceremoniously on a sofa.

    "I hit him," Joram said grimly.

    "About time!" Mosiah muttered.

    "I didn't mean to. He was standing in the garden, disguised- "

    "Ohhhhhh!" groaned Simkin, lolling back  on the sofa and  flinging
an arm over his head. "I'm dying, Egypt, dying!"

    "You're not  dying!"  said  Garald disgustedly,  leaning  down  to
examine the patient. "You've just had  the breath knocked out of  you.
Sit up. You'll feel better."

    Thrusting the Prince aside with a feeble gesture, Simkin  motioned
weakly for Joram to come nearer.

    "I forgive  you!" Simkin  murmured pitifully,  gasping for  breath
like  a  freshly  caught  trout.  "After  all,  whats  murder  between
friends?" He gazed dimly around  the room. "Dear lady! Lady  Rosamund.
Where are you? My vision's fading. I can't see you! I'm going fast!"

    He held out a groping hand to Lady Rosamund, who was standing next
to him. Glancing uncertainly from  Prince Garald to her husband,  Lady
Rosamund took Simkin s hand in hers.

    "Ah!" he  breathed,  placing her  hand  on his  forehead.  "To  be
speeded  heavenward  by  a  woman's  gentle  touch!  Bless  you.  Lady
Rosamund. My last apologies . . . for littering your sitting room .  .
. with my corpse. Farewell."

    His eyes closed, his arm sagged, his head fell back upon the  sofa
cushions.

    "Dear me!" Lady Rosamund became extremely pale, dropping the  hand
she held.

    Opening his eyes, Simkin lifted his head.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  251  "Don't bother  about  . .  .  last
rites." He grabbed hold of Lady Rosamunds hand again. "Not  necessary.
I've led .  . . life  of a  saint. . .  . Most  likely . .  . I'll  be
canonized. Farewell."

    The eyes rolled up. The head fell back. The hand went limp.

    "I have the brandy, milady," said Mane gently, entering the room.

    An eye opened. The hand fluttered. A voice whispered faintly  from
the depths of the sofa cushions.

    "Domestic … or imported?"

    "Quite a  shock, I  assure  you!" Simkin  said feelingly  an  hour
later. "There I was standing in the garden, taking a deep whiff of the
fine evening air when - wham!  I am struck painfully and  unexpectedly
in the midriff."

    Covered with Lady Rosamunds  own silk shawl,  his fourth glass  of
brandy - imported - hovering within reach, Simkin sat propped up among
innumerable pillows, apparently fully  recovered from his "brush  with
death."

    "I've said I was sorry," Joram remarked, not bothering to hide the
smile whose warm  glow actually  touched the  brooding eyes.  Grinning
ruefully, he held up his hand, exhibiting knuckles that were scratched
and bruised from having slammed into the tree trunk. "I hurt myself as
much as I hurt you."

    "One might say  my bark is  worse than my  bite!" Simkin  replied,
sipping brandy.

    Joram laughed,  such  an  unexpected  sound  that  Father  Saryon,
entering the room from  having visited Gwen, stared  at his friend  in
amazement. Seated in  a chair  near the sofa  on which  Simkin lay  in
luxury, Joram appeared  - for  the first time  since his  return -  to
forget his troubles and relax.

    "Forgive the  fool his  sins," muttered  the catalyst,  who  could
never quite break himself of the  habit of communicating with a  deity
in which he didn't believe.

    "And I accept your apology,  dear boy," said Simkin, reaching  out
to pat  Joram on  the knee.  "But it  wu rather  a shock,"  he  added,
wincing  and  consoling  himself  with  another  brandy.   "Especially
considering that I'd come  here with the  express purpose of  bringing
you good news!"

    252 WEIS AND HICKMAN "What's that?" Joram asked lazily, winking at
Prince Garald, who shook his head in amused forbearance and shrugged.

    It was now either very late at night or very early in the morning,
depending on one's viewpoint. Lady Rosamund, exhausted from the  day's
events, had Been assisted to her bed by Marie. Lord Samuels  suggested
that the gentlemen gather in the  sitting room with Simkin (so as  not
to be forced to move the  invalid) and partake of a brandy  themselves
before going to bed, each putting off, for a few moments, the thoughts
of what tomorrow might bring.

    ' "What news?" Joram repeated,  feeling the brandy warm his  blood
as the fire  warmed his body.  Sleep was stealing  up on him,  putting
soft hands over his eyes, whispering soothing words.

    "I've discovered a way to cure Gwendolyn," Simkin announced.

    Starting, Joram sat up straight, spilling his brandy.

    "That isn't funny, Simkin!" he said quietly.

    "I had no intention of being funny -"

    "I think you  had best  drop the subject,  Simkin," Prince  Garald
interposed sternly, his gaze going from Joram to Lord Samuels, who had
pushed his brandy glass aside with  a trembling hand. "I was about  to
suggest we retire for the night anyway. Some of us, it seems,  already
have." He glanced at Mosiah, asleep in his chair.

    "I am perfectly serious!" Simkin retorted, injured.

    Garald lost  patience. "We  have put  up with  your nonsense  long
enough. Father, would you - "

    "It isn't nonsense."

    Tossing the blanket aside,  Simkin sat up on  the sofa. Though  he
answered Garald, he wasn't looking at  the Prince. His gaze rested  on
Joram with a strange, half-serious, half-mocking expression, as though
daring Joram to refuse to believe in him.

    "Explain yourself  then,"  Joram  said briefly,  toying  with  the
brandy glass in his hand.

    "Gwendolyn talks to the dead.  She's obviously a throwback to  the
old Necromancers." Simkin squirmed  into a more comfortable  position.
"Now, by purest  coincidence, this  was an affliction  suffered by  my
little brother, Nate. Or TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 253 was it Nat?  At
any rate,  he  used  to  entertain  assorted  ghost-ies  and  ghoulies
nightly, causing my mother no end of worry, not to mention the  tedium
of being constantly  wakened by clanking  chains, snapping whips,  and
unearthly shrieks and howls. Or was that the time Aunt Betsy and Uncle
Ernest came to spend their honeymoon with us?

    "Anyway, to continue," Simkin hurried on, seeing Joram's face grow
darker, "one of the neighbors suggested that we take poor little Nat .
. . Nate? Nat," he muttered, "I'm  positive that's it. … Where was  I?
Oh, yes. Well, whatever his  name, we took the  tyke to the Temple  of
the Necromancers."

    Joram, who had  been staring  into his  brandy glass  impatiently,
only half-listening, turned his gaze full upon Simkin.

    "What did you say?"

    "See there, no one ever  pays attention to me," Simkin  complained
in aggrieved tones.  "I was mentioning  the fact that  we took  little
Nate to the Temple of the Necromancers. Its located above the Font, on
the very top of the mountain. Its not used anymore, of course. But  it
was once the center  of the Order of  Necromancy in the ancient  days.
The dead used to come from miles around, so I've heard, to catch up on
all the gossip."

    Ignoring Simkin,  Joram  turned to  look  at Father  Saryon,  hope
burning in the dark eyes so  brightly that the catalyst hated  himself
for being forced to quench the flame.

    "You must put this thought out of your mind, my son," he  answered
reluctantly. "Yes, the Temple  is there, but it  is nothing more  than
pillars and walls of stone, lying in ruins. Even the altar is broken."

    "So?" Joram said, eagerly sitting forward.

    "Let me finish!" Saryon said with unaccustomed sternness. "It  has
degenerated into  an  evil,  unhallowed place,  Joram!  The  catalysts
attempted  to  restore  its  sanctity,  but  they  were  driven  away,
according to report, and  returned to tell  fearsome tales. Or  worse,
some never  returned at  all!  The Bishop  finally declared  that  the
Temple was cursed and prohibited all from going there!"

    Joram brushed aside his words. "The Temple is on top of the  Font,
on top of the Well  of Life - the source  of magic in this world!  Its
power must have once been great."

    254 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN "Once!"  Saryon repeated  with emphasis.  He
laid his hand on Joram's arm,  feeling his excited tension. "My  son,"
he said earnestly, "I would give anything to be able to say that, yes,
in this ancient  and holy  place, Gwendolyn  could find  the help  she
needs. But it cannot be! If there ever was a power there, it died with
the Necromancers!"

    "And now a  Necromancer has  returned!" Gently  but firmly,  Joram
withdrew from the catalysts touch.

    "One  who   is  undisciplined,   untrained!"  Saryon   argued   in
frustration. "One who is - forgive me, Joram -insane!"

    "It is rumored to be a dreadful place," said Lord Samuels  slowly,
his eyes reflecting the light of Joram s hope. "But I must admit  that
this  seems  a  good  idea!   We  could  take  the  Duuk-tearith   for
protection."

    "No, no!" said Simkin, shaking his head. "Wouldn't do at all,  I'm
afraid. Those creepy warlocks are spookier than the spooks. Joram  and
Gwen must go alone, or perhaps  with the bald Father here, "who  might
be useful in intervening  with the Powers of  Darkness, should any  be
lurking about. It will be quite all  right, I assure you. It was  with
poor little Nate. Cured him completely." Simkin heaved a heart-rending
sigh. "At least we supposed it did. We never knew for certain. He  was
dancing for joy among the rocks  when his foot slipped and he  tumbled
over the side of the mountain!"

    Wiping his eyes with the orange silk, Simkin made a manly struggle
to fight back the tears. "Don't offer to comfort me," he choked.  "Its
all right. I can bear it. %u must go at noon tomorrow when the sun  is
right above the mountain."

    "Joram, I am opposed to  this!" Saryon pursued his argument.  "The
danger is - "

    "Pish-tosh!" Simkin sniffed, lying back on the sofa cushions  with
a yawn. "Joram «taw have the Darksword to protect himself, after all."

    "Of course!  The  Darksword!" Joram  glanced  at the  catalyst  in
triumph. "If there  is any evil  magic about this  place, Father,  the
sword will protect us!"

    "Absolutely. Go  tomorrow, before  the battle,"  Simkin  repeated,
casually toying with the blanket.

    "Why this insistence on tomorrow?" Garald asked suspiciously.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 255  Simkin shrugged.  "Makes sense.  If
Gwen should happen to get  rid of the mice in  her attic - no  offense
intended, dear boy - she might  be able to establish contact with  the
long departed.  The dead  could be  of help  to us  m the  forthcoming
altercation. Then, too, Joram, think what a comfort it would be to  go
into battle  knowing that  you will  be greeted  on your  return by  a
loving spouse who does not, as a general rule, smash china cabinets."

    Joram bit his lip to silence  his tongue during this last  tirade,
his face the face  of one undergoing the  torments of the damned.  Nor
did anyone else  speak, and the  room filled with  quiet - an  uneasy,
restless quiet, a quiet loud with unspoken words.

    Gazing intently at Simkin, brows furrowed, as though he longed  to
pierce the lolling head with his eyes. Prince Garald opened his mouth,
then changed his mind,  clamping his lips  firmly shut. Father  Saryon
knew what the Prince wanted to  say, he wanted to say it  himself-What
game is Simkin playing now? What are the stakes? Above all, what cards
does he hold that none of us can see?

    But much as  he obviously  longed to,  the Prince  couldn't say  a
word. This was an intensely personal matter, not only to Joram, but to
the poor girl's father.  It would be  all very well  for the Pnnce  to
remind Joram  of his  responsibilities  as Emperor,  his duty  to  his
people. But Father Saryon knew, as did Garald, that Joram would  throw
all of that away in order both to cure his wife and to assuage his own
guilt.

    The  catalyst  looked   at  Lord  Samuels.   His  face   carefully
expressionless, he sat with his head lowered, his brandy untouched  in
his hand.

    Reading milord's  thoughts, Saryon  was  not surprised  when  Lord
Samuels lifted his  head and looked  at him, breaking  the silence  at
last. "You seem to  know something about this,  place, Father. Do  you
believe there is a danger?"

    "Most certainly," replied Saryon  emphatically. He knew what  Lord
Samuels was going to ask next and he was prepared with his answer.

    "Is there . . . hope?" milord asked through trembling lips.

    "No!" Saryon fully  intended to reply.  Aware of Joram's  intense,
unwavering gaze  upon him,  he  meant to  say  it firmly,  whether  he
believed it or not.

    256 WEIS  AND H1CKMAN  TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORO  257 But  as  the
catalyst opened his  mouth to  douse their  hopes with  cold logic,  a
strange sensation swept over  him. His heart  jolted painfully in  his
chest. When he tried to speak, his throat swelled, his lungs  suddenly
had no air. The frightening sensation  of being turned to stone  crept
over him again. This time, however,  it was no magic spell that  froze
him. Saryon  had  the terrifying  impression  that a  great  Hand  had
reached into  his  body, strangling  him,  choking off  his  lie.  The
catalyst struggled against it, but to  no avail. The Hand gripped  him
fast, he could not answer.

    "There if  hope then,  Father!" Joram  said, his  unwavering  gaze
never leaving Saryons face. "You cannot deny that! I see it plainly!"

    The catalyst stared at  him pleadingly and  even made a  strangled
sound, but it was too late.

    "I will  go," Joram  said resolutely.  "If you  and Lady  Rosamund
agree with me, milord," he added belatedly, hearing Lord Samuels  draw
a shaking breath.

    Milord faltered, his voice  broke. But when he  spoke it was  with
quiet dignity. "My daughter lives among the dead now. What worse  fate
could befall her, except to join them.  If you will excuse me, I  will
go talk to my wife." Bowing, he hurriedly left the room.

    "Then it  is settled,"  Joram said,  standing up.  The brown  eyes
gleamed with inner flame; the dark, grim lines of grief and  suffering
on his face smoothed out. "Will you come with us, Father?"

    Of that there was no question, no doubt. His life was bound up  in
Jorams; it had been since he first held the tiny, doomed child. . .  .
The Hand released Saryon. Gasping from the suddenness of his  freedom,
shaken by the inexplicable experience, the catalyst could only nod  in
reply.

    "Tomorrow," Simkin repeated a third time. "At noon."

    This was  too  much  for  Prince GaraJd  to  swallow  in  silence.
Glancing at Simkin sharply, he rose to his feet, stopping Joram as  he
was about to leave the room. "You have every right to tell me that  it
is not my place to interfere."

    "Then don't," Joram said coolly.

    "I'm afraid I have to,"  Garald continued sternly. "I must  remind
you, Joram, that you have a responsibility to our world. My god,  man,
we're going to war tomorrow! I insist you reconsider!"

    A slight sneer  twisted Joram's  lip. "This  world can  go to  the
devil - " he began.

    " - and fulfill the Prophecy!" Garald finished.

    The thrust hit home. There was  a sharp intake of breath.  Joram's
face went livid,  the brown  eyes blazed. Saryon  was reminded  again,
chillingly, of  the youth  who had  forged the  Darksword. He  hurried
forward to intervene, fearing that Joram might strike the Prince,  but
it was Simkin who ended the matter.

    "Oh, for pitys sake, if you two  are going to fight, please do  it
somewhere else."  His jaw  cracked  with another  yawn. "Its  been  an
extremely fatiguing -  not to  mention gut-wrenching-  day. I'm  quite
done in. I'll extinguish the lights."  Every light in the room  winked
out, plunging them into semidarkness, lit only by the flickering coals
of the  dying  fire. "Keep  the  noise  of saber-rattling  down  to  a
minimum."

    An orange  silk night  cap  appeared out  of nowhere  and  floated
through the air, settling upon  Simkin s head. Curling up  comfortably
amid  the  sofa  cushions,  the  young  man  fell  instantly,  to  all
appearances, fast asleep.

    Turning abruptly, Joram walked toward the door.

    Garald stood a moment, staring at Joram's back, obviously  wanting
to say something, yet undecided. He glanced at Father Saryon, who made
an  urgent  gesture  with  his  hand.  Garald  hurried  after   Joram,
interposing his body between his friend and the door.

    "Forgive me for pursuing  this matter, Joram.  I can only  imagine
what torture you undergo daily."

    Laying his hand on the Princes arm, Joram started to shove  Garald
aside.

    "Joram, listen to me!" Garald demanded, and Joram stopped,  caught
and held by the canng and compassion he heard in the man's voice  more
than by the restraining hand laid upon his.

    "Think about this carefully!" the Prince continued. "Why is Simkin
suddenly so interested in Gwen's welfare or in yours either, for  that
matter? Hes never given a damn about 258 W E  I S A N-D H I C K M A  N
anyone before.  Why  is  he  so insistent  about  you  going  and  why
tomorrow?"

    "Its just his way!" Joram said impatiently. "And he hoj helped  me
before this. Maybe even saved my life. . . ."

    " Joram," interrupted Garald  firmly, "it could  be a trap.  There
could be more  waiting for you  there than ghosts.  Think about  this.
I've been thinking about  it all day. How  <&? Simkin understand  what
the enemy said? Thats impossible, even for one of his 'talents. '  How
did he understand unless they told him what to say."

    It was  dark in  the  hall. Before  retiring  for the  night,  the
servants had  dimmed  the magical  lights.  The globes  in  the  lofty
cobwebby corners  of the  hallway gleamed  with a  white, cold  light,
making it appear as if stars,  flying through the house like  insects,
had been captured  in the webs  of the  house spiders. Far  away -  it
sounded as if it came  from the morning room -  could be heard a  thud
and a crash. Father  Saryon wondered briefly if  poor Count Devon  was
roaming the halls.

    Joram did not reply. Saryon - looking at his face, seeing it white
and cold  as  the face  of  the moon  -  could tell  by  the  brooding
expression that this last  argument had at  least made an  impression.
Prince Garald, noting this as well, wisely took his leave.

    Saryon said nothing either. He was, he admitted to himself, afraid
to speak.  Still unsettled  by his  recent unnerving  experience,  the
catalyst dared not  add anything. He  could only trust  that Garald  s
seed of doubt, planted in Joram's soul, would take root and grow.

    It appeared  to have  fallen  on fertile  soil at  least.  Sighing
heavily, Joram  started  to turn  away  when  a voice  -  muffled  and
slightly fluff-filled - came out of the depths of the sofa.

    "Trust your fool. . . ."

    Falling I he, •the Ihere was a family chapel in Ithe house of Lord
Samuels, as in  almost all the  houses of the  nobility and the  upper
middle class in  Thimhallan. Although all  the chapels were  generally
similar in appearance, some were  vastly different, a difference  that
rose higher  than  vaulted ceilings  and  gleamed more  brightly  than
polished rosewood. In  some households, the  chapel was obviously  the
heart of the dwelling. Here  everyone - master and mistress,  children
and servants (all being considered one  in the sight of the Almin,  if
nowhere else) - gathered daily for prayer, led by the House  Catalyst.
These chapels breathed with Life- The  wood glowed from much use.  The
stained glass windows, with their symbols of die Almin and of the Nine
Mysteries, glistened in  the morn-iftg  sun. At  night, tiny,  magical
lights Tilled the chapel with a soft radiance, relaxing to the spirit,
conducive to private  prayer and  meditation. It was  easy to  believe
that the Almin ••['- dwelt  in such peaceful, beautiful  surroundings.
It was  easy to  to Him  in such  a place.  It was  easy to  hear  His
answers.

    260 WEIS AND H1CKMAN The late Count Devon, who had owned the house
prior to Lord Samuels,  had been a deeply  religious man. In his  day,
the chapel was filled with light and Life. Upon the Count's death, the
chapel, like the rest  of the house, was  sealed shut; its lights  put
out, its furniture draped in black cloth, its beautiful stained  glass
windows shuttered. When Lord Samuels moved  in, he opened the rest  of
the house to  the outside world,  but the chapel  remained closed  and
locked. He did not do this out of anger or bitterness over the loss of
his beloved daughter. Lord  Samuels was not the  type of man to  shake
his fist  at the  Almin and  vow that  he "would  never speak  to  You
again!" Rather,  something within  his  soul had  died. Asked  by  the
servants if  he  wanted the  chapel  restored to  service,  he  caught
himself answering, "What's the use?"

    And so  the chapel  remained shut,  its ornately  carved  rosewood
doors closed, its  windows dark  and lifeless. The  magical seal  laid
over the door was an unusually strong one, and it took Father Saryon a
considerable amount of mental effort to remove it. Finally succeeding,
he made his way inside and collapsed in the nearest pew,  unaccustomed
to the strain of using so much of his own Life force.

    The pews were slick with a fine film of dust. So were the  floors.
Everything  in  the  chapel  was  covered  with  dust,  Saryon  noted,
wondering where it came from. It  felt soft to the touch. Holding  his
small globe of  flame close, he  saw that it  was reddish-colored  and
sweet smelling.  Saryon's analytical  mind  instantly began  to  work,
delighted in this bit  of irrelevancy to  banish the tension.  Holding
the small globe high, Saryon could  barely make out wood beams in  the
ceiling far above him. These, he deduced, must be magically shaped  of
cedar. Unlike the rest of the  wood in the chapel, the beams  remained
rough and unpolished, probably to enhance their smell. Hence, the wood
dust.

    That problem  solved, Saryon  sighed  and reflexively  rubbed  his
tired eyes, instantly regretting that he had done so when he  realized
from the sudden gritty feeling that he had rubbed wood dust into them.
Blinking, he wiped his tearing eyes on his sleeve.

    ^bu should be  in bed, he  told himself. He  was exhausted and  he
knew - recalling past warnings from  the TbtQara - that he should  not
tax his strength.  But he also  knew he TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  261
could not sleep. He was afraid to sleep. Fear was slowly creeping over
him, chilling and  immobilizing as  the dreadful spell  that had  been
cast upon him, the spell that had  changed his flesh to stone. It  had
all started tonight, with that awful sensation of the Hand laying hold
of him, preventing him from telling Joram not to go to the Temple.

    It was  foolish,  dangerous.  There  was no  hope  for  Gwen.  The
Necromancers were gone. Saryon doubted  if they could have helped  her
anyway. He  would  have been  able  to  convince Joram  of  this.  His
arguments added to Garalds would have undoubtedly persuaded Joram  not
to go,  not to  risk  his wife's  life  as well  as  his own  in  this
foolhardy endeavor.

    Surely he won't go! Surely!

    Laying his head upon the hand that rested upon the back of the pew
in front of  him, Saryon shivered  in a  paroxysm of fear.  As he  had
analyzed the wood dust, he attempted to analyze his fear, seeking  its
source in order to deal with it on a rational basis. But he could  not
find  it.  It  was  a  faceless,  nameless  terror  and  the  more  he
concentrated on dragging it to light,  the darker it grew. Saryon  had
lived through many frightening experiences. He could still remember •-
horribly - the fear  he'd experienced when he  first felt the  numbing
Hast of the  spell hit  him and  he knew  his living  body was  slowly
turning to stone.

    •• But that  was nothing  - nothing -  compared to  the fear  that
gripped him now.  He had  not experienced this  overwhelming sense  of
loss and despair.  No, he recalled,  staring into the  sweet-smelling,
softly lit darkness of the chapel.  When the first wave of terror  had
begun to recede, he had  felt imbued with peace  and joy. He had  done
what was right.  He had  seen his  sacrifice touch  Joram deeply,  the
light of his  love drive  away the darkness  of the  boy's soul.  That
knowledge sustained the catalyst in the days and nights of his endless
vigil. Though he  had not made  peace with  his god, he  had found  it
within himself.

    Or thought he had.  The Darksword that  shattered his stone  flesh
shattered his peace as well.

    Saryon is hands hurt  him and, looking down,  he realized that  he
was hanging onto the edge of the pew for dear life. He tried to relax.
The feeling of fear did not leave, however.

    262 WEIS AND HICKMAN "It's the battle tomorrow night," he muttered
to himself. "So much depends on the outcome. Our lives! The  existence
of our world! How dreadful it will be if we lose!"

    "How dreadful it will be if you win."

    Who spoke? Saryon heard  the words as clearly  as he'd ever  heard
anything in  his  entire  life,  yet he  could  swear  he  was  alone.
Shuddering,  he   looked  around.   "Who's  there?"   he  called   out
tremulously.

    There was no answer. Perhaps  he hadn't heard anything. There  was
certainly no one in the room, probably no one awake in the house.

    "I am exhausted," Saryon said  to himself, mopping chill drops  of
perspiration from his head  with the sleeve of  his robe. "My mind  is
playing tricks."

    He tried to stand,  he instructed his body  to rise, but the  body
remained seated, the Hand holding him down. Then, beckoning to him, it
pointed.

    Before his horrified eyes, Saryon saw clearly the aftermath of the
fighting: All-ail of  the strange  humans lying  dead. The  Pron-Alban
using their magic to dig a huge  grave. The bodies - those that  could
be found and had  not been devoured by  centaurs-tumbled into it,  the
earth shoveled over them. All traces of their existence as humans - as
husbands, fathers, brothers, friends wiped out. After a hundred years,
no one in their world remembered them.

    But Thimhallan did. No tree, no flower, no grass grew on that mass
grave. Weeds,  noxious and  poisonous, sprang  up. It  was a  diseased
blemish upon the  land. And  the sickness  from it  spread slowly  and
surely through the world until everything died.

    "But what is the alternative?"  Saryon cried aloud. "Death?  Thats
it, isn't  it?  We have  no  choice!  The Prophecy!  The  Prophecy  is
fulfilled! You have given us no choice!"

    The Hand that gripped him suddenly opened wide, and Saryon  became
conscious of a Presence.  Vast and powerful, it  filled the chapel  so
that the walls must surely burst from the strain. Yet it was tiny  and
minute, existing within  each small  grain of dust  that drifted  down
from the ceiling. It was fire  and water, burning and cooling him.  It
was awful and He cowered from its  sight. It was loving and he  longed
to rest his weary head in its palm, begging for forgiveness.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 265 Forgiveness for what?

    For being a card in a  great cosmic game played for the  amusement
of one player?

    For being tormented and persecuted, for being shoved over the edge
of a cliff.

    The voice spoke again, sternly. "You do not understand. You cannot
understand the mind of God."

    "No!" Saryon gasped. "I don't understand! And I will not amuse You
further. I renounce You! I deny You!"

    Rising unsteadily to  his feet, Saryon  stumbled from the  chapel.
Once outside, he slammed the door  shut and stood leaning against  it,
his breath coming in shuddering sobs.  But as he stood there,  holding
the door shut with his body, he knew he could never keep the  Presence
locked up within that  room. He could  no more deny  it than he  could
deny his own existence. It was everywhere. Around him. . . .

    Within him. . . .

    Saryon pressed his hand over  his heart, digging his fingers  into
his flesh.

    TheBlinkOfAn^e S; (aryon  struggled frantically to  escape a  deep
chasm in which he was trapped-  Sheer walls, rising on either side  of
him, blocked his view oi the sky. A raging river that cut through  the
rock cliffs  threatened to  engulf him  in its  white, foaming  water.
Vines wrapped around his feet; tree limbs stretched out their clawlike
fingers to drag him  back. Lost and alone  he wandered, seeking a  way
out. Suddenly, there it was! A cut  in the sheer rock face, a  glimpse
of sunlight  and blue  sky.  It seemed  an  easy climb  and,  strength
renewed, he hurried toward it.

    At first it u>a. i easy and  he soon left the chasm floor  behind.
Unfortunately, he drew no nearer the  blue sky. Then he realized  that
the higher he climbed, the taller rose the cliff. The side of the wall
became more difficult to negotiate.  Black bats swooped out of  caves,
darting at him, causing him to  lose his footing, threatening to  send
him sliding back down  into the chasm. Still  he struggled on and,  at
last, he reached TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD 265  the top. With a  final
effort, he  pulled himself  over  the edge  and  stared into  a  huge,
unblinking eye.

    Pressing his face down on the  rock, Saryon cowered away from  the
eye. But he knew he could not hide anywhere that it did not see him.

    "Up, Catalyst!" called a voice.

    Saryon lifted his  head. Beside  him stood a  tree. Gathering  his
robes about him, Saryon scrambled up the trunk. Sheltered by the green
leaves, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Eye could not see him  here.
Just as he said this, the leaves  turned brown and, one by one,  began
to drop off. The Eye found him again. Then a branch broke beneath  his
feet. And another.

    "Father!" A hand was shaking his shoulder. "Time to get up."

    Waking with a  start, Saryon clutched  at the hand  as the  •world
fell away beneath him. The hands grip was strong and firm and he clung
to it thankfully. The hand let loose of him, however, and the catalyst
fell back among his pillows, feeling as exhausted and bruised as if he
had - in reality - spent the night climbing cliffs.

    Joram walked over to the •window and drew back the shutters. Cold,
bleak light from a  chill, white sun streamed  into the room,  causing
Saryon to wince.

    "What time is it?" he asked, blinking in the bright light.

    "It lacks an  hour until noon.  \bu have slept  away the  morning.
Catalyst, and there is much to be done this day."

    "Have I? I'm . . . I'm sorry," said Saryon, sitting up dazedly. He
kept his face averted from the sun. Was that the Eye? Watching him?

    What nonsense! It was only a dream.

    Leaving his bed, Saryon bathed his face in cold water and  dressed
hurriedly, conscious of Joram s mounting impatience. Pacing the  room,
a tense, eager look  on his usually stern,  impassive face, Joram  was
dressed for travel, Saryon  noted uneasily. Over  his white robes  was
thrown a gray  cloak. Though  Saryon could not  see it,  he knew  that
beneath this cloak Joram wore the Darksword, strapped to his back.

    "You nave  decided to  go to  the Temple,"  Saryon said  in a  low
voice. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he started to draw on  his
shoes. Dizziness assailed him  as he bent over,  266 WEIS AND  HICKMAN
however, and  he was  forced  to pause  a  moment until  the  weakness
passed.

    "There was  never any  decision  to be  made.  It was  a  foregone
conclusion." Joram  noticed  Saryon resting,  doing  nothing.  "Hurry,
Catalyst!" He  made an  irritated  gesture with  his hand  toward  the
window and the sunlight. "We must arrive there at noon today, not noon
tomorrow! You said you  would go with  us. Did you  mean that? Or  are
these daw-dlings a priestly trick to try to keep me from going?"

    "I will go  with you,"  Saryon said  slowly, looking  up from  his
shoes to Joram.  "You should know  that without asking,  my son.  What
cause have I given you to doubt me?"

    "You're a  Priest. Isn't  that cause  enough!" Joram  sneered  and
started for the door.

    Rising to his feet,  Saryon followed. "Joram,  what is wrong?"  he
asked, gently touching him on the sleeve of his white robes. "You  are
not yourself."

    "I'm certain  I don't  know  who else  I  would be  this  morning,
Catalyst!" Joram retorted,  jerking his arm  away from Saryon's  hand.
Seeing the Priests look  of concern, Joram  hesitated, the stern  face
relaxed. Running his fingers through  his thick, black hair, he  shook
his head. "Forgive me, Father," he said with a sigh. "I have not slept
well. And I do not foresee any sleep this night or perhaps many nights
to come. I want only to go to this place and find help for  Gwendolyn!
Are you ready?"

    "Yes, and I understand how you feel, Joram," Saryon began, "but  -
"

    Joram impatiently  broke off  his words.  "No time  for that  now,
Father! We must find Gwen and leave  before Garald or any of the  rest
of those fools attempt to stop me!"

    His face  hardened.  Saryon stared  at  Joram, wondering  at  this
change. Yet why should it amaze me? he asked himself sadly. I've  seen
it coming. I've seen the light of  the forge fires shine in his  eyes.
It is as if all the intervening years, the suffering and hardship that
taught him compassion,  have been  stripped from him,  kij warm  flesh
changed to stone.

    The chasm Saryon  had just  escaped yawned before  him. Each  step
drew him nearer its edge. Surely, surely there is a path away from it!
Let me turn around and find it.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 267  A hand gripped  his arm  painfully.
"Where are you going, Catalyst? It is time to leave!"

    "Please reconsider!" Saryon faltered. "There must be another  way,
Joram!"

    The forge fire flared, scorching  the Priest. "You have a  choice.
Father," Joram said  bitingly. "Either  come with me  or stay  behind.
Which will it be?"

    A choice! Saryon  almost laughed.  He could see  the path  leading
away from the cliff. It was blocked by boulders that had fallen  years
before. He could not go back.

    "I will come," the catalyst said, bowing his head.

    The white sun filled Lord Samuels's house with light for the first
time in many days. Glinting blindingly off the surface of the  melting
snow, it was not a warm light or a cheerful one. The garden was lovely
beneath its white shroud, but it  was a lethal loveliness. The  plants
were frozen solid, encased  in snow. The weight  of the ice broke  off
huge tree limbs. Giant trees split in two.

    Despite the discomfort  of the cold  weather, the streets  outside
Lord Samuels's house were packed  with people, milling around,  hoping
to catch a glimpse of Joram, begging  those that came out for news.  A
continual stream of War  Masters, Ariels, Guildmasters, Albanara,  and
others had been  flowing into  and out of  the house  since dawn.  The
preparations for war were well underway.

    Inside, Lord  Samuels,  the Prince,  Cardinal  Radisovik,  several
members of the nobility, and the War Masters were assembled in one  of
the upstairs ballrooms  that had  been hastily converted  into ft  War
Room.

    Prince Garald, maps spread out on a large table, began  explaining
his plans to the assembled leaders. If he noticed that the  atmosphere
within the ballroom was nearly as chill as die atmosphere without,  he
ignored it.

    "Well strike at  night, come  at them  out of  the darkness  while
they're asleep. They'll  be confused and  unorganized. We should  seem
like a continuation of  some terrible night-dream  for them, so  we'll
use the Illusionists first.  Count Marat, you'll  lead your forces  in
here"- Garald pointed to a 268  WEIS AND HICKMAN grouping of  geodesic
domes that sprang  up magically beneath  his fingertips-"and you'll  -
"Begging your pardon.  Prince Garald,"  interrupted Count  Marat in  a
smooth voice. "These plans of yours are all very well, but the Emperor
is our leader. I came here  this morning expecting to discuss  matters
with him. Where is he?"

    Prince Garald glanced swiftly at one of the Duuk-foarith, hovering
like a shadow in  the corner. The hood  sjiivered slightly in  answer.
Frowning, Garald turned back to the Count. Marat was not alone in  his
demands.  Many  others  of  the  AUtanara  of  Merilon  were   nodding
agreement.

    "The Emperor has not had any sleep in the past two nights," Prince
Garald returned  coolly.  "Since  these  are his  plans,  which  I  am
attempting to discuss with you, I  did not feel that his presence  was
required. I have, however," he added, seeing the Count about to speak,
"sent Mosiah after him. The Emperor should be here •- "

    A pounding on the sealed door to the War Room interrupted him.

    Garald nodded and one of the Duuk-barttk removed the magical  seal
from the door.  Everyone turned to  look, the nobles  prepared to  bow
before their Emperor. But they saw only Mosiah . . . alone.

    "Where is Jor -the Emperor?" Garald demanded.

    "He's . . . he's sent me with a message," Mosiah stammered, giving
Garald a swift glance.

    "He's sent  me  with  a message,  Your  Grace,"  rebuked  Cardinal
Radisovik, but Mosiah didn't hear  him. He continued to look  intently
at Prince Garald.

    "Its … uh … confidential, Your  Grace." He made a motion with  his
hand, indicating that they step near the window.

    Prince Garald straightened from bending over the map. "A message?"
he repeated irritably- "Did you tell him we have been needing him this
past half-hour? Isn't he -Oh, very well. Excuse me, milords."

    Ignoring the nobles, who  were muttering among themselves,  Mosiah
walked swiftly over to the large glass windows. Prince Garald and Lord
Samuels went with him, the  Albanara suspiciously watching every  move
they made.

    TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 269  "Your Grace!"  Mosiah said  softly.
"It's nearly noon!"

    "I don't need to know the time," Garald snapped. Then, realization
slowly dawning, he fell abruptly silent, his gaze drawn reluctantly to
the magical timeglass  that stood on  one of the  mantelpieces in  the
elegant ballroom. The tiny sun  trapped inside had nearly reached  its
topmost point and  was blinking brightly  in its arc  halfway above  a
tiny world.

    "Damn!" the Prince swore softly,  turning from the nobles to  face
the window,  his hands  clasped  behind his  back.  "I thought  I  had
convinced him not to go!"

    "Perhaps he's just walking in the garden." Lord Samuels suggested.

    "I've looked! He isn't! And Father Saryon and Gwendolyn are  gone,
too!" Moving nearer Prince Garald, Mosiah pretended to be studying the
garden with  interest. "Theres  worse  news!" he  murmured.  "Simkln's
disappeared as well!"

    "Lord Samuels,  question the  servants," ordered  Garald  quietly.
"Ask if any of them have seen Joram or Father Saryon this morning. Try
to do it  without alarming  anyone," he added,  but it  was too  late.
Before he could stop him, the distraught lord dashed across the length
of the  ballroom  and ran  out  into  the hallway,  shouting  for  the
servants. The nobles watched him go, their faces growing  increasingly
grim and cold.

    "Prince Garald!"  called  out Count  Marat  loudly. "I  insist  on
knowing what is going on? Where is the Emperor?"

    "Where is  the Emperor?"  The  cry was  taken up-  Chaos  erupted,
everyone talking at once and no one making himself heard.

    "Silence!" Garald roared finally, and the clamor died away. "You'd
think we were faeriefolk gone mad!" he added sternly. "Mosiah has just
told me that the Emperor's wife  is extremely ill this morning and  he
does not want to  leave her. Lord Samuels  has just sent the  servants
for the The&ara. Lord Samuels also  informs me that luncheon is  being
served. I suggest that you take this opportunity to dine. The  Emperor
will be  meeting  with you  after  dinner.  My lords,  this  way.  The
servants will show you.  Thank you, go ahead  without me. I will  join
you presently."

    Exchanging  dark  glances  and  continuing  to  grumble  ;,  among
themselves, the  nobles and  the  War Masters  of  Mer- 270  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN ilon slowly  left the  room. Those with  a mind  to stay  were
assisted politely but firmly on their way by Prince Garald's warlocks.
Once everyone was gone, the Prince gestured to the Duuk-foarUk to seal
the door.

    "Wait  outside,"  Garald  instructed  the  warlock.  "Admit   Lord
Samuels, but no one else."

    The Duuk-foaritb vanished, leaving the Prince, Cardinal Radisovik,
and Mosiah  alone  in  the  room. Sunlight  glared  through  the  many
windows, streaming down upon the  marble floor, illuminating the  maps
rolled up on the table.  No one spoke. Radisovik looked  questioningly
at the Prince, but Garald, toying  with the maps, refused to meet  his
ministers eyes. Mosiah  endeavored to  stand calmly and  wait, but  he
shifted nervously  from one  foot to  the other,  wiping his  sweating
palms upon his archers uniform. Everyone looked up in relief when Lord
Samuels reappeared, bringing a flustered maid with him.

    Abashed at being in  the presence of the  Prince, the maid was  at
first incoherent. It  took some  time for  Garald's gentle,  courteous
manner to calm her and enable her to answer his questions.

    Yes, she had  seen the Emperor.  She was changing  the bed  linens
that morning when she saw Joram,  dressed in a traveling cloak,  going
into Father Saryons  room. Sometime  later, she saw  them emerge  from
that room and walk down the  hall. She overheard them talking of  Lady
Gwendolyn.

    Yes, the Emperor appeared tense  and nervous, but so was  everyone
else in the  house. She was  that upset  herself it was  a wonder  she
didn't faint dead away.

    Yes, now that she thought of it. Father Saryon had seemed  nervous
as well. He was very pale and walked as though he was being cast  into
Beyond. These were terrible times, as  she'd been saying to Cook  only
this morning.

    No, she couldn't recall having seen  the gaudy young man with  the
beard and that suited  her fine, due to  certain shocking things  he'd
said to her last night, which she hoped she was never to be put in the
way of hearing again or she would be forced to give notice.

    "Thank you, my girl," said Prince Garald abruptly. With a  curtsey
and a sly smile for Mosiah,  the maid departed. The Duuk-tjaritk  once
more sealed the door  shut. "Well, that TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  271
seems clear enough," Garald continued with a heavy sigh. "Joram's gone
to the Temple, and he's taken Father Saryon and Gwen with him."

    "Temple? What  temple.  Your  Grace?"  asked  Cardinal  Radisovik,
mystified.

    "The Temple of the Necromancers."

    "The Almin go with them!" the Cardinal said fervently, making  the
sign against evil.

    "Begging your  pardon. Holiness,  but I  don't think  the Almin  s
going to be enough,"  Mosiah said. "I think  we should be there,  too.
This is some kind of trap, isn't it, Your Grace?

    "I don't know!" Garald snapped,  moodily pacing the length of  the
room. "Simkin's story about Nat or Nate is obviously a lie, yet  there
was enough truth in it to  lure Joram into believing him. And  others,
too, I might add."  He glanced at Lord  Samuels, who stood apart  from
them, staring unseeing into the garden.

    "If my daughter ut  a Necromancer, this Temple  could be the  only
place in  this world  where she  might find  help!" Milord  turned  an
agonized face toward the Prince. "If we go blundering in, Your  Grace,
-we might ruin everything.

    "Or we might save their lives!" Mosiah interjected. "We could take
the Corridor, Your Grace, just check to make certain everything is all
right. Simkin uraj with the enemy, after all!"

    "I know! I know! I know!" Garald shouted impatiently, striking his
hand down upon the table. "I know Simkin! I know he'd gamble away  his
soul, Joram  s soul,  and the  souls  of everyone  in this  world  for
anything from a dancing  chicken to a boiled  potato if it caught  his
fancy!"

    "In which case," Cardinal Radisovik said softly, "Joram is in real
danger. Perhaps, Garald, Mosiah is right. . . ."

    A black form appeared in the  center of the War Room, coming  upon
them •with  the  suddenness  of  a thunder  clap.  The  hands  of  the
Duuk-fjaritb were clasped tightly before him as was proper - only they
were clasped too tightly,  the fingers twisting  with the strain.  His
voice, when he spoke, was tighter still.

    "Your Grace, the enemy is on the move!"

    "What?" Garald demanded in astonishment. "Are they leaving?"

    272 WEIS AND HICKMAN "No, \bur Grace. They are - "

    A brilliant, blinding light exploded in their eyes. The huge glass
windows imploded. The room was swept by a storm of shattered  crystal.
Paintings fell  from  the  walls; the  walls  themselves  cracked  and
buckled. A  large  ceiling  beam  split and  sagged.  The  walls,  the
ceiling, the very foundation of the house shook and trembled.

    Nearby explosions completed  the message that  the warlock,  lying
dead, his body riddled by shards of glass, was unable to deliver.

    Menlon was under attack.

    The house of  Lord Samuels  gave a final  shudder. The  timeglass,
which  had  withstood  the  initial  shock  wave,  tumbled  from   the
mantelpiece,  the  glass  case  breaking  into  a  hundred  glittering
fragments. Free  from its  confines,  the tiny  sun rolled  under  the
carpet. The tiny world bounced into the ashes of the fireplace.

    The  Temple  Of   The  Necromancers   The  Mcei   Temple  of   the
Necroman-Icers held an honored  place in the world  - it stood on  the
very top  of  the  Font,  the  tallest  mountain  in  Thimhallan.  The
foundation on •which it had been built had been magically leveled, but
the Temple had more  the appearance of perching  on a rocky crag  than
resting firmly on solid bedrock. This  was undoubtedly due to a  trick
of the eye, as the saying went,  enhanced by the fact that the  Temple
and its Garden  occupied the only  level ground that  existed at  that
dizzying height.

    According to  legend,  the Temple  of  the Necromancers  had  been
raised up from  the stone of  the mountain  by the hands  of the  dead
themselves. The summit  of the  mountain formed  the Temples  cavelike
back wall, the  magically altered peak  that spiraled gracefully  into
the clouds was the Temples roof.  The two side walls, facing east  and
west, were built out from the back. Following the natural lines of the
mountain, they each rose up from the tops of sheer cliffs. Bishop  274
WEIS AND HICKMAN  Vanyas Garden  - referred to  in these  days as  the
"top" of the mountain - was actually Five hundred feet below.

    The columned portico of  the Temple, facing  north, opened onto  a
large, circular expanse of level ground. Here, paving stones had  been
laid out in the  shape of a wheel.  Nine sidewalks formed nine  spokes
that led from the outer  walkway to a huge altar  stone in the hub  of
the wheel. One symbol  of each of the  Nine Mysteries was engraved  at
the end of each walkway. All  nine symbols were repeated, carved  into
the altar stone.

    This area  had once  been well  kept. Comfortable  wooden  benches
stood at intervals  around the wheels  hub. Between each  of the  nine
spokes, beds of flowers had bloomed, coaxed by the hands of the druids
to grow at this high altitude.

    In this once  lovely Garden, in  this magnificent setting,  people
came from  all over  Thimhallan to  counsel with,  ask advice  of,  or
merely pay a cordial visit to their dead. The Necromancers ~- born  to
the Mystery of  Spirit and  permitted by the  Almin to  dwell in  both
worlds,  that  of  the  living  and  that  of  the  dead  -  acted  as
interpreters, carrying messages from  one world to  the next and  back
again.

    The Necromancers had been a  powerful Order, the most powerful  in
Thimhallan at the time  of the Iron  Wars, or so  it was whispered.  A
word from the  dead had been  known to topple  thrones and bring  down
royal houses. The Duuk-barith,  who feared nothing living,  reportedly
had trembled when  they approached  the Gardens  of the  Necromancers.
There had been those, particularly among the rulers of the land, their
warlocks, and their catalysts, who had  looked upon this power with  a
jealous eye.

    No one knew exactly how the Necromancers perished during the  Iron
Wars. It was a confused time.  Countless numbers of people lost  their
lives during that bloody conflict. The Necromancers had always been  a
very small sect; few  people were born to  the Mystery of Spirit,  and
fewer still had  the discipline  to enable them  to endure  a life  of
death. It is easy to understand how a small group might have  perished
and their passing gone unnoticed.

    Suffice it to say  that at wars end  the catalysts announced  that
the Necromancers had been wiped out. The practicers of the Dark  Arts,
the Technologists, were blamed for  the mur- TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD
275 ders, as  they were blamed  for every evil  that had befallen  the
land during the past century.

    Few missed the Necromancers. The dead of the land - and there were
many - had  generally died  bitter deaths.  The living  were only  too
happy to put their grief  out of their minds  and get on with  living,
which, in many cases, was difficult enough.

    If any thought  to wonder why  no more children  were born to  the
Mystery of the  Spirit, they  might have  asked the  catalysts or  the
Duuk-faaritb or the parents of children who occasionally heard  voices
not audible to  others or talked  to friends that  were not there.  In
these instances, the children either outgrew this strange phase or, if
the "phase" persisted, the children disappeared.

    What Father Saryon said  about the Temple was  true - people  were
prohibited from setting foot on Temple grounds. But -• and this is not
to disparage the word of  the catalyst, who was undoubtedly  repeating
the gossip of the  Font -it was  not true that  the Temple had  fallen
under a curse.  It was not  true that certain  powerful catalysts  had
tried to lift the curse and had never returned.

    The truth  of  the  matter was  very  simple  - no  one  had  ever
bothered. The only curse the Temple of the Necromancers lay under  was
the curse of being forgotten.

    The red robes of his disguise rustling about his ankles, Menju the
Sorcerer  stepped  cautiously  out  of  the  Corridor  onto  the  long
neglected grounds of the Temple. The Tbon-li who brought him here were
shocked beyond  measure  at  his  traveling  to  this  place  and  had
earnestly tried to  dissuade h'im.  Onfy by  stating that  this was  a
wartime emergency had the Sorcerer been able to convince them to  send
him to his destination.

    Their fears,  however,  had  done  nothing  to  bolster  his  con*
fidence. His  hand  clasping the  phaser  gun kept  concealed  in  his
pocket, words of  a spell for  repelling the dead  on his lips,  Menju
looked swiftly  around and  instantly sensed  the true  nature of  the
place. Relaxing, he breathed a sigh of relief.

    Though the sun beamed from a cloudless sky, an aura of sadness and
melancholy hung  over the  Temple like  thick fog,  casting an  almost
perceptible shadow on the  broken walls 276 WE1S  AND HICKMAN and  the
crumbling stone. There was an eerie stillness about the place, too; an
unnatural quiet,  as  if  countless  numbers  of  unseen  people  were
standing about, each holding his or her breath, waiting for  something
to happen.

    Shivering in the still,  cold mountain air,  the Sorcerer put  his
phaser away, grinning over his fears. But  it was a weak grin at  best
and he  sat  down upon  one  of the  decaying  stone benches  with  an
unintended suddenness, resulting from his knees giving way.

    What had he expected,  after all? he  scolded himself. Legions  of
howling dead, leaping, shrieking, out of the darkness to protest  this
trespass? Skeletal hands touching his? Figures in white winding sheets
and chains stalking about, bewailing the degenerate state of his  mind
and promising him three ghostly visitors before morning?

    "Bah! Humbug!" he said aloud and was  able to laugh - with only  a
slight shudder - at his own little joke.

    Wiping the  chill sweat  from his  brow, Menju  took a  moment  to
regain his composure and to investigate his surroundings. He had  come
here purposefully early  to do just  this. The sun  was even with  his
left shoulder. He had over an hour until noon.

    Phaser in hand,  he carefully  and coolly began  to examine  every
rock and  boulder  around the  perimeter  of the  Temple  grounds.  He
checked  out  his  surroundings  with  elaborate  care.  Despite   his
immediate observation  that  there was  no  one here,  Menju  had  the
strangest impression that someone  was examining him. Finding  nothing
and no one, however, he firmly banished the thought, considering it to
come from the same  childish source as the  clanking chains and  white
sheets.

    Leaving the cliffs edge, the Sorcerer walked down one of the paths
through the dead Garden,  desiring a closer look  at the altar  stone.
The path  he  selected was  the  one of  his  own Mystery  -  that  of
Technology. Whether he chose this path out of superstition, a  feeling
of homesickness, or because it  merely suited his humor, Menju  didn't
bother to analyze.

    Stalks of dead plants that had not decayed in the cold, dry air of
the high mountain elevation stuck up out of the frozen dirt on  either
side of  the path.  Small, dead,  ornamental saplings  lay with  their
roots in the  air, having  been blown over  by the  winter winds.  The
Sorcerer glanced without in-  TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 277 terest  at
the remnants of the Garden. Arriving at the altar stone, he stared  at
it curiously,  running  his  fingers  over the  symbols  of  the  Nine
Mysteries carved into  the rock. It  was an unusual  type of rock,  he
saw. Some sort of ore. Perhaps darkstone! he thought, feeling a tremor
of excitement.

    Examining it  closely, he  tried to  recall legends  he had  heard
about the altar stone. How it had been raised out of the Well of  Life
far below, at the base of the Font. How it had been a sort of plug  in
the Well and how, once the  stone was removed, the magic gushed  forth
like magma, flowing out over the world.

    That made sense,  he realized suddenly.  The darkstone had  capped
the Well! It was an exhilarating thought.

    Standing at the center of the world, directly above the source  of
the magic, Menju could feel  Life pulsing around him, surging  through
him. He reveled in the sensation. He couldn't believe he had forgotten
how exciting it was, possessing the magic again.

    The Sorcerer studied the boulder critically. It was huge! It  must
stand at least  seven feet tall.  His arms would  not even go  halfway
around it. It weighed - what -  a ton? If it iww darkstone, its  value
would be incalculable! His hand, touching it, shook with anticipation.

    "Joram will know  if it is  darkstone or it  isn't," the  Sorcerer
murmured, smiling to himself. "I must try to keep him conscious when I
capture him, at least until hes had a chance to tell me."

    Patting the altar stone  fondly and longingly  with his hand,  the
Sorcerer continued his inspection, finally reaching the Temple itself.

    Nine stairs  shaped  out  of  stone led  up  to  the  porch-  Nine
crumbling columns supported a broken roof that jutted out from beneath
the splraling summit of the mountain. Drawing nearer, the Sorcerer saw
that parts of the ceiling had collapsed beneath the weight of rock and
years. Large chunks  of stone  littered the floor.  The altar,  barely
seen through the shadows, appeared to  have been crushed by a  ceiling
beam. Climbing  the crumbling  stairs, Menju  noted with  satisfaction
that the darkness inside the Temple was thick and impenetrable.

    278 WEIS ANI> H1CKMAN  Menju nodded to  himself. Taking one  final
look around, he glanced out over the plains far to the north, to where
the city of Merilon stood glittering in the sun. Squinting, he  stared
intently at the city, thinking he saw the glint of metal. Was it Major
Boris's tanks taking up position to  bombard the magical dome? Or  was
it the  sunlight,  flashing  off  an icebound  lake?  He  couldn't  be
certain.

    Shrugging, the Sorcerer turned away. Once he had the Darksword, it
wouldn't matter anyway. Meanwhile Boris  and his men could have  their
fun. It kept the Major occupied, kept him from brooding. And it  would
heat up the  blood of  the soldiers, filling  them with  the fear  and
hatred necessary to exterminate the people of this world.

    The sun was high above his head. It was nearly time. Returning  to
his selected hiding place, Menju mulled over matters in his mind.  The
fighting on this world was likely to be long and costly, even with the
Darksword.  These  people  wouldn't  go  to  their  deaths  without  a
struggle. A pity he couldn't use some of those depopulation bombs that
killed without damaging  buildings and such.  Would those disrupt  the
magic? Possibly  not. He'd  have to  consult the  physicists. Come  to
think of it, Joram might know.

    What about Joram?  Would he  cooperate? Entering  the Temple,  the
Sorcerer allowed  himself  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  His  plan  was
foolproof. Joram  was  known to  be  devoted  to his  mad  wife.  Once
realizing that Menju had  Gwendolyn captive, Joram  would be only  too
happy to cooperate. Insane though the  woman may be, at least she  was
capable of some form of rational thought. Better that than seeing  her
mental capacity reduced to the level of a rotting tomato.

    Menju switched the setting  on his phaser  from "kill" to  "stun."
Crouching down in the darkness behind  a column of the ruined  Temple,
conscious of a breathless  hush that had settled  over the top of  the
world, the Sorcerer waited.

    The  Executioner  jenju's  instincts  were  right.  iHe  WM  being
watched. And though  most of  the eyes  watching him  belonged to  the
dead, one pair did not. One pair belonged to the living. Someone  else
had arrived  at  the  Temple  of the  Necromancer.  Someone  else  was
waiting.

    The presence of the  humans disturbed the dead,  who had not  seen
living bodies on their  hallowed ground in centuries.  But it was  not
just the  presence alone  of these  two men  that caused  the  spirits
restless agitation. Clustered  about their Temple,  they watched  with
unseeing eyes, listened with  deaf ears, spoke  with dumb mouths.  For
there was no one to  understand them, no one  to hear them, and  their
sense of frustration was great. The dead - who were one with the  mind
of Atmin - knew the danger but were helpless to act. All they could do
was watch with those watching and wait with those waiting.

    This second Watcher was, in reality, the first. He had arrived  at
the Temple of the Necromancer very  early in the 280 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN
morning, just  as  the pale,  cold  sun  was struggling  up  over  the
mountain peaks, creeping sluggishly into  the sty as if wondering  why
it bothered to rise  at all. Even  the eyes of  the dead-who see  time
moving not  second  by second  as  do the  living,  but as  one  vast,
everchanging ocean -  nearly missed noticing  this man. Emerging  from
the Corridor, he vanished again instantly, disappearing almost in  the
second of his appearance.

    It took some doing, but the dead located him, or at least part  of
him, for this man was good at  bis calling. No human eye could  pierce
his shield of  invisibility, and rt  was all the  spirits could do  to
keep his image m  their minds. The man  they saw was dressed  formally
for the commission of Justice,  wearing gray robes decorated with  the
symbols of the Nine Mysteries. Many  of the dead recognized him -  the
Executioner- and they either trembled or cursed him.

    One of the most powerful  warlocks in Thimhallan, the  Executioner
dwelled within  the Font.  His services  belonged exclusively  to  the
catalysts in general, and  Bishop Vanya in  particular. In return  for
performing such  deeds  for them  as  the  Turning to  Stone  and  the
Banishment to Beyond,  the Executioner  was given  unlimited Life  and
freedom to use that Life as he chose. Thus he had been able to develop
his skills in the discipline of magic far beyond those of his peers.

    This day,  however, the  Executioner was  not going  to rely  upon
magic. As  did the  other Watcher  in the  Temple, he  carried in  the
pocket of his gray robes a Tool, a demonic device created by the  Dark
Arts of Technology.

    Intrigued by the device,  which he had  spent the night  studying,
the Executioner withdrew it and examined it intently. The dead,  drawn
by curiosity,  crowded  around, gazing  at  the device  in  shock  and
horror. What it was  and what it  did they had  some idea, since  they
were one  with the  Creator of  All. They  found the  terrible  device
difficult to understand, however, as perhaps did the Creator, who must
have, on  occasion, regretted  giving  mankind intelligence  that  was
turned so often to malevolent pursuits.

    The night previous,  Bishop Vanya. had  called the Executioner  to
his office.  Giving him  his  orders, he  had  made certain  that  the
warlock knew exactly what was required of him.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  281 "For  returning to  this realm  and
bringing upon it untold danger, the  sentence of death is placed  upon
this man  Joram,"  pronounced the  Bishop's  sonorous voice.  "He  has
tricked the people into naming him Emperor; therefore, the rest of the
Duuk-tjartib are  bound by  strict oaths  to protect  him. You  -  the
Executioner - are  to consider  yourself above these  laws, since  the
Church - the highest authority in  the land, existing by the  blessing
of the Almin - has decreed Joram  s death. Once the sentence has  been
carried out, you will retrieve the Darksword and bring it  immediately
to me to prevent its presence in the world from causing further harm."

    The Bishop had stopped here for breath and to carefully scrutinize
the Executioner in order  to make certain that  he understood what  he
was meant to understand and didn't what he wasn't.

    "Further," the Bishop had continued,  sucking m a noseful of  air,
"although the execution of Joram is undeniably justified, we  consider
that it will be  best - the  people being in  a nervous and  unsettled
state - to allow  the populace to believe  that their Emperor has  met
his death at the hands of the enemy. A man called Menju the  Sorcerer,
a criminal you yourself cast into Beyond, is meeting with Joram at the
Temple of the Necromancers - clear proof, by the way, that our Emperor
intends to betray  his people.  It would  be quite  beneficial to  all
concerned if the two, Joram and this Sorcerer, were to have a  falling
out that would result in the Emperors death. …"

    The   Executioner,   understanding   perfectly,   had   bowed   in
acquiescence and  removed himself  from the  Bishops presence  without
uttering a word.

    Entering a Corridor, the warlock left the Font, traveling  through
time and space until he  arrived at the secret, subterranean  chambers
of the  Order of  Duuk-baritb.  Making his  needs  known to  those  in
charge, the Executioner was immediately given access to certain  rooms
kept sealed off from  the rest. In these  rooms, the personal  effects
confiscated from the bodies of the strange humans were being studied.

    Various members of Duuk-tearilb, engaged in sorting and cataloging
the effects, bowed in homage to one so high-rank- 282 WEIS AND HICKMAN
ing in their Order, and  stood aside from their  work to allow him  to
examine  the  objects.  He  was  not  interested  in  the   remarkable
timekeeping devices or  the ugly  jewelry or the  pieces of  parchment
that had captured images of  other strange humans, mostly females  and
children. The Executioner passed over  these without a glance. He  was
interested only in the weapons.

    Although not born  to the Ninth  Mystery himself, the  Executioner
was familiar with the tools of  the Dark Arts, having studied them  as
he had studied  much else in  this world. Carefully  he went over  the
cache of weapons, examining each one he came to, being careful not  to
touch any of  them. Occasionally  he asked a  question of  one of  the
Duuk-tMritb standing respectfully nearby. The Executioner  discovered,
however, that he  knew as  much, or in  some cases  more, about  these
weapons than they did.

    Although he had not participated in the battle, he had watched  it
with interest,  noting the  lethal swiftness  with which  the  weapons
casting the beams of light could  kill. He studied these first.  Small
enough to  fit  in  die palm  of  the  hand, the  metal  devices  gave
absolutely no  indication,  at  least  outwardly,  of  how  they  were
operated.

    The Executioner was just beginning to think he might have to trust
his luck to  one of  these anyway,  hoping he  would not  accidentally
incinerate himself while endeavoring to figure out how it worked, when
he came to something that suited him much better.

    A projectile weapon.

    He had  read of  these in  the  ancient texts  of the  Dark  Arts.
Although as far as  anyone knew, none of  these devices had ever  been
constructed on Thimhallan,  they had  been theorized and  a few  crude
renderings of how they might work  still existed. This weapon was,  of
course, much more complex than any of the drawings the Executioner had
seen, but he assumed it operated along the same principles.

    Wrapping it gingerly in a cloth, the Executioner placed the weapon
and a large number of what appeared to be its projectiles in a box. He
sealed the  box  with strong  runes  of protection  against  Fire  and
explosion, then,  carrying the  box carefully,  he left  the dark  and
secret chambers of  the Duuk-foaritb,  and traveled  the Corridors  to
Merilon.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 283  The blacksmith, nearly on the  verge
of collapse  from  exhaustion,  was considerably  startled  to  see  a
gray-robed figure emerge from the Corridor outside his makeshift forge
in Merilon. Everyone on Thimhallan knew of the Executioner, by  legend
if not by sight. Strong and stalwart man though he was, the blacksmith
could not help shuddering with fear when the warlock approached him.

    A panicked thought entered the smiths weary mind. "I'm going to be
blamed for the enemys attack and executed without benefit of a trial."
Lifting a hammer, the smith prepared to sell his life dear.

    But the Executioner, speaking in his cool, deep voice, assured the
smith at once that it was his brains the warlock sought, not his head.

    Bringing the box out  of the folds of  his robes, the  Executioner
rubbed out the runes, unwrapped the cloth, and exhibited the weapon to
the blacksmith.

    Sighing in awe, the smith lifted the weapon and ran his hands over
it lovingly.  The  ingenuity and  perfection  of its  workmanship  and
design caused  his  eyes to  mist  over with  tears.  The  Executioner
abruptly cut short  the smiths rapturizing,  however, by demanding  to
know how the thing worked.

    It is  possible that  the Executioner  cringed slightly  when  the
smith began to dismantle the weapon. Possible . . . but doubtful.  The
Executioner was  a  highly  disciplined  individual  who,  if  he  had
emotions, never revealed them to anyone. To all outward appearance, he
stood unmoved and unmov-ing, his face  concealed by his gray hood  the
entire time the smith worked on the weapon.

    The blacksmith spent an  hour in intense  examination of the  tool
and, at last, after reverently reassembling the components,  announced
bluntly, "I know bow it works,  my lord, though how they captured  all
that power is beyond me."

    "That," answered the Executioner, "is more than sufficient."

    The blacksmith, holding the  weapon in his  hands and stroking  it
fondly, explained matters clearly and concisely.

    "Aim the weapon at your target. When you press against this  small
lever with your finger"-the blacksmith pointed - 284 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN
TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD  285  "the  weapon  will  shoot  forth  the
projectile with  such  force  that  it should  go  through  damn  near
anything."

    "Flesh?" asked the Executioner offhandedly.

    "Flesh, rock,  iron." The  blacksmith looked  at the  weapon  with
wistful longing. "I don't suppose  you'd care to see it  demonstrated,
my lord?"

    "No," the warlock replied. "Your explanation is satisfactory."

    Retrieving the weapon, the  Executioner stepped into the  Corridor
and vanished. With a heavy sigh, the smith hefted his hammer and began
pounding on a  crude spear tip,  all the  joy having gone  out of  his
work.

    Returning to the  safety and privacy  of his own  chambers in  the
Font - chambers far underground,  studiously avoided by everyone,  and
the only place where, it was said, the eyes of the Font were blind and
the ears stopped up - the Executioner demonstrated the weapon himself.
Pointing it at a wall, he wrapped his finger around the small lever as
the blacksmith had indicated and squeezed.

    The concussive  blast  nearly  deafened him,  the  weapons  recoil
staggered him. He all  but dropped the thing  and his hand stung  with
the shock for minutes  afterward. Going to examine  the target on  the
wall, once he had recovered himself, the Executioner was frustrated to
find no trace of  the projectile. The wall  was smooth and  undamaged.
Further investigation revealed, however, that  this was not the  fault
of the tool but the fault of  the one using the tool. The  Executioner
had missed his target by, if not the proverbial mile, then certainly a
city block.

    Undaunted, the Executioner cast a temporary spell of deafness over
himself. Holding the weapon with both hands, he finally managed, after
an hour, to at least come  close to hitting his target. Measuring  the
holes he had made in the wall, the Executioner saw that they fit  well
within a space large enough to  accommodate a humans upper body.  This
was good enough. It was nearly dawn anyway and he had to make  certain
he took up his position unseen and unsuspected.

    When he arrived at the  Temple, the Executioner stationed  himself
near the altar stone, protected from all eyes except those of the dead
by his shield of  invisibility. From this  vantage point, he  observed
the Sorcerers  arrival (the  Executioner could  have reached  out  and
touched the man) and watched with keen interest as Menju selected  his
own hiding place.

    The Executioner glanced at the sun. Not too much longer.  Standing
in the  bright  sunlight, conscious  of  a breathless  hush  that  had
settled over the top of the world, the Executioner waited.

    Watching, Waiting Ft »  ither Saryon peered  cau-- tiously at  the
Temple of  the Necromancer,  intending to  investigate this  place  of
rumored evil before setting foot upon its grounds.

    "Come on, will you?"

    Pushing past  the reluctant  catalyst, Joram  stepped out  of  the
Corridor onto the crumbling white  marble walkway. His intense,  eager
gaze scanned the area swiftly: the ruined Temple behind him; the altar
stone in the center of the wheel;  the vast vista of the world  spread
out before him, Merilon shining in  the distance like a teardrop  upon
the face of the land.

    Saryon followed, every nerve fiber  tense and alert. Reaching  out
with his being, as  he did when  he drew Life into  his body, he  felt
about him with mental fingers as a blind man feels about him with  his
hands. He sensed Life-the  magic was extremely  strong here, but  that
was not unusual.  They were,  after all, standing  directly above  the
Well of Life itself. He sensed death, too, but that may have been  his
overwrought imagination.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 287 His fears were apparently groundless.
The Temple appeared to be empty.  Nothing moved, not even the air.  No
sounds of  the  living  world  below drifted  upward  to  disturb  the
solitude. The silence was absolute, complete, unbroken.

    Why, then, was he afraid?

    "We are here in good time," Joram remarked, glancing up at the sun
and nodding in satisfaction.  He rubbed his  hands together to  remove
the chill  of the  mountain  air. "It  is  almost noon."  Turning  and
looking around  curiously,  he walked  past  his wife,  who  was  just
stepping out of the Corridor, without a word or a glance.

    "I see  no legions  of ghouls  thirsting for  our blood,  do  you.
Catalyst?" Joram continued caustically, going over to investigate  the
altar stone.

    "No, but that doesn't mean. . . ."

    Saryon s words died, he stared in perplexity.

    Joram s back was  turned to him. The  folds of the long  traveling
cloak swept the  ground as  he walked. Concealed  beneath that  cloak,
encased in the  magical scabbard,  was the Darksword.  The weapon  was
well hidden.  No  one glancing  at  Joram casually  would  have  noted
anything unusual or out of the ordinary about him. But Saryon, who had
traveled with Joram for  so long, had come  to notice a difference  in
the way he walked when he wore the sword. Perhaps it was the  weapon's
weight, or a peculiar construction  of the scabbard, but Joram  always
appeared slightly  stoop-shouldered when  he  wore the  Darksword,  as
though bowed down by an invisible burden.

    He bore no burden  now. His back was  straight, his walk free  and
easy.

    He's not carrying  the sword. .  . . We  are defenseless!  Saryons
first thought was  to keep  near the Corridor  and he  reached out  to
catch hold of Gwendolyn as she started to wander off.

    Placidly, she allowed him to detain her and, standing be-•ide  the
catalyst, she  gazed about  the Temple  grounds, her  blue eyes  calm,
seeing nothing in this world, caring nothing about what happened.  And
here was Joram, acting die same way! What could he have been thinking,
to leave his sword behind?

    288 WEIS AND  HICKMAN Certainly,  Joram didn't  appear worried  or
nervous. He stood by  the altar stone, lounging  against it as  though
waiting for someone. Why  was he acting so  strangely? Perhaps it  had
something to do with this terrible place.

    Although Saryon neither saw nor felt any evil about the Temple  of
the Necromancers, his fear  was growing. Maybe  it was the  oppressive
sadness that hung over the Temple  -the terrible sadness of those  who
have been long forgotten. Or maybe  it was the breathless hush in  the
air. Everything seemed to  be watching, waiting.  Even the sun  itself
appeared to have come to a stop directly above them.

    We must  leave, go  back through  the Corridor.  Somehow, he  must
convince Joram of the  danger. That wouldn't be  easy, since it was  a
danger he himself could not define, but he had to try. Marshalling his
arguments, Saryon started toward  his friend, when Gwendolyn  suddenly
broke free of his grasp.

    "No! No! There are too many of you!" she cried, backing away  from
him. "Don't touch me!" She was not looking at the catalyst, but beyond
him. Stretching out her arms, she warded off unseen hands. "There  are
too many  of you!  I can't  understand you!  Stop shouting!  Leave  me
alone! Leave me alone!"

    Gwen clasped her hands over her ears, as if shutting out a tumult.
Saryon stared at her helplessly. The  only sounds that could be  heard
in the still, unmoving air were her own cries. He reached out to  her,
but, turning from him, she ran down the path, retreating as before  an
onslaught. Dodging  first  one  way  and  then  another,  her  erratic
movements looked like  some macabre dance  performed with  nonexistent
partners.

    "I can't help! Why do you plead with me? I can do nothing, I  tell
you! Nothing!"

    Her palms covering  her ears,  her golden hair  gleaming pale  and
unlovely in the chill light, Gwen began to run toward the Temple in  a
desperate effort to escape the unseen mob.  She made it as far as  the
altar stone. Tripping over the long hem  of her gown, she fell to  her
knees, and knelt there, cowering from her tormentors.

    Hastening after her,  Saryon saw  that Joram stood  not ten  paces
from his terrified wife. But he made no move to go to her. Instead, he
leaned against the altar stone, watching her with amused interest,  as
if grateful to her  for providing him with  entertainment to pass  the
time.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD 289  Anger  surged through  Saryon.  He
didn't know what had come over Joram. He didn't care, not anymore. Let
him sink back into the darkness!  Hurrying to Gwens side, Saryon  bent
down and gently took hold of her hand.

    A sharp, distinct crack split the air.

    Then another.

    And another.

    And one more.

    Saryons heart  froze, his  blood  froze, his  feet and  legs,  his
hands. He  could not  move.  He could  only  crouch on  the  pavement,
holding onto Gwen, listening to  the mind-numbing sounds careen  among
the rocks and reverberate from the Temple walls.

    And then, the cracks stopped.

    Fearfully, Saryon waited for the dreadful noise to come again. All
he heard were the hollow echoes rattling down the mountainside. These,
too, finally dwindled, swallowed up by the vastness of space.

    Nothing moved, nothing stirred. Even Gwens cries hushed. It was as
if the sounds had torn  the air asunder and  now silence rushed in  to
fill the void.

    The catalyst had only one clear thought  in his mind - to get  out
of this place.  It was obvious  to him that  nothing in this  accursed
Temple was  going to  help Gwendolyn,  who huddled,  shivering in  his
arms. There was every possibility, in  fact, that this Temple and  the
dead who dwelt here might drive her deeper into her madness.

    "I'm taking your wife  home - " Saryon  began in a shaking  voice,
looking up  at Joram.  The  catalyst's breath  caught in  his  throat.
"Joram?" he whispered, letting loose of Gwendolyn and rising slowly to
a standing position. "My son, whats wrong?"

    Joram leaned weakly against the altar stone, staring at Saryon  in
the most profound  astonishment. The  brown eyes were  open wide.  His
lips parted to speak, but no words came. One hand was pressed  against
his breast and beneath die hand, Saryon saw a crimson stain grow  like
a living dung, spreading out slowly  over the white robes. Three  more
stains appeared  on  his body,  bursting  into bloom  like  lurid  red
blossoms.

    290 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  Lifting  the crimson-stained  hand  slowly,
Joram stared at it in the  same bemused amazement. Puzzled, he  looked
back at Saryon and, shoving himself away from the altar stone, he took
a step toward the catalyst. Staggering, he fell before he reached him.

    Saryon caught  him  in  his  arms.  Touching  the  fabric  of  the
crimson-stained robes, the  catalyst felt the  warm wetness of  life's
blood draining from Joram's body, falling through Saryons fingers like
the petals of a shattered tulip.

    8 My Poor Fool…

    [he sound came from behind lim, a low, muffled curse.

    "What was that?" Saryon  raised his head.  "Who spoke? Is  someone
there? Help! Will you help me?"

    It had seemed to come from the Temple.

    "Who is there?"  Saryon called desperately.  Being careful not  to
disturb the injured  man he  held in his  arms, he  twisted around  to
look. But the shadows inside  the Temple of the Necromancers  remained
unmoving, dark and silent as the realm they guarded.

    Nothing but  my  imagination. Who  would  be there?  Saryon  asked
himself bitterly. His gaze went to Gwendolyn, crouched on the  pathway
near him. She was looking around her expectantly, as though waiting.

    Had it been her voice? Had she spoken? She loved Joram! Loves  him
still, for all Saryon knew.

    "Gwendolyn!" He spoke softly and gently, fearful of star-ding her.
"Come to me! Stay with Joram while I get help."

    292 WEIS AND H1CKMAN Hearing Saryons voice, she turned to him. Her
gaze went to her  husband and flitted over  him like butterfly  wings,
darting here and  there over the  stalks of the  lifeless plants.  The
dead must have been shocked into  silence, because Gwens fear of  them
appeared to have vanished. Slowly, she started to rise to her feet.

    Suddenly it occurred to  Saryon that they  themselves might be  in
danger!  Whatever  had  struck  down  Joram  in  this  mysterious  and
horrifying manner might be waiting to lash out again with its whiplike
cracks!

    "No! Gwen! Stay  down!" Saryon cried  frantically, and either  the
terror and urgency in  his voice penetrated the  mists of Beyond  that
clouded her mind or unseen hands caught hold of her and kept her  from
rising. Saryon, in his agitated state, had the distinct impression  it
was the latter.

    He scanned the Temple once  again, then the Garden, the  pathways,
the jagged edges of the summit, searching frantically for their enemy.

    "Not that I care  for myself," the  old Priest muttered,  lowering
his head over the  body he held  m his arms,  tears dimming his  eyes.
Although stifl breathing, Joram had lost consciousness. Gently, Saryon
stroked the thick, black hair back from the deathly white face. "I  am
tired of this life, tired  of the fear, tired  of the killing and  the
dying. If  Joram must  die here,  then I  can find  no better  resting
place."

    Shaking his head angrily, Saryon  fought back his tears. Give  way
to despair and you are dead, and so is Joram and so is Gwendolyn!  She
must get to a place of  safety. If there was such  a place. . . .  The
Temple! It had once been  sacred ground. Perhaps the Almin's  blessing
lingered there still.

    "Gwen, run to the Temple,"  instructed Saryon, forcing himself  to
speak calmly and quietly, "Quickly, my child! Run to the Temple."

    Gwendolyn made  no  move  to  go. Gazing  around  with  that  same
expectant look, she gave no indication that she had even heard him.

    "Take her  there!" Saryon  cried urgently  to the  shadows in  the
empty Garden. "Take her to the Temple! Guard her there!"

    It was a cry born of  desperation, and no one was more  astonished
than the  catalyst to  see Gwen  lifted to  her feet  by unseen  arms,
unseen hands helping her stand.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 293 "Hurry!" he breathed, waiting in fear
for that sharp crack.

    Bearing Gwen along,  the dead swept  past him. He  could feel  the
soft whisper of their presence upon his cheek; he saw it flutter Gwens
gown and stir her golden hair as they bore her to the Temple. When she
stumbled, she was caught  and supported. When  she started to  falter,
she was hurried  forward. Saryon saw  her stumble up  the nine  stairs
leading into the Temple, and he saw her vanish into the shadows.

    The catalyst sighed in relief, one care off his mind. And now,  he
repeated to himself stubbornly, I must get help for Joram, for all  of
us. He looked back at the man  in his arms, and his heart sank  within
him, the cold, logical part of his mind telling him that, for Joram at
least, there wtw no help.

    "There must be  a chance  to save him!"  Saryon shouted  fiercely,
defiantly at the heavens.

    In mocking answer, the body in his arms shuddered, a groan of pain
escaped the lips. The catalyst  clasped Joram tightly, trying to  keep
hold of the spirit that was seeping away with every drop of blood. "If
only I knew what had happened to him!" he cried to the cold empty sky.

    "Sink me!" came a weak voice. "That makes two of us!"

    Startled, Saryon lowered his eyes from the heavens back to  earth,
to the man he held in his arms. Gone was the stern face with its  high
cheekbones and Firm jaw.  Gone was the luxuriant  black hair with  its
shock of white. Gone  were the dark, lowering  brows, the brown  eyes,
burning  with  a  deep,  inner  flame.  Instead  he  saw  a  face   of
indeterminate age with a pointed chin, a soft beard and mustache;  the
eyes regarding  him  with  an almost  comical  expression  of  puzzled
indignation.

    "Simian!" Saryon gasped.

    "In the flesh," remarked Simkm, struggling for breath. "Though . .
. that particular part of me … is … rather ventilated. I'm feeling … a
distinct draft. . . about the kidneys. …"

    "But where . . . where's Joram?" stammered Saryon, mystified.

    "Here," came the stern reply.

    A figure in  white robes,  its head  covered •with  a white  hood,
stood above them. In its hand was the DarksworcL 294 WEIS AND  HICKMAN
Joram knelt at Sunkin's side and, though his voice was stern, the hand
that reached out  to the  injured young  man was  gentle. From  Jorams
fingers fluttered a bit of orange silk that appeared to have been  cut
in two by a sharp blade.

    "Ah, clever boy!" Simkin choked, a small stream of blood trickling
from the corner of  his mouth. '"You .  . . escaped .  . , my  cunning
knot." His head lolled back, his eyes closed.

    "Whats happened to him?" Saryon asked in a iow voice.

    Laying the sword  down upon the  pavement, Joram carefully  peeled
aside the blood-soaked fabric of  Simkin s white robes, examining  the
wounds in  his chest.  He glanced  down at  the other  -wounds in  the
stomach and shook his head.

    Simkin moaned, shuddering convulsively.

    Jorams stern  expression  softened.  Taking the  orange  silk,  he
dabbed gently at the sweat-covered  forehead. "My poor fool," he  said
softly.

    "Isn't there anything we can do?" asked Saryon.

    "Nothing. I don't know what's kept him alive this long, unless its
his magic. ** Joram replied.

    I should pray. I should say something, Saryon thought  confusedly,
although the idea of sending Simkin heavenward on the wings of  prayer
was, somehow, ludicrous.

    Easing the shivering body to  the ground, the catalyst placed  his
hand upon the young man's forehead. Bowing his head, he murmured, "Per
ittam Sanctam Unctlonem indulgent tibt DominiM quQqiw)- "

    "I say, Bald One," came a weak, peevish voice, "could you quutquu)
somewhere else? Damnably annoying!"

    "Why did you do this, Simkin?" Joram asked softly.

    "E'gad!" Simkin stared up at Joram with fevered eyes. "You've .  .
. gone all fuzzy." He grimaced. "Beastly sort of game this. Don't much
. . .  fancy it… at  all. Where are  you, dear boy?  Everything . .  .
dark. . .  . Frightened of…  dark. Where? Where  are you .  . . ?"  He
gasped, his hand twitched feebly.

    Clasping the bloodstained hand in his, Joram held it tightly. "I'm
here," he said.  "And it's dark  because you've got  that stupid  helm
over your head, the one that makes you look like a bucket."

    Simkin smiled, relaxing. "I was  . . . fond  of being a …  bucket.
Damn good one . . . too. They  . . . never suspected, in fact.  That's
how t knew. . . ."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 295 "Knew what?"

    The eyes became unfocused,  wandering off to  stare far away  into
the pale, cold sun.

    "'Brave, new world.  . .  . 'Takey<w!  Not Simkin."  A glimmer  of
life, of spirit flickered in the  eyes. Slowly, their gaze came  back,
focusing on Joram. "So I. . . became you\ Would have been . . .  grand
trick. I would have won . . . the game." A spasm of pain contorted his
face. Gripping Jorams hand with  his last strength, Simkin pulled  him
near. "Still, it's been a jolly time . . . hasn't it? " he  whispered.
"Jolly time - as … Duchess d'Longville said. . . . Final words  before
. . . her last husband hanged her. …"

    A smile fluttered on  his lips, then became  fixed and rigid.  The
voice died away,  the hand  went limp.  Gently, Joram  placed it  over
Simkins breast,  tucking  the  bit  of orange  silk  in  the  lifeless
fingers.

    "-tktiqfoti. Amtn." Saryon murmured.

    Reaching out, he closed the empty eyes.

    9 There Will Be Born. One Who Is Dead Boram, I don't  understand!"
^Saryon, bewildered,  gazed at  Simkin  pityingly. "What  happened  to
him?"

    "Did you hear sharp, cracking sounds right before he fell?"

    "\esl It was dreadful - "

    "Exploding powder, like  we read of  in the texts  of the  ancient
practicers of the Dark Arts.  It fires lead projectiles." Jorams  eyes
scanned the  area, squinting  in the  sunlight. "Did  you see  anyone?
Where did the sound come from?"

    "From over  there,  I  think," Saryon  said  hesitantly,  pointing
toward the edge of the  mountains summit. "It was  . . . difficult  to
tell. And I  saw nothing." He  paused, licking his  dry lips.  "Joram,
whoever did this to Simkin was trying to kill you."

    "Yes. And I think we both know who it is."

    "The Sorcerer?"

    "Of course. Hes probably hiding among the rocks there on the  edge
of the cliff. Though why would he  use a re- TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD
297 volver? It's  not his style.  . . ."  Jorams brows came  together,
frowning thoughtfully.  "Why indeed?"  he muttered.  "Unless it  isn't
him."

    "Who else?"

    "Someone who fears  not only  me as  Emperor but  the Prophecy  as
well. Someone cunning enough to make it  appear to be the work of  the
enemy."

    "Vanya!" Saryon paled.

    Swiftly, Joram glanced  around, keeping his  hood pulled over  his
face. "Don't move,"  he cautioned,  placing his hand  firmly over  the
catalysts wrist. "We've  got to think  this out and  right now,  while
whoevers out there is confused, wondering who / am."

    "Perhaps the killer's  gone," Saryon suggested.  "If he thinks  he
succeeded. …"

    "I doubt it. After all, he didn't get what he came for."

    Joram and the catalyst both  glanced at the Darksword, lying  near
the base of the altar stone.

    "He'll realize his mistake and try again," Saryon said coolly. His
fear was gone. In  its place was an  unconcerned emptiness. As in  the
battle with  the  warlock,  he was  detached,  an  observer,  watching
himself perform his role in this tragic farce.

    "He won't try for a while. He  saw me fall, then saw someone  else
arrive with the sword. This is unexpected. His plan has gone awry.  He
must rethink  it!" Joram  yanked Saryon  down, huddling  over  Simkins
body. "Keep low!"

    "Why doesn't he just kill us anyway? Use that . . . weapon on us?"

    "He will -  eventually. But he  hasn't a very  good aim. He  fired
four shots, after all,  to kill one  man. He'll run  out of bullets  -
projectiles - soon and then he'll  have to reload, if he even  brought
any more  than what  the gun  holds. Hes  probably Duuk-tjaritb,  This
gives us a chance."

    "It's the Executioner then," Saryon guessed. "He's the only person
Vanya would trust. But I don't understand  how you can be sure it's  a
warlock!"

    "Because the Sorcerer wants me alive!" Joram hissed, gripping  the
catalysts wrist  with painful  intensity. "Simkin  was hidden  in  the
Sorcerer's headquarters. He heard them say they were going to take  me
to the brave, new world - not  298 WEIS AND HICKMAN Simkin! He had  to
believe they were  planning to  capture me alive,  otherwise he  would
never have dreamed up this fool scheme! This morning he came to me and
tricked me Into entering  a Corridor. He took  me to some  godforsaken
place, bound my hands with that wretched orange silk of his, and  then
he became me!"

    "He planned to go back to  the Sorcerer's world disguised as  you.
But why didn't Simkin take the Darksword ?"

    "He couldn't! It disrupts his magic. The Sorcerer wants me alive -
to teach him  about the  sword and  show him  where he  can find  more
darkstone. Vanyas the one  who wants me dead,  fffj the one whos  sent
the killer."

    Moving slowly and cautiously, Joram picked up the Darksword.

    "What are you doing?" Saryon asked fearfully.

    "If it w a warlock, hes hiding behind an invisibility spell.  I've
got to drain  his magic.  Force him  out where we  can see  him. If  I
don't, he can come at us from any direction, get as close as he wants.
Then it won't matter how well he can shoot."

    "But if you're wrong!" Saryon caught hold of Joram. "If it isn't a
warlock. If it is the Sorcerer trying to kill you - "

    "Per uftam Sa. ncta. rn, Father," Joram answered grimly.  Twisting
to his feet, he raised the Darksword.

    Thirsting for Life,  the weapon  instantly began to  drink up  the
magic. Saryon felt himself weaken but only slightly; as a catalyst  he
possessed little magic to feed the swords hunger. His Life was enough,
however, to send  tiny flickers of  blue light dancing  up the  crude,
ugly blade.

    The swords power grew as it  absorbed more and more of the  magic.
The blade began to burn brighter, taking on a hot, whitish blue  glow.
Suddenly a streak of  light arced past  Saryon, coming from  somewhere
behind him. Striking  the sword,  the light  sizzled, a  ball of  blue
flame shot from  the hilt to  the tip of  the blade. Turning,  amazed,
Saryon saw that  the light  had come from  the altar  stone! The  rock
itself was beginning to  glow a luminescent blue;  the symbols of  the
Nine Mysteries gleamed  white against  it. Another arc  of light  shot
from the stone, followed by another.

    Saryon looked to Joram, to see if he noticed, but the man had  his
back to  the altar  stone. Holding  the sword  before TRIUMPH  OF  THE
DARKSWORD 299 him, Joram  turned this way  and that, staring  intently
into the empty air around him, searching for his enemy.

    And then the air was empty  no longer. It shimmered and  darkened,
and a man appeared, enveloped in long gray robes. He was walking  down
the pathway, moving toward them under  the cover of his magical  spell
of invisibility, and he stood no more than ten feel from them.  Seeing
Joram's eyes focus  on him, he  realized he had  been discovered.  The
Executioner raised his hand.

    "Father, look out!" Joram cried.

    Saryon had  no  time to  move  or  even blink.  The  air  cracked.
Dropping the Darksword, Joram staggered  backward, gasping in pain.  A
crimson stain darkened the white sleeve of his right arm.

    • The warlock made  a dive for the  sword, but Joram was  quicker.
Catching hold of it,  he leaped at the  Executioner, but the  warlock,
with the coolness and quick thinking of that highly disciplined class,
resorted to his magic. Using what Life remained to him, he soared into
the air, flying  with windlike speed  to the jumble  of boulders  that
stood near the edge of the mountain and vanishing among them.

    Grabbing hold  of  Saryon,  Joram  hurried  the  catalyst  to  the
opposite side of  the altar stone,  forcing him to  lie flat upon  the
broken pavement.

    "Stay down!" he ordered.

    "You're hurt!"

    "The man's a better shot than  I gave him credit for," Joram  said
grimly. Dropping the sword, he clasped  his hand over the wound.  Dark
red blood welled up through his  fingers. "The bastard must have  been
up practicing all night! The bullets  lodged in my arm!" Groaning,  he
swore softly. "I can't move my hand."

    "Let me look at it - " Saryon started to sit up.

    "Damn it, Father! Keep your  head down!" Joram ordered  furiously.
"Hold still!"  He glanced  back around  the rock,  looking toward  the
direction in which their foe  had disappeared. "We're safe enough  for
now, but we can't stay here. Hell circle around, using those  boulders
for cover, and try to pick us off from another angle." - Joram  nodded
toward the Temple. "We'd be safer in there."

    300 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN "And Gwen's  inside!" Saryon said  suddenly,
realizing remorsefully  that  in  the  confusion  and  danger  he  had
forgotten all about her.

    "Owen!" Joram glared at the  catalyst. "You brought my wife  here?
You let Simkin bring her?"

    "What would you have had me do, Joram?" Saryon asked. "He was you\
He was you ten  years ago! Bitter, arrogant,  determined to have  your
own way."

    "And you forgot that I have changed - "

    "Forgive me,  Joram,"  Saryon  faltered,  "but  I  have  seen  you
changing back. I've seen the darkness growing on you every day."

    Leaning back against the  blue-glowing altar stone, Joram  sighed.
Sweat broke out on his forehead,  his face paled, and his jaw  muscles
clenched. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he glanced at Saryon, the
bitter half-smile on his lips. "You are right. Father. It wasn't  your
fault. I brought it  on myself. After all,  Simkin was only  imitating
what he knew best. And  I am changing . .  . for the worst,  perhaps."
His face darkened, the forge fire  flickered to life within his  eyes.
"But it seems I must become what I was- to save this wretched world."

    His voice died, and he sank back against the stone.

    "Joram!" Saryon shook  him, fearing he  had fainted. The  catalyst
felt eyes watching them. Any moment he expected to hear that  terrible
crack. "Joram!" he said urgently. "We  can't stay here! We must  reach
shelter!"

    Dazedly, Joram lifted his head and nodded wearily. "You'll have to
carry the sword, Father."

    If we left it here, perhaps  the Executioner would take it and  go
away, was  Saryon's first,  unspoken thought.  The words  were on  his
lips, but he  swallowed them. No,  the sword is  my responsibility.  I
gave it Life.

    Saryon picked up the weapon.

    Slowly, Joram rose to  his feet, propping  himself up against  the
stone. "I will go first and draw his fire. Don't argue. Father. You'll
be burdened  with the  sword." The  dark and  pain-filled eyes  turned
intently upon the catalyst. "If I fall, you must promise me you 11  go
on, without stopping. No, listen,  my old friend. If anything  happens
to me, it will be left up to you. You must destroy the Darksword."

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD 301  "Destroy  it? How?"  Saryon  asked
involuntarily.

    "How should  I know!"  Joram flashed  impatiently. Pain  made  him
catch his breath. He closed his eyes, pressing back against the  rock.
"I don't know," he said more calmly through ashen lips. "Cast it  from
the mountain, melt it down." He smiled the dark and twisted half-smile
again. "It's what you've wanted to do since I first made it anyway. If
I fall, go on. Do you swear? By the Almin?"

    "I swear  … by  the Almin,"  Saryon mumbled.  Making a  . show  of
gathering his robes about him so that he could run more easily, he did
not have to look at Joram as he spoke the vow.

    "Good!" Joram sighed. "And now,"  he said, drawing a deep  breath,
"we run. Keep low. Ready?"

    Joram looked questioningly  at Saryon. The  catalyst nodded  once,
reluctantly, and Joram broke into a staggering run.

    Despite his agreement to  let Joram go first,  Saryon was not  far
behind him. He had  only a dim  notion of what  was meant by  "drawing
fire" and it felt more natural to stay near his friend.

    As for not stopping to help Joram if he fell?

    Well, that had been a promise sworn to the Almin. A hollow vow, as
far as  Saryon was  concerned,  keeping his  eyes on  the  white-robed
figure stumbling over the uneven ground ahead of him.

    The distance from  the altar stone  located in the  center of  die
wheel to the Temple, which stood  on the southern edge of die  wheel's
rim, had  seemed minute  to the  catalyst  - until  he knew  his  life
depended on covering  that distance as  swiftly as possible.  Suddenly
the Temple and its sheltering walls appeared to have taken a  gigantic
leap backward.

    Saryon ran as fast as he could, but that wasn't very fast. He  Kad
never fully recovered his  strength following his illness.  Encumbered
by the heavy sword and the  long robes flapping around his ankles,  he
took only a few steps before he beard his breath wheeze in his  lungs.
The pavement  was broken,  uneven,  and made  running that  much  more
difficult. More than once,  Saryon felt a  paving stone twist  beneath
his feet,  causing him  to slow  for fear  of losing  his balance  and
falling. All the while, be kept his eyes upon his friend.

    302 WEIS AND H1CKMAN And then Joram did fall. Tripping over a slab
of broken  marble, he  instinctively reached  out his  injured arm  to
catch himself. It collapsed beneath his  weight and he tumbled to  the
ground, writhing in pain.

    Grasping Joram, ignoring  his snarled  commands to  leave him  be,
Saryon dragged him to his feet  with a strength the catalyst  couldn't
believe was left in his old,  tired body. Together they kept  running,
reaching the nine stairs.

    A high, whining sound like the  buzz of an angry hornet passed  so
close to Saryon s ear that he almost swore he could feel its wings.  A
fraction of  a second  later,  a part  of  a Temple  column  exploded,
sending fragments  of rock  flying everywhere.  The catalyst,  in  his
dazed and exhausted staterdidn't comprehend what it was.

    Struggling up the stairs, the  two dove thankfully into the  cool,
shadowy confines of the Temple walls. Joram fell to the floor like one
dead. Rolling  over on  his back,  he lay  with his  eyes closed,  his
breathing quick and shallow. His  right sleeve was soaked with  blood.
Saryon, dropping the heavy sword, sank down next to him. Only then did
it occur to the catalyst  that the buzzing sound  had been one of  the
deadly projectiles. Saryon was past  caring. His blood pounded in  his
ears. He was so dizzy he could barely see.

    Gasping for breath, he glanced around the Temple confines.

    "Owen?" Saryon called softly.

    There was  no answer,  but  the catalyst  soon found  her.  Barely
visible in the shifting  shadows, she was sitting  calmly on a  broken
altar at  the back  of the  Temple, watching  them with  - for  her  -
unusual interest.

    Seeing that she  was apparently  unharmed and  thinking Joram  had
fainted, Saryon bent  over him  to examine  the wound.  At his  touch,
Joram flinched.

    "I'm all right!" Shoving Saryon's hand away, he managed to sit up.

    "I think the bleedings stopped," Saryon said hesitantly.

    "The cloths stuck to the wound.  Don't touch it! Where s Gwen?  Is
she all right?"

    Saryon started to  reply, but  another voice-  a strange  answered
instead.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 303  Tfour charming wife is safe,  Joram.
Looney as ever, but safe. And you are safe yourself, at least for  the
time being.

    "Really.  Joram,"  the  strange  voice  continued,  speaking   the
language of Thimhallan, "I am impressed. Once again you have  returned
from the dead. Have you ever considered anything in the Messiah line?"

    one IO And In His Hand He  Molds tall man in black robes pped  out
of the shadows of the Temple.  He was handsome, Saryon saw, with  gray
hair and a prepossessing  smile. That smile,  however, was false,  the
work of a well-trained illusionist.  Tense and strained, the lips  and
facial muscles were being hard pressed to hold it in place. And though
the tone of the man's voice was glib, an undercurrent of awe and  fear
marred the smooth surface.

    "I truly  believed you  were  killed, my  friend," the  man  said,
coming to stand beside Joram, staring down at him intently. "I can see
the theater billing now: Back from  the Dead by Popular Demandr  Joram
did not even  look at  the man,  much less  bother to  reply. The  man
smiled.

    "Come, come, old friend. You survived four bullet wounds, any  one
of which could have proved fatal.  I would appreciate knowing how  you
performed that  trick.  Was  it  done with  a  bullet-proof  vest?  Or
perhaps. . . ."

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 305 He glanced at Saryon as he spoke, and
the catalyst  was  aware of  being  intenty studied,  identified,  and
stored away for future use all  by one quick look of the.  intelligent
eyes.

    ". . . perhaps  it was you  who brought our  friend back to  life.
Father Saryon. \es, I know you. Joram  has told me a great deal  about
you and I imagine that  he has, in turn, told  you a great deal  about
me. I am Menju the Sorcerer - a rather dramatic appellation, I  admit,
but it  looks  well on  a  theater marquee.  And  if it  UKW  you  who
resurrected Joram, Father, I will buy  you a tent and all the  folding
chairs your evangelistic heart desires!"

    "If you mean  did I heal  Joram, I  am a catalyst,  not a  druid."
Saryon saw the chasm of his dream yawn dark and deadly before him.  He
must walk carefully, cautiously. "If what you told Joram is true,  you
lived in  this world  long enough  to know  that catalysts  have  very
limited powers of  healing and  that even druids  cannot raise  people
from the - "

    "Don't let him badger you. Father," Joram interrupted coldly.  "He
knows well enough you didn't heal me."

    Menju made a graceful gesture  of supplication. "Take pity on  me.
Satisfy my curiosity. I swear I was  truly grieved to see you die.  It
was quite a shock."

    "ill  bet  it  •was,"  Joram  said  dryly.  "Help  me  stand,"  he
instructed  the  catalyst.  Ignoring   Saryon  s  remonstrations,   he
struggled to  his  feet. Leaning  back  against a  broken  column,  he
regarded Menju warily. "That wasn't I  who died out there. \bu saw  me
arrive through the Corridor."

    "Perhaps I did," Menju remarked casually, his gaze fixed on Joram.
"Uncanny resemblance. Who™"

    "Simkin." Joram  s breathing  was too  fast, too  shallow.  Saryon
moved nearer.

    Menju  nodded.  "Ah,  I  begin   to  understand.  The  teapot.   I
underestimated you,  my  friend. Quite  a  clever ploy,  sending  this
fellow up here, masquerading as yourself. Did you guess it was a trap?
Or did he tell you? I thought him an untrustworthy bastard, just  like
that fat priest,  Vanya, who  sent his MSiBBin  to try  to snatch  the
prize from me. But the Bishop wiH pay for his treachery." The magician
shrugged. "They aflwill pay."

    Joram staggered,  nearly falling.  Catching himself,  he  refitted
Saryon s proffered assistance with an angry shake of his head.

    306 WEIS AND  HICKMAN "You need  medical attention, Joram,"  Menju
said, appraising him coolly. "Fortunately, it is near at hand,  thanks
to the  Corridors.  A  word from  the  Father  will return  us  to  my
headquarters. Catalyst, open a Corridor."

    "I can't - " Saryon began when he was interrupted by a glad cry.

    "Come inside! Don't be afraid!" Springing up from the broken altar
where she  had been  sitting, Gwendolyn  ran toward  the portico,  her
bright eyes  glittering with  their  eerie light  even m  the  shadowy
confines of the Temple.

    "Gwen, no!" Joram caught hold of her. "You can't go out there - "

    Gwendolyn easily broke free  of her husband's  weak grasp, but  it
was not to run  outdoors. Stopping just inside  the portico, she  held
out her hands. "Come in! Come  in!" she repeated, a hostess  welcoming
long-awaited guests.

    "Don't be frightened,"  she continued, her  voice tinged now  with
sadness. "Are you in pain, still? It  will pass in time. It is only  a
phantom pain, remembered by the part of you that clings to your  life.
Let it go. It will be easier. For you, the battle has ended."

    "Battle? What  battle  is  she  talking  about?"  Joram  demanded,
turning to the Sorcerer.

    "Gettysburg?"  The  Sorcerer  shrugged.  "Waterloo?  Perhaps   she
fancies shes Napoleon today."

    "You know  better  than that!"  Joram  replied. His  eyes  gleamed
feverishly, sweat trickling down his  pale face. "You know her  power.
She's talking to dead who are. .  . . My god!" he whispered in  sudden
realization. "You've attacked Merilon!"

    "Don't be hard on Major Boris, Joram. He is a soldier, after  all,
and you couldn't  expect him to  stay penned  up like a  steer in  the
slaughterhouse."

    "It won't  do any  good. "You  can't penetrate  the citys  magical
shield."

    "Ah, thats where you are  wrong, my friend. The thickheaded  Major
actually came up with an ingenious idea. He converted the flying troop
carriers into  assault ships.  He plans  to use  their laser  fire  to
destroy the magical  dome. It may  not pierce the  magic, but it  will
drain the Life of those who keep that magic in place. The shield  will
soon disinte- TRIUMPH OF THE  DARKSWORD 307 grate. The Crystal  Palace
will fall  out  of  the  skies,  taking  with  it  those  huge  marble
slabs-what do they call  diem, the Three  Sisters? Poor ladies.  They,
too, will crash to the ground."

    "Thousands will die!" Saryon cried, aghast. Staring out across the
plains, he saw a brilliant flaring  of light, the glinting of the  sun
shining off  the metal  bodies of  the creatures  that were  crawling,
andike. around the perimeter  of the city. That  was all he could  see
with his eyes; mentally he saw much, much more.

    Prince Garald - if he were still alive - fighting courageously but
bewildered and unnerved  over this  unexpected attack.  Lord and  Lady
Samuels, their little children, and the countless other noble families
whose  homes  were  built  upon  those  floating  marble  slabs  dying
horribly,  crushed  in  the  failing  wreckage.  The  Crystal  Palace,
smashing  to  the  ground,  exploding  into  millions  of  shards   of
knife-sharp glass fragments.  . . -  "Let go of  your life,"  repeated
Gwendolyn sadly.

    "If only I could get there!" Joram cried in a low voice. "I  could
help - What  am I  saying?" He laughed  bitterly. "1  brought this  on
them!" Slumping back against the column, he covered his eyes with  his
bloodstained hand.

    "The time of  die Prophecy is  accomplished, Joram," the  Sorcerer
said. "Leave  them  to  their  fate.  How  did  that  charming  little
quotation run?  'And in  his  hand he  holds  the destruction  of  the
world-*"

    " - or its salvation," said Gwendolyn.

    Lost in his despair, Joram didn't even appear to hear her.  Saryon
did, however. Turning, he stared at her intently. She, too, was gazing
out at die beleaguered city, her eyes wide and unfocused, a sweet, sad
smile on her lips. Moving slowly and quietly, so he would not  startle
her, the catalyst laid his hand upon her shoulder.

    "What did you say, my dear?"

    "She is  raving!" the  Sorcerer  snapped impatiently.  "Enough  of
this. In case  you have  forgotten, there  is an  assassin out  there.
Catalyst, open a Corridor - "

    A Hand was outstretched, trying to help Saryon back from the  edge
of the cliff. He had only to reach out, take hold of it. …

    308 WEIS AND HICKMAN  "Continue, my dear,"  he said urgently,  his
voice trembling,  trying  to  contain  his excitement  so  as  not  to
frighten the woman.

    Gwendolyn gazed about her with a dreamy expression.

    "There is someone here -an old,  old man-a Bishop. Where are  you?
Oh, yes. There, in the back."  She pointed vaguely. "Hes been  waiting
for centuries for someone to listen to  him. It was all a mistake,  he
says, running away from  our home like  spoiled, angry children.  Then
came the Iron War and everything was falling apart. He prayed to  find
out how to  change the world.  The Almin granted  his prayers,  hoping
that mankind would turn back from the dangerous path on which he trod.
But the Bishop was too  weak. He saw the  future. He saw the  terrible
danger. He  saw the  promised redemption.  Dazzled by  his vision,  he
perished. The  words of  the Almin  that were  meant to  be a  warning
remained unspoken, unfinished. And mankind, in his fear, made of  that
warning a prophecy."

    "Fear. … A warning.  …" murmured Saryon,  light filling his  soul.
"Joram, don't you understand?"

    Joram did not even look up. His head lowered, his face was  hidden
by the  mat of  tangled black  hair. "Drop  it, Father,"  he  muttered
harshly. "It is senseless to go on fighting!"

    "No, it isn't!" Ecstatic, Saryon  lifted his hands to heaven.  "My
God! My Creator! Can You forgive me? Joram, there is a way - "

    A crack, a whine. Fragments of stone burst around them.

    Joram knocked Saryon to the floor. Menju flattened himself against
a column.

    "Gwen!" Joram cried, trying to  reach his wife. Bewildered by  the
noise, she  stood in  the open,  staring around  in confusion.  Before
Joram could reach her, however, unseen hands snatched her back out  of
danger and whisked her away, hurrying her to the rear of the Temple.

    "Its all right, Joram! The dead will protect her!" Saryon cried.

    Another crack ricocheted through the Temple, smashing into a  wall
behind them.

    "We've got to get  out of here!" Reaching  into the pocket of  his
robes, Menju drew his phaser, adjusted it, and fired a burst of  light
at a glimpse of movement he caught near the TRIUMPH OF THE DARKS  WORD
309 altar stone. A puff of smoke and rock dust erupted from the stone,
leaving behind a charred streak.

    Taking advantage of the covering  fire, Joram grabbed hold of  the
Darksword, and ducked behind a column beside the Sorcerer.

    "Over here, Father! Keep down!"

    Wriggling across  the chill  stone floor  on his  stomach,  Saryon
reached the columns. Leaning  against one, Joram  peered out into  the
Garden. Their enemy was nowhere to be seen. Menju fired again, missing
again.

    "Open a Corridor, Father!" he snarled.

    "I can't!" Saryon gasped.

    Another crack split the air. Menju flung himself back against  his
column. Saryon shrank down, huddling  near the floor. Joraxn  appeared
too weak to move,  perhaps even to  care. He held  the Darksword in  a
limp grasp. His wound was bleeding again; the stain on his sleeve  was
growing larger.

    Worriedly, the catalyst looked from  Joram back to Gwen. He  could
barely see her. Somehow the dead  had managed to persuade her to  find
shelter behind the crumbling altar.  A dusty beam of sunlight  pouring
through a crack in the ceiling shone upon her golden hair and lit  her
bright blue eyes.

    Menju followed his gaze. "Take us out of here, Catalyst, or by the
gods I'll  use this  on  her!" He  pointed  the weapon  at  Gwendolyn.
"Unless you can move faster than the speed of light, Joram, don't  try
anything."

    "Joram, stop!"  Laying  a restraining  hand  on his  friends  arm,
Saryon turned to face the magician. "I cannot open a Corridor in  here
because there is none to open!"

    "You're lying!" The Sorcerer kept the phaser aimed at Gwen.

    "I would to the Almin I were!" Saryon said fervently. "There is no
Corridor within the  Temple of  the Necromancer!  This was  sanctified
ground, a holy place; the  Necromancers alone were permitted to  enter
it. They never allowed a Corridor to  be opened here. The only one  is
out there"- Saryon nodded-"near the altar stone."

    "And the Executioner knows it!"  Joram said grimly. Sweat  covered
his forehead, his damp  hair curled around his  pale face. "Thats  why
he's taken up his position there."

    510 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN  Glancing  at  Saryon,  Menju  studied  the
catalysts face intently, then - with a curse - lowered his weapon. "So
we are trapped in here!"

    Another sharp  crack  blasted  into  the  stone  column  near  the
Sorcerer, a chip  of rock grazing  his face. Cursing,  he wiped  blood
from his cheek with the  back of his hand  and started to fire  again.
Then he stopped, staring thoughtfully  out across the plains. "We  are
trapped," he repeated, reaching into the pocket of his robes, "but not
for long."

    Bringing out a  second small  metal device, he  pressed his  thumb
against it. A light blinked on and a scratching noise came from within
it, sounding to Saryon  like an animal with  long claws struggling  to
escape.

    Lifting the device to his mouth, the Sorcerer spoke to it.

    "Major Boris! Major Boris!"

    A voice came back,  but it was accompanied  by so much  scratching
that it was difficult to understand the words. The Sorcerer, scowling,
shook the  metal  device  slightly. "Major  Boris!"  he  called  again
angrily.

    Saryon stared at the device in horror.

    "Blessed Almin!" he whispered to  Joram. "Does he have this  Major
Boris trapped in there?"

    "No,"  Joram  answered  wearily,   almost  smiling.  He   remained
standing, but only, it seemed, by  sheer force of will. "The Major  is
in Merilon. He carries a device like that one. Through it, the two men
can communicate with each other. No,  hush! Let me hear!" He  motioned
Saryon to silence.

    Saryon could not  understand what  Menju was saying;  the man  was
speaking in his own language. He watched Joram s face for a clue as to
what was happening.

    Seeing his friends lips press  together in a straight, grim  line,
Saryon asked softly, "What is it?"

    "Hes called  for  an air  strike.  They're diverting  one  of  the
assault ships from the attack on Merilon and sending it here."

    "Yes, a simple  way out, really"  said the Sorcerer  complacently,
shutting off the  device and  returning it  to his  robes. "The  ships
lasers will  sweep the  entire  Garden, effectively  incinerating  our
friend with the  gun. Then the  ship will land  and transport us  away
from here. There will be a medic  on board, Joram. He will give you  a
stimulant to keep you going TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD 311 so that  you
can assist me  in winning the  battle of Merilon  with the  Darksword.
Always keeping in  mind, of  course, that  III have  your lovely  wife
close at hand, not to mention  the catalyst, both of whom will  suffer
if you should attempt to - how shall I put it? -upstage me."

    Thrusting back the sleeve of his  robe, Menju glanced at a  device
he wore on his wrist. "It will arrive in a matter of minutes."

    If Saryon didn't  understand the unfamiliar  words, he  understood
their import. He  looked at  Joram. His face  was expressionless,  his
eyes closed. Was he so despairing, so defeated, so hurt that he  would
give in? Was it, as he said, senseless to keep fighting?

    Saryon tried to pray to the Almin, tried to summon that  Presence,
tried desperately to grab hold of the  Hand held out to him. But  fear
caught hold of the catalyst instead. Clutching his throat with fingers
of stone,  it  choked off  Saryon  s  faith. The  Hand  wavered,  then
disappeared, and the catalyst realized  bitterly that it had all  been
just a delusion.

    II The Destruction OfTheMbrid A; Llow humming sound grew gradually
louder and louder.  Saryon, starting,  saw a look  of satisfaction  on
Menju's face. Hie magicians gaze was fixed expectantly on the sky  and
Saryon risked peeping out past the  column. It occurred to him, as  he
did so, that there had been no more projectiles hurled at them in  the
last few minutes. Perhaps the Executioner had given up.

    "A fools dream!" Saryon muttered  to himself bitterly. He  scanned
the clear blue  sky, seeing  nothing, although the  humming sound  was
becoming increasingly loud. The Executioner would never give up, never
admit he had failed in his  assigned task. His Order considered  death
the only excuse for failure, and the Executioner would not be an  easy
man to kill.  Although Joram had  drained him of  some of his  magical
Life, he was still a threat, still a danger. He was, after all, one of
the most powerful warlocks in Thimhallan.

    Does this Sorcerer from another world realize what hes up against?
Saryon wondered, glancing at Menju spec- TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  313
ulatively. Noting the mans calm demeanor, his smile of self-assurance,
Saryon doubted it. After  all, Menju had been  young when he was  cast
out of this world - only twenty,  so Joram had said. He probably  knew
little of the Duuk-tMrttb, knew little about the many powers of  their
Order: the acute  sense of  hearing that  allowed them  to detect  the
approach of  a butterfly  by the  fluttering of  its wings,  the  keen
powers of  sight that  let them  see through  a man's  skull into  his
thoughts.

    Menju was pleased with his newly recovered abilities in magic, but
he had  forgotten  its  true  power.  He regarded  it  as  a  toy,  an
amusement, nothing more. When the  crisis came, he preferred to  trust
in his Technology.

    "There is the  strike ship," he  said crisply. "It  won't be  long
now." He  flicked a  glance at  Joram. "Is  our friend  able to  walk,
Father? You 11 have to help him. I've got to direct the ship's fire."

    He spoke into the device again. This time the scratching sound was
considerably lessened;  the  voices  speaking  back  from  within  the
contraption he held in  his hand were  clearer and Saryon  judged-from
the intent manner in which Menju stared into the heavens as he  talked
-that he was communicating with whatever monster he had summoned to do
his bidding.

    Following the magician's gaze, Saryon could still see nothing  and
was just wondering if the creature was invisible when a flaring  glint
caught his eye. He gasped,  having been unprepared for the  tremendous
swiftness with which the  thing traveled. At one  instant it was  very
small, a brightly shining star that had gotten mixed up and burst  out
during the  day instead  of night.  The next  instant, the  thing  was
larger than  the sun;  then larger  than  ten suns.  He could  see  it
clearly now, and he stared in shock.

    The catalyst had not  been present at the  battle at the Field  of
Glory. He had only heard descriptions of the great creatures of  iron,
the strange humans  with silver  skin and  metal heads.  This was  the
first time he had seen  one of these creations  of the Dark Arts,  and
his soul trembled with fear and awe.

    "Hie monster was made of silver,  its body glistening in the  sun.
It had wings, but they  were stiff and unmoving,  and Saryon was at  a
loss to understand how it flew so rapidly.

    314 WEIS AND HICKMAN  The monster had no  head or neck.  Blinking,
multicolored eyes sprouted on the top  of its body. The only sound  it
made was the humming  noise, now so loud  that it practically  drowned
out Menju's voice.

    Saryon felt Jorams hand, warm and reassuring, on his arm.

    "Steady, Father," Joram said softly. Drawing him near, he added in
a low voice, "Make it appear as though you are tending my wound."

    Glancing  at  the  magician,  who  was  absorbed  in  his  monster
summoning, Saryon leaned closer to Joram.

    "We can't allow him to take us  on board that ship. When he  moves
us out there, watch  for my signal." Joram  paused, then said  softly,
"When it comes, get Gwen out of the way."

    Saryon was silent for a moment,  unable to reply- When he did,  it
was in a husky voice. "My son, even with the Darkswordyou can't  fight
them all! Do you know what you are saying?" He kept his head  lowered,
pretending to concern  himself with the  wound. Jorams hand,  touching
his face, made  him look up  and he  saw the answer  in Jorams  clear,
brown eyes.

    "It will be better this way, Father," he said simply.

    "What about your wife?" Saryon asked, when he could speak for  the
burning ache in his chest.

    Joram looked toward the  back of the  Temple, where Gwendolyn  sat
amid the shadows,  the single bright  ray of light  glistening in  her
hair. "She fell in love with a  Dead man, who brought her nothing  but
grief." The dark, ironic smile twisted his lips. "It seems I can be of
more use to her dead than alive.  And at least" - he breathed a  sigh,
half-bitter, half-wistful-"perhaps she will talk to me then." His hand
tightened around Saryon s arm. "1 leave her in your care, Father."

    My son, I will not live  through this! were the words in  Saryon's
heart and they very nearly burst out. But he checked them,  swallowing
them with his tears. No,  it was better that  Joram find peace in  his
last moments.

    I will hold him in my arms as  I held him when he was a baby.  And
when the brown eyes close forever and he is at rest, when the struggle
that has been his life is finally ended, TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  315
then I will rise up and, in my clumsy, fumbling way, I will strike out
at the cold and uncaring Presence until I, too, fall.

    A blinding flash followed by  an explosion jolted Saryon from  his
bleak imaginings. A beam of light  from the monster struck the  ground
near the altar stone, blowing a gigantic hole in the dirt not far from
where Simkins body lay. Wisps of smoke curled into the air. The  metal
creature, hovering  overhead,  was  slowly  sinking  down  toward  the
ground.

    Menju shouted into the device, his voice questioning.

    "What is he saying?" Saryon whispered.

    "He's  asking  if  they  destroyed  the  warlock."  Joram  paused,
listening, then  he looked  up at  the catalyst  with grim  amusement.
"They say they did. At least, no life registers on their screens."

    "No life! Fools," Saryon  muttered, but-catching a warning  glance
from Joram - he fell silent. Menju drew near them, keeping a wary  eye
on the Garden.

    "Our gun-toting friend is finished apparently," the magician said.
"Let's get ready  to move  out." He gestured  toward the  rear of  the
Temple. "Unless you want your wife to remain here, Joram, and become a
permanent member of her own fan club, you had better get her away from
those ghoulish bodyguards."

    "I will bring her," offered Saryon.

    The catalyst moved slowly, a prey to despair that clutched at  his
footsteps and caught at the skirts  of his robes, threatening to  drag
him down.

    Gwendolyn sat on the dusty floor behind the broken altar, her head
resting against  a large  stone urn.  She did  not look  up as  Saryon
approached, but stared straight ahead into nothing. The catalyst gazed
at her pityingly. Her  golden hair was bedraggled,  her gown torn  and
dirty. She had no  care for where  she was or  what was happening,  no
care for Joram, no care for herself.

    "Hurry up, Father!" Menju ordered peremptorily, "or we will  leave
her behind. You will serve me as hostage just as well."

    Maybe that would be kinder, Saryon thought, reaching out his hand.
Gwen glanced  up at  him.  Docile as  always, she  appeared  perfectly
willing to come with him and started  to 316 WEIS AND HICKMAN rise  up
from her hiding place behind the altar. But invisible hands,  catching
hold of her, held her back.

    In the one shaft  of sunlight filtering  through the dust,  Saryon
could almost  see the  unseen eyes  staring at  him suspiciously,  the
mouths silently shouting  to him  to leave  the sacred  ground he  was
violating. So vivid was  this impression that he  very nearly put  his
hands over his ears  to blot out the  sound he couldn't hear,  closing
his eyes to the sight of the anger and distress he couldn't see.  This
is madness! he thought, panicking.

    "Father!" Menju said warningly.

    Saryon took hold of  Gwen's hand firmly. "I  am grateful for  what
you have done," he called out to the empty air. "But she is among  the
living still. She does not belong to you. You must let her go."

    For an instant  it seemed  he failed. Gwens  chill fingers  closed
over his,  but  when  he tried  to  pull  her toward  him,  he  met  a
resistance so strong that he might well have tried to pull the  Temple
from the side of the mountain.

    "Please!" he begged urgently, tugging-Gwendolyn forward, the  dead
pulling her back. A wild impulse to laugh hysterically at this  absurd
situation overtook him.  He choked  on it, knowing  that his  laughter
must end in him breaking down and sobbing like a frightened child. The
shouts of  the silent  voices  around him  reverberated in  his  ears,
though he couldn't hear a word.

    Then, suddenly, the unheard  tumult ceased as  though it had  been
silenced by a single word.

    Gwen was free, so unexpectedly  that she tumbled forward into  the
catalyst's arms, nearly upsetting them both. He caught her, helped her
to stand, brushing back the golden hair that veiled her face. She  did
not appear the least bit disturbed by anything that had occurred,  but
continued to look around her with detached . interest, as if all  this
were happening to some other person.

    "Aren't you coming?" she asked, twisting  her head to talk to  the
shadows as Saryon hurried her forward.

    The catalyst had the eerie impression that legions of ghosts  were
crowding  around  them,  their  unheard  footfalls  resounding  loudly
through the silence of the Temple.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 317  Menju stood waiting impatiently  for
them near the head  of the Temple stairs,  his weapon trained on  both
Gwen and the catalyst. Standing beside him, leaning against a  pillar,
Joram watched silently. He appeared at first glance almost too weak to
stand, let alone fight. Saryon alone saw the fire burning deep in  the
dark eyes, the unyielding  purpose taking shape,  being forged into  a
blade of iron.

    "We all go together," instructed Menju, motioning Saryon and  Gwen
out of the Temple with a gesture of his weapon. In his other hand,  he
held the speaking device. "Joram, I  am keeping the catalyst and  your
wife between us. Try anything-anything at  all - and one of them  dies
instantly."

    ^Vhat about the Executioner?" Saryon asked, hesitating at the  top
of the stairs, wanting desperately to drag time to a halt.

    "That pile  of ash?"  Smiling,  Menju indicated  the hole  in  the
ground near the altar stone, the few wisps of smoke rising from it. "I
don't think you have  anything to fear from  Him anymore. Father.  Now
move!" He gestured with the weapon.

    There was  no  choice,  no  hope. Bowing  his  head,  Saryon  drew
Gwendolyn nearer him and stepped  outside. After the shadowy  confines
of the Temple,  the sunlight  was blinding.  Putting her  hand to  her
eyes, unable to  see, Gwen  stumbled at the  top of  the nine  stairs.
Saryon held onto  her, guiding her  footsteps, noticing as  he did  so
that Joram had descended the stairs ahead of them.

    Joram moved slowly, weakly, his breathing labored as though merely
drawing each breath was a struggle.  But Saryon saw his hand  clenched
firmly over the hilt of the Darksword.

    Despite his  self-assured  demeanor, Menju  was  clearly  nervous.
Occasionally he prodded Saryon and Gwen, impatiently ordering them  to
hurry up,  and he  kept  a wary  eye on  Joram.  But most  of  Menju's
attention was focused on the silver  creature that - from what  Saryon
could make out of Menju's mutterings -was apparently not landing  fast
enough to suit the magician. Irritably, the Sorcerer shouted into  the
speaking device.

    Turning slightly, ostensibly to see  what had become of his  wife,
Joram looked at Saryon intently and silently mouthed die words,  "Keep
back!"

    318 WEIS AND HICKMAN The bitter  pain in Saryon was so  unbearable
that he  was almost  thankful it  would end  soon. Following  Joram  s
orders, he  slowed his  steps -  an easy  matter since  Gwendolyn  was
gazing around in vague curiosity, completely oblivious to  everything.
Menju was now a step  or two ahead of them.  Intent on staring at  his
winged monster, he had not noticed that they had stopped walking.  The
magician was lifting the device to his mouth to talk at it again  when
voices, coming out of the  device, interrupted him. Startled,  cursing
beneath his breath, Menju turned, looking into the sky behind him.

    A dark shadow  swept over them,  a shadow cast  by gigantic  green
wings sprouting from a huge  reptilian body. The Executioner  appeared
out of nowhere. Standing beside the altar stone, he coolly ordered the
dragon to  attack.  The  dragon  dove  straight  down  on  the  silver
creature,  screaming  shrilly  in  hatred,  its  huge,  taloned   feet
extending to strike.

    Garbled cries came  out of  the speaking device  in Menju's  hand.
Immediately, the silver monster performed an evasive maneuver, veering
sideways in a frantic  attempt to avoid its  enemy. The dragons  claws
clipped the edge of a silver wing, sending the monster rolling through
the air. TH^dragon soared upward on the air currents and veered around
for another attack. The silver  creature nearly crashed into the  side
of the mountain, saving itself at  the last instant. A burst of  flame
shot from its tail, and it pulled straight up out of the dive.

    The dragon flew at it again, and this time the silver creature was
ready for  the  attack,  shooting  a  single  beam  of  light  at  the
glittering green and gold  enemy. The tip of  the dragon's wing  burst
into flame. Screaming in pain and rage, the dragon unleashed its fiery
breath. A  ball of  flame  enveloped the  silver creature.  The  cries
emanating from the listening device grew shrill and panic-stricken and
then Saryon heard  no more, for  suddenly kit world  burst into  flame
around him.

    A wall of magical fire, created by the Executioner, sprang up  out
of solid  rock. Burning  green and  gold, its  intense heat  blistered
Saryon's hands and  face, the  super-heated air seared  his lungs.  He
pulled Gwendolyn close to him, trying to shield her with his body, but
she was wrenched from his arms and he could not see what became of her
for the blazing light and thick smoke.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 319 A horrible cry burst out of the smoke
and (ire ahead  of him.  Trying to avoid  the flames  that licked  the
steps at his feet.  Saryon peered frantically  into the smoke  through
watering, stinging eyes. A figure emerged - a figure clothed in flame!
It was Menju, his gray robes  ablaze with the magical green fire.  His
yells were terrifying as he flailed about in agony. The catalyst had a
swift, indistinct  impression of  the magicians  wide-open,  screaming
mouth, the flesh  of his  (ace blackening in  the fire,  and then  the
Sorcerer sank  down out  of sight  into the  smoke swirling  upon  the
stairs.

    I am next! Saryon  thought, watching the  greenHIames flow up  the
steps toward him. Then Joram, wielding the Darksword, leaped in  front
of Saryon, standing between him and the. fire.

    As soon as Joram  raised the sword the  fire jumped from the  rock
straight for  the  blade and  Saryon  had  a sudden  vision  of  Joram
engulfed in the  magical blaze. But  the sword greedily  drank up  the
flame. The fire  diminished, the  blue flame of  the Darksword  burned
brighter and  brighter  as  the  green flame  died,  and  Saryon  saw,
standing before them, the Executioner.

    The warlock had discarded  the projectile weapon, relying  instead
upon his magic.  The Darksword  was draining  the Life  from him  very
quickly. He had  faced it before,  however, and knew  what to  expect.
Looking up at the  top of the mountain  above the Temple, the  warlock
made a  gesture. At  his command,  a chunk  of the  mountain  wrenched
itself free.  The  gigantic  boulder bounded  down  the  mountainside,
hurtling straight for Joram.

    His attention focused  upon the Executioner,  Joram could not  see
his danger. There was no time  to warn him. Flinging himself  forward,
Saryon knocked Joram off  his feet. The two  tumbled down the  stairs;
the Darksword flying as Joram lost L- his grip on it.

    Saryon had a confused impression of the boulder smashing into  the
stairs, of rock striking his body, of pain bursting in his head.  Then
he was slipping away into a vast darkness. . . .

    But I can't  die. Joram!  I can't leave  Joram. .  . .  Struggling
against the darkness and the pain, Saryon opened his eyes. The  Temple
crawled and writhed in his vi- 520 WEIS AND HICKMAN sion. Shaking  his
head to clear itf he winced in sudden agony and was very nearly sick.

    " Joram!" he repeated  groggily, submerging his  pain in his  fear
for his friend. Lifting his head to look around, he discovered he  was
lying at the foot  of the stairs, amidst  the rubble of the  shattered
boulder. Joram lay near him, his eyes closed, his face white,  smooth,
calm … at peace at last.

    "Farewell, my son!" Saryon  murmured. He could  feel no grief.  It
was better this way, so much better. Reaching out to touch the tousled
black hair, he caught a glimpse of  movement out of the corner of  his
eye.

    The Executioner  appeared,  standing  over  them.  From  somewhere
above, Saryon heard an explosion. Debris fell from the skies. He  paid
no attention to it. After a  brief glance at the Executioner, he  paid
no attention  to his  enemy either.  The catalyst's  hand closed  over
Joram s. Kill me, Saryon thought. Kill me now. End it swiftly.

    But the Executioner, after  studying Joram intently, turned  away.
Saryon glanced  after  him  without much  interest.  The  warlock  was
leaving, his task finished.  Then the catalyst froze,  a coid wind  of
fear blowing away the  fog of pain. The  warlock hadn't completed  his
task! Not yet. Leaning down, the Executioner picked up the sword  that
lay dark and lifeless upon the steps.

    If anything happen* to  me, it will  be left up  to you. You  mast
destroy the Darktword.

    There was only one  thing Saryon could do.  Barely able to  recall
the words of the  prayer through the throbbing  pain in his head,  the
catalyst began to drain Life from the warlock.

    It was an  attempt born of  desperation. Draining Life  is a  slow
process. Saryon hoped the Darksword had already drawn off most of  the
warlock's magic. If so, the catalyst could cripple him immediately.

    The warlock  instantly felt  the  catalysts attack.  Dropping  the
sword on the broken steps, the Executioner turned to face Saryon.  The
catalyst could not see the Executioner's face, hidden as it was by the
hood of his gray robe. But he could almost sense the man smiling,  and
Saryon knew  he had  failed. The  warlock was  still strong  in  Life.
Raising his hand, the Executioner prepared to cast a spell that  would
destroy the catalyst.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 321  At least, Saryon prayed, bowing  his
head, the end will be swift.

    Light flared, blinding him. He  heard a sizzling sound and  braced
himself, waiting for the firestorm, the last terrible agony.

    A hoarse cry of pain and anger sounded near him.

    Startled, Saryon  opened his  eyes. The  Executioner stood  before
him, but he was not looking at the catalyst. He had whirled to face  a
new enemy.

    Menju lay  upon the  flame-swept stairs  of the  Temple. His  body
badly burned, the magician lifted a bloody ana blackened hand.  Aiming
his weapon, he fired at the Executioner again.

    At the same  instant, the  warlock shrieked out  words. Knives  of
ice, flashing  in the  sunlight, Hew  from the  Executioners  fingers.
Speeding through  the  air, the  blades  thudded into  Menju  s  body,
impaling it upon the stairs. The Sorcerer fell without a cry. He might
well have been dead already.

    Saryon was  aware, suddenly,  of warm  liquid trickling  down  his
neck. The throbbing pain in his head increased, as did his  dizziness.
A red-tinged mist  clouded his  vision, and  he could  barely see  the
Executioners hooded head, turning in his direction once more.

    Saryon could do nothing. He  could not even continue draining  the
mans Life, for he himself was teetering on the edge of  consciousness.
He watched  the warlock  turn .  . .  and saw  the gaping  hole  blown
through the Executioners  chest. The warlock  made a spasmodic  motion
with his hand,  then pitched forward  on his face,  dead. Saryon  felt
nothing, not  elation,  not relief.  Nothing  except bitter  pain  and
despair.

    He sank down upon the pavement, the stone cool beneath his  cheek.
Saryon closed his eyes. He was lost in a thick mist, stumbling blindly
along the edge of a cliff,  knowing that a single misstep must  plunge
him into the chasm. He had a vague impression that the Hand was there,
wanting to help him.

    Around him, beyond him, above him, he could hear the world dying.

    "I  can  never  forgive  You  for  what  You  have  done,"  Saryon
whispered. Spurning the Hand, he stepped over the edge.

    The Hand caught and gently held him.

    12 The Triumph Of The Darksword Ft . < lather?" A sense of  danger
beat at Joram, pounding  like the hammers of  the forge, making  sleep
impossible. He was back  in the smiths  shop, creating the  Darksword.
Saryon was  giving it  Life. Then,  suddenly, everything  went  wrong.
Before his eyes, the catalyst was turning to stone. …

    "Father!" Joram cried.

    He woke up,  his body drenched  in sweat. The  sound of  hammering
ceased.

    All was  silent around  him, a  terrible, unnatural  silence;  the
world holding its breath  like a drowning man,  knowing that it  would
not be able to draw another.

    Looking into  the sunlit,  blue sky  above him,  Joram  remembered
where he was, but he couldn't, for a moment, recall what had happened.
He saw in his mind a blazing magical tire, felt its intense heat,  and
he remembered raising the Darksword against it, stopping it. He  heard
Gwen TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 323  scream, Saryon cry  out. A  weight
struck him from behind. The sword flew from his grasp . . . and . .  .
nothing.

    "Saryon," he mumbled thickly, trying to sit up. "Saryon, I - "

    Turning, he saw the catalyst.

    Saryon lay in  the midst of  a pile of  shattered stone. Dust  and
blood from a jagged gash on the side of his head covered his face. His
eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. He might have been asleep.

    "Father?" Joram said, touching him gently.

    Saryon s skin was cold, his pulse weak and irregular.  Concussion,
shock. He needed treatment. Joram started to look around for something
to cover the injured catalyst, but he stopped, staring, immobilized by
the terrible sight.

    The body of  the Executioner lay  on the pavement  near the  altar
stone, a hole burned through the warlocks back. Menjus blackened  body
was sprawled on  the Temple  stairs. Rivulets  of blood  ran from  it,
twining together, breaking apart, merging again to form small pools on
the sidewalk below.

    "Gwen?" he  called fearfully,  looking up  the stairs  toward  the
Temple. Her  name died  on his  lips. The  portico of  the Temple  was
smashed, the mangled fragments of the silver strike ship gleamed  from
among the  broken  stones. The  body  of the  ships  pilot hung  at  a
grotesque angle from the crushed  cockpit. The dragons twisted  corpse
lay huddled nearby.

    "Gwen!" Joram  shouted.  Rising  to  his  feet,  fear  giving  him
strength, he made his way up the rubble-strewn stairs, calling out his
wifes name. There was no answer. Reaching the porch, he tried to shove
aside a piece of wreckage to reach her in case she was trapped inside.
Sudden dizziness and a wrenching pain  in his arm reminded him of  his
injury. He staggered, almost falling.

    "The distant sound of  an explosion, like  a muffled thud,  caught
his attention, penetrating his despair. Turning, Joram looked out from
the top of the  mountain onto the plains  below. Sunlight glinted  off
hundreds of metallic surfaces -  tanks crawling around Merilon.  White
flashes of laser fire bombarded the magical dome. He thought he saw  -
though k might have been his  imagination from this distance - one  of
the gleaming crystal spires of the Palace topple.

    324 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  525  Everything,
everyone around him was dead. Now Mer-ilon was dying. The Prophecy was
coming to fulfillment.

    "Why didn't / die?" Joram cried in anguish. Bitter tears stung his
eyes. Then, suddenly, blinking them  back, he looked out again  across
the plains. "Perhaps that's why …" he murmured.

    He would die, but not here. He would die in Merilon, fighting. The
Prophecy wasn't fulfilled. Not yet.

    Looking hastily  around,  Joram caught  a  glimpse of  dark  metal
almost buried beneath the crushed stone. Setting his teeth against the
agony that each  move caused, he  made his way  through the  wreckage,
back down  the  stairs.  The  Darksword  lay  near  the  body  of  the
Executioner. One of the dead warlocks hands was stretched out,  almost
touching it.

    Joram leaned down  to lift  the sword. His  legs gave  way and  he
ended up falling  to his knees  beside it. Reaching  out his hand,  he
hesitated. "I  can save  them," he  said, "but  for what?  For  this?"
Lifting his head, he looked on nothing but death.

    He will  boQ in  hit hand  the destruction  of the  world -  Joram
looked back at the Darksword. The sun shone bright upon it, but it did
not reflect the light. Its metal, dark and cold as death. . . .

    And Joram understood.

    Going to Merilon, dealing  death to its  foes. That fulfilled  the
Prophecy. This  war  would  end,  but there  would  come  another  and
another. Fear and mistrust would  grow. Each world sealing itself  off
from the other. At the  end, each would believe  that the only way  to
survive was to destroy the other totally, never realizing that, in  so
doing, it would destroy itself.

    "Open the window. Set  the Life free," came  a clear, sweet  voice
behind him.

    Turning, he saw Gwendolyn sitting calmly amid the wreckage at  the
top of the Temple  stairs. Her bright blue  eyes were on her  husband.
There was no sign of recognition, yet she was speaking to him.

    "How?" Joram  cried out  from  where he  knelt beside  the  sword.
Raising his arms to the heavens, he shouted in frustration. "How do  I
stop this? Tell me how."

    His voice  came echoing  back.  Bounding off  the columns  of  the
Temple, reverberating  from  the  mountainside, it  cried  louder  and
louder, "How?" Thousands of  dead voices took up  the cry, each  voice
softer than the softest whisper. "How?"

    Gwendolyn motioned for silence  and the echoes hushed.  Everything
in the world hushed, waiting. . . .

    Clasping her  hands  around  her  knees,  Gwendolyn  regarded  her
husband with a serene smile that pierced him to the heart, for he  saw
that she still did not know him.

    "Return to the world that which you took from it," she said.

    Return to the world that which you took from it. He looked at  the
weapon in his hand. The  Darksword, of course. He  had made it of  the
stone of the world. But how to return it? He had no forge fire to melt
it. He might cast it off the mountain peak, but it would only fall  to
the rocks below and lie there until someone else found it.

    His eyes went to  the altar stone. Looking  at it closely for  the
first time, he realized what  Menju had suspected earlier-it was  made
of darkstone.

    Turning back to Gwen, he saw her smiling at him.

    "What will happen?" he asked.

    "The end," she said. "Then the beginning."

    He nodded, thinking  he understood. Lifting  the sword, he  walked
over to Saryon. Kneeling down beside the catalyst, he kissed the mild,
gentle face.

    "Good-bye, my friend . . . my father," he whispered.

    He noticed that, strangely,  his weakness was  gone, the pain  had
disappeared. Rising to  his feet, he  walked to the  altar stone  with
firm, unfaltering steps.

    He raised the sword as he drew near the altar, and the blade began
to burn with blue flame. The altar stone responded, the symbols of the
Nine Mysteries starting to shine  with a white-blue light. He  touched
each symbol  carved into  the  rock, tracing  them with  his  fingers:
Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Time, Spirit, and Shadow. Life. Death.

    Turning to his wife,  he held out his  hand. "Will you come  stand
beside me?"

    He might have asked her to dance. "Of course!" she answered with a
laugh. Jumping to her feet, she ran lightly down the stairs, her  gown
trailing in the blood.

    526 WE1S AND  HICKMAN Drawing near  her husband, he  saw her  gaze
curiously at his injured arm. Her blue eyes glanced at Saryon, then at
the dead Executioner, then at Simkin's body, and an expression of sad,
puzzled wonder shadowed her face.  Looking back at Joram, she  reached
out and touched his blood-soaked sleeve with the tips of her  fingers.
He flinched, and  she drew her  hand away quickly,  putting it  behind
her, staring at him shyly.

    "You did not hurt me.  Not my arm, at  least," he amended, for  he
knew she must have seen the pain on his face. "I was remembering . . .
long ago,  when you  first touched  me  like that."  He gazed  at  her
searchingiy. "Have they truly found peace in death? Are . they happy?"

    "They will be, when you free them," she answered.

    That was not the answer he  wanted, but then, he realized, he  had
not asked the question  that was in  his heart. Will  I find peace  in
death? Will I find you once  again? He could never ask that  question,
he realized, for it would have no meaning for her.

    She was watching him expectantly. "They are waiting," she said,  a
touch of impatience in her clear voice.

    Waiting. …  It seemed  the whole  world was  waiting, had  waited,
perhaps, ever since the moment of his birth.

    Turning from her,  Joram grasped  the hilt of  the Darksword  with
both hands. Lifting the weapon high over his head, he braced his  feet
firmly in the soil of the dead Garden. He dre* in a deep breath,  then
-with all his strength  and might -he  plunged the Darksword  straight
into the heart of the altar stone.

    The sword entered the  rock easily, so  easily that it  astonished
him. The altar stone  flared a brilliant  white-blue and shivered.  He
felt the tremor beneath his hands,  as though he had thrust the  sword
through  living  flesh.  The  tremor  extended  out  from  the  stone,
traveling farther and farther.

    Beneath his  feet,  the  mountain  itself  shuddered.  The  ground
quivered and heaved  like a  live thing, splitting  apart. The  Temple
tottered on its foundations;  cracks split the  walls; the roof  caved
in. Joram lost his footing and fell to his hands and knees.  Gwendolyn
crouched near him, staring around her, wide-eyed and fascinated.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 327  Then, suddenly, the shaking  ceased.
Everything was still  and quiet once  more. The flaming  light of  the
altar stone faded.  Nothing about the  stone appeared changed,  except
that the sword had vanished. No trace of it remained.

    Joram tried to stand, but he was too weak. It was as if the  sword
- taking its last victim -had drained the life from his body.  Leaning
wearily against  the altar  stone, he  looked out  across the  plains,
•wondering vaguely why it was beginning to grow dark when it was still
noonday.

    Perhaps it was his own sight failing, the first shadows of  death.
Joram blinked rapidly, and  the shadows did  not diminish. Staring  at
the sky more intently, he realized that it was not his failing vision.
It was truly growing darker.

    But such an odd, eerie darkness.  It came from the ground,  rising
up over the land like a fast-flowing tide, fighting the sun that still
lit the land from above. In this strange battle of darkness and light,
objects  stood  out  with   unnatural  clarity,  every  line   sharply
delineated and  defined. Each  dead  plant stalk  was touched  with  a
radiance that made it seem almost alive. Tiny drops of blood upon  the
pavement glistened a brilliant  red. The gray  hairs on the  catalysts
head, the lines on his face, the  broken fingers of his hands were  so
clear in Joram  s sight that  he knew  they must be  visible from  the
heavens.

    So, too,  must heaven  see  the flaring  lights of  the  attacking
tanks, the jagged  lightning bolts  of the defending  wizards. As  the
darkness continued to deepen and the wind began to rise, Joram watched
the battle around Merilon rage ever more furiously.

    Glancing up into the heavens to see if Anyone was watching, he saw
the reason  for  the  darkness.  The sun  was  disappearing.  A  solar
eclipse. He had seen  them before. Saryon  had explained their  cause.
The moon, passing between Thim-hallan and the sun, cast its shadow  on
the world. But Joram had never seen an eclipse like this. The moon was
sweeping across the sun, devouring it. Not content with nibbling at it
a small  bite at  a time,  the  moon was  feasting on  entire  chunks,
leaving no crumb or scrap behind.

    The darkness grew  deeper. At the  edges of the  world, along  the
horizon, it was night. Stars appeared, flashing into life for a  brief
instant, then  vanishing as  another darkness,  328 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN
deeper than night, engulfed them. The edges of this darkness flickered
with lightning, and thunder rolled across the land.

    The sky grew darker and darker. The shadows rose up slowly  around
Joram. It was still light upon the mountain peak - a tiny fragment  of
sun shone down  on them,  desperately clinging to  life. Watching  the
darkness rise up from  the land below, Joram  had the strange  feeling
that he and Gwen were adrift on an ocean of night.

    Eventually, however, the darkness must overtake them as well,  the
storm-tossed seas  capsizing  their fragile  craft.  Part of  him  was
afraid, part begged him to find shelter from the coming storm. He knew
he should, but  he couldn't move.  It was like  the paralysis of  deep
sleep; he watched what was happening as in a dream. His pain was gone,
and he no longer  had feeling in  his arm. His  right hand might  have
belonged to someone elses body.

    The wind  grew  stronger,  lashing at  him  from  all  directions.
Stinging bits  of rock  bit  into his  flesh. Gwendolyns  golden  hair
enveloped her in a bright cloud.

    Joram drew his wife near, and she huddled beside him m the shelter
of the altar  stone. She was  not afraid but  stared eagerly into  the
approaching storm; her eyes reflecting the jagged lightning, her  lips
parted to drink the wind.

    And because she  was not afraid,  Jorams last fears  left him.  He
could no longer see Merilon now. The fragment of sun shone down on the
mountain peak alone; the rest of the world was dark.

    The dying light gleamed softly on Saryons peaceful face,  touching
him like a benediction. Then the darkness covered him. A last tiny ray
formed a halo around  Gwendolyns hair, and Joram  kept his eyes  fixed
upon her. He would take  this vision of her  with him from this  world
and keep it,  he knew,  in the next.  There she  would recognize  him.
There she would call him by name.

    The darkness surged closer. Joram could see only Gwen, her  bright
eyes on the  storm. And  he noticed, studying  her face,  that it  had
changed. Her expression was calm, there was no fear. But before it had
been the calm of madness. Now it  was the calm, beautiful face of  the
woman who had  looked into his  eyes once,  so long ago,  when he  had
supposed himself alone and nameless.  The calm, beautiful face of  the
TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 329 woman  who had stretched out her hand  to
him in love and trust.

    "Come with me." He murmured the words he had spoken to her then.

    Gwendolyn turned her  blue eyes  upon him.  The darkness  gathered
thickly about him. The sun, it seemed, shone only in her eyes.

    "I will, Joram," she  said, smiling at him  through her tears.  "I
will, my husband,  for I am  free now -as  the dead are  free, as  the
magic is finally  free!" Reaching out,  she took him  in her arms  and
held him  tightly, cradling  his  head against  her breast.  With  her
gentle hand,  she  smoothed  his  Hair,  her  soft  lips  touched  his
forehead.

    His eyes closed, and she bent  over him, shielding him. - The  sun
vanished, darkness covered them, and the terrible storm broke over the
world.

    13 Requiem Aeternam  TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  331 bursting  into
millions of  tiny  fragments that  were  gleefully caught  up  by  the
howling winds and strewn over the land.

    His spirit freed, the catalyst  joined the dead of Thim-hallan  to
watch, with sightless eyes, the end.

    The storm raged a  day and a night,  then-when the world had  been
swept clean by wind, cauterized by  fire, and purified by water -  the
storm ceased.

    All was very quiet, very stili.

    Nothing moved. Nothing could.

    The Weil of Life was empty.

    by one, blown  down by  the blasting  winds, the  Watchers on  the
Border toppled. The spell holding them prisoner - some for centuries -
broke apart like their  own stone bodies. The  very last to fall,  the
one that withstood the fury  of the storm to  the end, was the  statue
with the clenched hand.

    Long after the oldest  oaks had been  uprooted and tumbled  across
the land like twigs, long after  the tidal waves had smashed upon  the
shores, long after city walls were crushed and burning and the  armies
of the battling forces  of Merilon scattered  in all directions,  this
one statue braved the storm, and -  had anyone been near - they  might
have heard hollow laughter.

    Time and again the wind slammed into it, the sand stung its  stone
flesh. Lightning burst over it, thunder hammered on it with its mighty
fist. Finally,  when  the  darkness  was  deepest,  the  statue  fell.
Crashing to the shore, its stone shattered.

    Epilogue H; Iuddled in the shadow of their broken city Gate, their
meager possessions gathered  around them  in crude  bundles, the  last
inhabitants of Merilon stood in line, waiting.

    They waited in silence for the  most part. Bereft of their  magic,
forced to walk upon  the ground in bodies  that felt clumsy and  heavy
and difficult  to control  without the  grace of  Life, the  magi  had
little energy left to expend in speech. They had nothing to talk about
that was not depressing and despairing anyway.

    Occasionally a baby whimpered,  and then could  be heard the  soft
reassuring murmur of a mothers  voice. And once three small  brothers,
too young to understand  what was happening, began  playing at war  in
the rubble-strewn street. Pelting each other with rocks and  screaming
in glee, their voices resounded  shrill and unnerving in the  lifeless
streets. Others,  standing or  sitting  in line,  glanced at  them  in
irritation, and their father stopped their  play with a sharp word  of
TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD 355  reprimand,  his bitter  tone  flicking
across their innocence, inflicting wounds they never forgot.

    Silence fell, and the line of people settled back to grim waiting.
Most tried to keep within the shadows of the wall; though the air  was
chill - especially for those of  Merilon who had never known winter  -
the sun beat down upon them  unmercifully. Accustomed as they were  to
the meek sun  that had  shone over Merilon  decorously for  centuries,
this new and fiery sun frightened them. But though the bright sunlight
was unbearable,  the  people  glanced  up  in  fear  and  apprehension
whenever a shadow darkened the sky. Dreadful storms, the like of which
had never been known in the world until now, periodically ravaged  the
land.

    At intervals  here and  there along  the line  of people,  strange
humans with silver skin and metal heads stood guard, watching the magi
closely. In the guards' hands were metal devices which, the people  of
Merilon knew, fired a  beam of light that  could either cast one  into
the sleep of unconsciousness or the deeper, dreamless sleep of  death.
The magi were  careful to  keep their  eyes averted  from the  strange
humans or,  if they  did look  at  them, it  was with  swift,  furtive
glances of hatred and fear.

    For their part,  the strange  humans - though  attentive to  their
duty - did not appear overly nervous  or ill at ease. These magi  they
were guarding were families, generally of the lower- and  middle-class
workers, and were not considered dangerous. A vast difference from the
long line  of black-robed  warlocks who  were being  marched down  the
street. Their hoods cast aside,  their faces grim and  expressionless,
they walked with  heads bowed. The  glint of steel  manacles could  be
seen gleaming beneath the  long sleeves of  the tattered black  robes.
They moved with a shuffling step,  their feet chained together at  the
ankles. The warlocks and witches  were under heavy guard; the  strange
humans outnumbering them nearly two to  one and watching each of  them
with a nervous intentness that quickly stopped the slightest  movement
of a hand.

    The Duuk-bartib prisoners  were hustled rapidly  out of the  Gate,
the waiting people of Merilon barely  glancing at them as they  passed
by. Wrapped up in their own  misery, the people of Merilon had  little
sympathy for the misery of others.

    354 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  This same  lack of  interest applied  to  a
person being carried out of the broken Gates on a stretcher. A  heavy,
rotund man,  he was  borne  by six  stout  catalysts who  sweated  and
staggered beneath their  burden. Although  gravely ill  and unable  to
walk, the man was regally attired in his rich red robes of office, his
miter carefully balanced on his head. He even managed to weakly  raise
his right hand, extending his blessing over the crowd as he passed.  A
few people bowed their heads or  removed their hats, but for the  most
part they watched their Bishop leaving their city in mute despair.

    A few university students, standing near the Gate, peered out into
the plains, attempting to see what was happening; rumors having spread
among the students that  the warlocks were  going to be  exterminated.
The captive, black-robed Duuk-foartih  were, however, loaded into  the
body of one of the silver creatures along with Bishop Vanyas  pathetic
entourage. Seeing that the prisoners hadn't  been lined up and set  on
fire, the students - somewhat  disappointed -lounged back against  the
crumbling, charred  walls, muttering  imprecations at  the guards  and
whispering plans for rebellion that would never come to fruition.

    The rest of  the people of  Merilon avoided looking  out onto  the
wind-swept plains. It had become an ail-too familiar sight in the past
week - the  gigantic silver-bodied creatures  that the strange  humans
called "air  ships" opening  their maws,  swallowing up  thousands  of
people, then rising into the sky and disappearing into the heavens. It
would be  their turn  to  enter one  of  the creatures'  bellies  soon
enough.

    The people had been reassured, time and again, that they were  not
being taken to their deaths. They were being relocated, removed from a
world that was now unsafe. They had  even been able to talk -  through
some demonic means of the Dark  Arts - with friends and relatives  who
had been carried  off to this  other "brave, new  world." Still,  they
remained huddled inside their shattered city to the bitter end. Though
few could  bear  looking on  the  wreckage of  Merilon  without  tears
blurring their vision, they sought desperately to cling to its  memory
as long as possible.

    The street was  empty following  the Bishop's  departure, and  the
crowd began to stir around in anticipation of its being their turn  to
go; people gathering up their bundles or TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD  JJ5
hunting about for children. There was some comment, particularly among
the watching students, when a figure was seen emerging from the silver
creature and walking across die plains toward Merilon. The figure drew
nearer, and  the students  - seeing  that it  was only  a catalyst,  a
stooped, middle-aged  man whose  brown robes  were too  short for  his
height, showing his bony ankles - lost interest.

    A strange silver-skinned human stopped the catalyst as he  entered
the Gate. The catalyst pointed to a man under heavy guard, a man being
kept apart from  the rest of  the people. Like  the Duuk-tMritb,  this
man's hands were manacled. He was not dressed in black robes, however.
He wore velvet and  silk. But the clothes  that had once been  elegant
and rich were now torn, dirty, and stained with blood.

    The guard nodded and the catalyst entered the Gate, walking up  to
the man, who  did not  notice him. The  prisoners head  was bowed,  he
stared at the  ground in despair  so dark and  bitter that the  people
standing in line looked at him with pity and respect, finding  comfort
in his presence, knowing that he shared their sorrow.

    "Your Grace," said the catalyst softly, coming up to stand  beside
him.

    Raising his head, Prince Garald looked  at the catalyst and a  wan
smile of recognition  lightened his face.  "Father Saryon. I  wondered
where you had gone." He glanced at the catalysts neatly bandaged head.
"I feared perhaps your injury - "

    "No, I am fine," Saryon said, reaching up to touch the bandage and
wincing slightly.  "The  pain  comes  and goes,  but  that  is  to  be
expected, so they tell me, with what they call a 'concussion. ' I have
been to the healing rooms in the  ship, but it was to visit our  young
patient.

    "How is Mosian?" Garald asked gravely, his smile disappearing.

    "He is improving . . . finally," Saryon said with a sigh. "I  have
been with him most of the night and we came very near losing him.  But
we finally persuaded him  to take the treatment  offered by the …  the
healers of  their kind"  - he  gestured toward  the strange  humans  -
"since the Tkeldara have lost their power. Eventually, Mosiah listened
to me. He ac- 336 WE1S AND  HICKMAN cepted their help at last, and  he
will live. I left  him in the  care of Lord and  Lady Samuels to  come
tell you."

    Prince Gar aids face darkened. "I don't blame Mosiah. I would  not
have taken their  treatment," he  said with  a bitter  oath. "I  would
sooner have died!"

    Angry tears filled his  eyes. He shook  his manacled hands,  fists
clenched, his wrists straining against his bonds. Seeing this, one  of
the guards raised his weapon and said something in a sharp voice  that
sounded inhuman and mechanical through the metal helm.

    "I would sooner  have died!"  Garald repeated in  a choked  voice,
glaring at the guard.

    Saryon laid his  hand upon the  Princes arm, about  to offer  what
words of comfort  he could, when  a stirring among  the waiting  crowd
caught their attention and that of their guard as well.

    Three figures walked  down the ruined  street of Merilon.  Picking
their way carefully among the  rubble that littered the streets,  they
passed the still-smoldering,  fire-blackened trees of  the Grove,  and
approached the Gate. One of the three - a short-statured, muscular man
in a plain, neat uniform - did not pay much attention to the wreckage,
but regarded it with the  grim face of one who  has seen this kind  of
thing all  too  often. The  two  accompanying him,  however,  appeared
genuinely moved and distressed by it.

    One in particular -  a golden-haired woman  with a gentle,  lovely
face - gestured  here and there,  speaking to her  companion in a  low
voice, shaking  her  head  as  though  recalling  happier  times.  The
companion - a dark-haired man dressed in white robes, his right arm in
a sling-bent close to hear her; the man's face, though stern and dark,
was marked  by  a  grief  the  depths  of  which  few  could  know  or
understand.

    One person watching saw, one person understood. Saryon brushed his
hand swiftly across his eyes.

    The  three  people   were  accompanied   by  at   least  a   dozen
silver-skinned,  weapon-carrying  humans,  who  kept  their  eyes  and
weapons trained on the crowd.

    The silence of the  people of Merilon broke.  The crowd surged  to
its feet. Shaking their  fists at the  white-robed man, they  screamed
curses and  threats. They  threw  rocks. People  lunged out  of  line,
trying to attack  the man. The  silver- TRIUMPH OF  THE OARKSWORD  537
skinned humans  closed around  their  commander and  the man  and  the
woman, while other guards shoved the worst offenders back against  the
wall or turned  their stunning light  beams on them,  causing diem  to
crumple to the ground.  The most violent were  taken into custody  and
hustled away to the makeshift guardhouse  within what was left of  the
Kan-ffanar's office.

    The black-haired man in  the white robes did  not appear angry  or
frightened. He even stopped  a guard from  apprehending a young  woman
who had darted out of the crowd to spit upon him. His concern appeared
to be for the golden-haired woman, for  he put his arm around her  and
held her close, protectively. She was pale but composed and looked  at
the people with a sad sympathy, alt the while appearing to speak words
of comfort to the man.

    The shouting and  the rock-throwing continued  as the three  moved
along the  line of  people standing  near the  Gate. The  curses  were
bitter, the  threats  vile and  ugly,  and Prince  Garald,  his  brows
contracted in a frown, glanced at Father Saryon. The catalyst was pale
and shaken.

    "I am  sorry  you  had  to  witness  this,  Father,"  Garald  said
abruptly, his scowling gaze on the white-robed man. "But he  shouldn't
have come. He brings it on himself."

    Saryon kept  silent,  knowing  that nothing  he  could  say  would
alleviate the  Princes bitter  anger. His  heart ached  with sorrow  -
sorrow for the people, for Garald, for Joram.

    Major Boris snapped  a command  and the guards  began herding  the
people out of  the Gate, marching  them toward the  waiting air  ship.
This distraction  helped restore  order, the  people being  forced  to
gather up their  belongings. Slowly  they filed  out of  the ruins  of
their city.  All  cast narrow-eyed  glances  at Joram  as  they  left,
shouting a final imprecation, shaking clenched fists.

    Joram continued walking. Accompanied by Gwendolyn and Major Boris,
surrounded by bodyguards,  he was seemingly  oblivious to the  peoples
screams of  hatred; his  face So  cold it  might have  been carved  of
stone. But Saryon -  who knew that  face so well -  saw the deep  pain
burning in the brown eyes, the jaw muscles clenched tight against it.

    "If Ac is to travel with us, I  refuse to go! You can do what  you
like to me!" Garald cried out harshly to the Major, as the three  came
near him.

    338 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN Standing  tall  and straight,  holding  his
manacled hands  before him  with a  grimly  noble air  as if  he  wore
bracelets of  rare jewels  instead of  strong steel,  the Prince  cast
Joram one dark  look - a  look so expressive  of contempt, anger,  and
betrayal that it  was far  worse than the  vilest curse  and cut  into
Jorams flesh more deeply than the sharpest rock.

    Joram did not  falter. He met  Garalds gaze unflinchingly,  facing
him with pride tempered only by sadness.

    Watching the two, Saryon was  reminded vividly of the time  Garald
and Joram had first  met, when the Prince  had mistaken the young  man
for a bandit and held  him prisoner. There was  the same pride in  the
set of Jorams  shoulders, the same  air of nobility.  But the fire  of
arrogance and defiance  that had  flared in the  eyes of  the boy  was
gone, leaving behind ashes of grief and sorrow.

    The same memories might have stirred within Garald, or perhaps  it
was Jorams steadfast, unfaltering gaze  that met his without shame  or
apology, for the  Prince was  the first to  avert his  eyes. His  face
flushed, he  looked out  over the  wrecked city  of Merilon  into  the
storm-ravaged lands beyond.

    Major Boris  spoke  at some  length  in his  own  language.  Joram
listened, then turned to Garald to translate.

    "Your Grace," Joram began.

    Garald  sneered.  "Not  Your   Grace!"  he  said  bitingly.   "Say
'prisoner* instead!"

    "Your Grace  -  "  Joram  repeated, and  now  it  was  Garald  who
flinched, hearing  in those  two words  a deep  respect and  a  deeper
sadness, sorrow over  something precious lost,  never to be  regained.
The Prince did not look at  Joram, but continued staring off into  the
distance. His eyes  blinked rapidly,  however, and  pressing his  lips
together, he swallowed  the tears his  pride would not  permit him  to
show.

    " - Major Boris extends his  wish that you will consider  yourself
his guest aboard the  transport," Joram said. "He  says it will be  an
honor to  share his  quarters with  so brave  and noble  a soldier  as
yourself. He hopes that you will do him the favor of spending the long
hours of the journey in teaching him more about our people - "

    "Our people?" Garalds lip curled.

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 339 " - and our ways and customs so  that
he might better serve them when you arrive at your destination, "Joram
said, ignoring the interruption.

    "When we arrive  at the slave  camps, you mean!"  Garald spit  the
words. "Some of us, that is!"  he added bitterly, refusing to look  at
Joram. "I suppose, traitor, that you will go back to your friends - "

    It was clear  that Major  Boris understood  Garalds bitter  words.
Shaking his head in regret over an apparent misunderstanding, he  said
something to Joram, then-with  a gesture - motioned  for the guard  to
remove the manacles.

    Jerking his  hands  back,  Garald rebuffed  him.  "I  will  remain
chained as long as my people are chained!" he cried furiously.

    "Your Grace," interposed  Father Saryon, speaking  in a low,  firm
voice, "I ask you to remember that you are the leader of your  people,
now that your father is dead. The  people have put their trust in  you
and - as their leader in exile - you must keep their best interests in
mind. You  cannot give  way to  hatred. That  will accomplish  nothing
except breed more  hatred and bring  us back to  this -" The  catalyst
gestured with his misshapen hand to the ruins around them.

    Prince Garald  struggled  within  himself.  Standing  beside  him,
Saryon could  feel the  strong body  tremble and  see the  proud  lips
quiver as the Prince  fought to conquer his  pride, his rage, and  his
pain.

    "I realize I don't know much about politics, \! bur Grace," Saryon
added. "But I speak  to you as  a man who has  suffered much and  seen
others suffer. I want this sufFering to end. Remember, too, that I act
- by your request - in the capacity  of your advisor. I am, I know,  a
poor substitute for  that wise man  who commended me  to you with  his
(tying breath, but  I believe  Cardinal Radisovik  would have  offered
this same counsel."

    Garald bowed his head, the  tears coursing unchecked and  unheeded
down his cheeks. He bit his lip, either unable or unwilling to answer.
Major Boris, watching him anxiously, spoke  again to Joram and it  was
obvious from the  tone of  the Majors voice  that he  was earnest  and
sincere in what he said.

    340 WEIS AND HICKMAN Joram, listening, nodded and translated. "The
Major reiterates to you his pledge that our people are not slaves. You
are being taken  to relocation camps  where you can  adapt to the  new
worlds in which  you will  be living.  Eventually, when  it is  deemed
wise, you will be free to go where you choose, live where you will  in
whatever manner that you  see fit. There is  only one restriction,  of
course - that you do not return to this world. This is solely for your
own good. The violent nature of the frequent storms sweeping the  land
make it virtually impossible for anyone to live here."

    At this. statement,  Saryon thought he  saw Gwendolyn smile  sadly
and press nearer her husband. Joram  s arm around her tightened as  he
continued speaking, his steady, unwavering gaze never leaving Garald's
face.

    "Although your powers in magic  appear gone now, because there  is
no longer a concentration of magic within this world, the wise  rulers
of the worlds  Beyond know  that, in time.  Life will  return to  you.
Since the magic has been dispersed once again throughout the universe,
it is believed  that your powers  will conceivably grow  as strong  as
they were in ancient times. Our people could be a tremendous asset for
the worlds Beyond."

    "We could also be tremendously dangerous," Garald muttered darkly.

    Major Boris  answered, emphasizing  his  words with  a  pronounced
movement of his hand.

    "The Major admits that this is  true," Joram said. "He knows  that
it is the nature of some men to abuse power and attempt to use Jt  for
their own selfish interests. Such a man was Menju the Sorcerer. But he
also knows that it is the nature of others to sacrifice themselves for
the good of the people and to do what they can to make the world-  all
worlds - a better place."

    It seemed Saryon would have spoken here, but Joram, with a glance,
shook his head and continued.

    "The Major has received word that the other magicians who were  in
the plot  with Menju  have not  been deterred  by the  death of  their
leader or the fact that he meant -all along - to betray them as  well.
They have fled to secret locations and are planning to continue  their
fight, using the new TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD 341 strength that  they
will acquire now that the magic is back in the universe.

    "James Boris  does  not  say,  but I  will  add,"  Joram  remarked
quietly, "that these evil magi are our responsibility in a way,  since
it was we who cast them out  of our society. The magi out there  will,
of course, consider you  and all like  you a threat  and will do  what
they can to destroy you. The rulers of the worlds Beyond hope that our
people will help find and defeat them."

    "And, of course, Your Grace," Saryon said with fine irony,  "there
are those among  us like Bishop  Vanya who will,  undoubtedly, try  to
establish their own stranglehold over these new worlds. We need strong
and honorable  people  like yourself  and  like Major  Boris.  Working
together, you can accomplish much that is good."

    Stepping forward,  Gwendolyn laid  her gentle  hand upon  Garald's
arm. "Hatred is a poisonous soil in which nothing can grow," she said.
"A tree -no matter how strong - planted in such soil will only  wither
and die."

    Garald stared straight  ahead beneath his  lowered brow, his  face
grim and implacable.  The Major  motioned again to  undo the  manacles
and, once more, the guard stepped  forward. The Prince kept his  hands
close to his  body, concealing  them beneath his  torn, bloody  robes.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he extended his arms. The guard removed the
manacles, and Garalds proud gaze turned unwillingly to Major Boris.

    Though the short,  sturdy Major did  not even come  up to  Garalds
chest, his shoulders were equal in breadth to the strong Princes.  The
two men were near  the same age, both  in their thirties, and  -though
one was dressed in red velvet, silken doublet, and hose, and the other
in drab khaki  - there was  a similarity between  the two that  showed
itself in the upright stance of each, and in their honest,  forthright
demeanor.

    "I will accept your offer.  Major Boris," Garald said stiffly.  "I
will do what  I can to  help you .  . . understand  my people and,  in
turn, I …  will" - he  swallowed, then continued  gruffly - "learn  to
speak your language. I have the following conditions, however."

    342 WEIS AND  HICKMAH Major Boris  listened attentively, his  face
slightly shadowed.

    "First, that my  advisor. Father  Saryon, be  permitted to  remain
with me." Garald looked at Saryon gravely. "If you will. Father?"

    "Thank you, \bur Grace," Saryon said simply.

    Nothing was  easier to  arrange.  Major Boris  had been  about  to
suggest it himself.

    "Second, that the chains and manacles be removed from my  people,"
Garald said firmly. "I will talk to them," he added, seeing the  Major
frown, "and I will pledge my word that - if we are treated well as you
promise - we will give you and your rulers no cause for alarm. 1  also
ask that we be allowed - for the time being - to govern ourselves."

    After a moments hesitation. Major Boris nodded, speaking to Joram.

    "He agrees for his  part," said Joram, "but  he cannot answer  for
his  superiors.  He  believes,  however,  that  both  of  you,  acting
together, can help persuade the rulers of the worlds Beyond that  this
is m the best interests of all concerned."

    "\bur hand, sir?" Major James Boris said clumsily, stumbling  over
the words that he spoke in Garald s language. He held out his hand.

    Slowly, Garald extended his  own. As he did  so, the marks of  the
manacles could  be  seen  plainly upon  his  wrists.  Remembering  his
anguish, Garald hesitated, and  his hand shook.  He appeared about  to
refuse the Majors courtesy,  and Saryon held his  breath, a prayer  in
his heart.

    His lips setting in an even, firm line, Garald pulled the tattered
sleeve of his  shirt down  over the  scars, then  accepted the  Majors
hand. James Boris grasped the Princes hand firmly in turn, shaking  it
heartily, his own lips widening in a grin.

    Gwendolyn inclined her head to listen to some voice only she could
hear, then looked at the two of  them with a smile. "The dead tell  me
that this friendship you have forged  today will become legend in  the
history of the worlds Beyond. Many are the times when each of you will
be willing to  lay down his  We for the  other as you  fight to  bring
order to your  universe. As the  potential for good  grows now in  the
worlds TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 543  with the return of magic, so  too
the potential for evil, beyond even what you can now imagine. But with
your faith in each other and in your God"-she glanced at Father Saryon
- "you will triumph."

    Major Boris,  embarrassed and  seemingly  a little  nonplussed  at
being lectured by the  dead, hurriedly cleared  his throat and  barked
out orders  to the  guards. Saluting  the Prince,  Father Saryon,  and
-last and  most respectfully  - Joram,  Major James  Boris turned  and
left, stomping off to attend to other duties.

    Looking after him, apparently favorably impressed by the  firmness
of his handshake and his straight, military pos- • ture, Garald smiled
slightly to himself. The smile  vanished, however, as he caught  sight
of Joram watching him.

    With an angry, abrupt motion of his hand, the Prince checked Joram
as he started to speak.

    "No words  between us."  The Princes  cold eyes  stared  somewhere
above Joram s shoulder. "\bu admitted to me that you had the power  to
save my world  and you  did not.  Instead, you  deliberately chose  to
destroy it.  Oh,  I know!"  he  said harshly,  forestalling  Saryon  s
attempt to intervene. "I  have heard your  reasons! Father Saryon  has
explained your  decision  to  release the  magic  into  the  universe.
Perhaps, in time, I can come  to understand. But I will never  forgive
you, Joram. Never."

    With a cool bow to Gwendolyn, Prince Garald turned on his heel. He
would have walked away had not Joram caught hold of his arm.

    "Your Grace, hear me.  I do not beg  for your forgiveness,"  Joram
said, seeing  Garald's face  grow cold  and stern.  "I am  finding  it
difficult to forgive myself. It seems that the prophecy was fulfilled.
Was I destined to  do it? Or did  I have a choice?  I believe I had  a
choice, as did others. It was because of the choices we all made  that
this happened. I  have learned, you  see, that  it was not  so much  a
Prophecy as a Warning. And we ignored it. What would have happened  to
me, to this world, if fear hadn't overthrown love and compassion? What
would have happened  if my father  and mother had  kept me instead  of
casting me off? What would have  happened if I had listened to  Saryon
and destroyed  the  Darksword, instead  of  using it  to  seek  power?
Perhaps we could have dis- 344 W  E I S AND HICKMAN covered die  world
Beyond through  peaceful  means.  Perhaps we  would  have  opened  the
Borders, released the magic freely. …"

    Garalds expression did not  change; be remained standing  stiffly,
tensely, staring straight ahead.

    Sighing, Joram clasped the  Princes arm more  firmly. "But we  did
not," he said  softly. "This  world was becoming  tike my  mother -  a
corpse, rotting and decaying, maintaining  a semblance of life by  the
magic alone. Our  world itself is  dead, except in  the hearts of  its
people. You will carry Life with you, my friend, wherever you go.  May
your journey be blessed . . . Your Grace."

    Garalds head bowed, his eyes closed in anguish. His own hand,  its
wrist scarred and  bleeding, rested  for a brief  instant on  Joram's.
Storm clouds  massed on  the horizon,  lightning flickering  on  their
fringes. Tiny whirlwinds surged about the ruins of Merilon, sucking up
bits of dust and rock and  tossing them into the air. Shaking  himself
free of Joram's grip, the Prince turned away.

    His tattered cape whipped around him, and debris scattered beneath
his booted feet. Without a  backward glance, Prince Garald exited  the
crumbling Gate and  began the long  walk across the  barren plains  to
where the air ship waited.

    Sighing, Saryon drew his  hood up around his  head to protect  him
from the stinging sand.

    "We should be going along as well, Joram," he said. "Another storm
will break soon. We must be on our way to the ship."

    To die catalysts astonishment, Joram shook his head.

    "We are not going with you. Father."

    "We only came to say good-bye," Gwendolyn added.

    "What?" Saryon stared  at them  in perplexity. "This  is the  last
ship! You must take it -"  Suddenly, their meaning became clear.  "But
you can't!" he  cried, looking  around at  the ruins  of Merilon;  the
lowering, swiftly moving storm clouds. "You can't stay here!"

    "My friend"-reaching out,  Joram clasped Saryon's  broken hand  in
his own  -"where else  can I  go? \bu  see them,  you hear  them."  He
gestured toward  the refugees  being herded  out the  Gate toward  the
waiting ship. "They will never forgive me. No matter where they go  or
what happens TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 345 to them, my name will always
be spoken with a curse. They will tell their children about me. I will
be reviled throughout time as the one who fulfilled the Prophecy,  the
one who destroyed the world.  My life atid the  lives of those I  love
would be in constant danger. Far better for my wife and me and for our
children that we remain here, in peace."

    "But alone!" Saryon looked at Joram in despair. "On a dead  world!
Swept by storms!  The earth itself  shakes. Where will  you live?  The
cities lie in rubble. …"

    "The mountain fortress of the  Font stands unharmed," Joram  said.
"We will make our home there."

    "Then I will stay here with you!"

    "No, Father." Joram glanced again at Garalds tall, upright  figure
as it made its lonely way across the plains. "Others need you now."

    "We will not be alone.  Father," Gwendolyn said, placing her  soft
hand over her husbands. "The dead will inherit this world. We will  be
company for them and they will be company for us."

    Saryon saw - standing behind Gwen - indistinct shapes and  ghostly
forms, staring at him with intense,  knowing eyes. He even thought  he
saw, though it vanished when he looked at it directly, a fluttering of
orange silk.

    "Farewell, Father," Gwen said,  kissing his wrinkled cheek.  "When
our son is  of age, we  will send him  to you to  teach as you  taught
Joram."

    She smiled so sweetly and cheerfully, looking at her husband  with
so much love in her face, that  Saryon could not find it in his  heart
to pity her.

    "Good-bye, Father," Joram said, grasping the catalyst's  trembling
hand tightly. "You are my father, the only true one I ever knew."

    Clasping Joram in his arms, Saryon held him close, remembering the
baby whose small head once rested upon his shoulder. "Something  tells
me, my son, that I  will never see you again,  and I must say this  to
you before we  part. When  I was near  death, I  saw-I understood,  at
last." His voice  breaking, he  whispered huskily, "What  you did  was
right, my son! Always believe that! And always know that I love you! I
love you and honor you - " His wards failed, he could not go >? 0 WEIS
AND HICKMAN Jorams tears, mingling with Saryon's, fell into the  black
hair that curled upon  his shoulders. The two  clung to each other  as
the storm winds blew about them more fiercely. One of the guards, with
a nervous glance  at the  swirling clouds,  moved forward  to tap  the
catalyst respectfully on the shoulder.

    "It is time for  you to go.  May the Almin  be with you,  Father,"
Joram said quietly.

    Saryon smiled through his tears.

    "He is, my  son," he said,  placing his hand  over his heart.  "He
is."

    APPENDIX: The Game Of  Tarok larok is one  of the earliest  Iknown
games utilizing the tarot cards, whose appearance in Europe around the
fourteenth or  fifteenth century  still remains  shrouded in  mystery.
Many theories  exist  concerning the  origin  of the  allegorical  and
mystical cards, relating them to everything from the Egyptian Book  of
Thoth to the Hebrew Kabbalah  to roving bands of Christian  dissenters
who may have used  the symbolic pictures on  the cards to teach  their
lessons to an illiterate populace.

    Most scholars  credit  gypsies  with introducing  the  cards  into
Europe. Since most Europeans of the time believed - erroneously - that
the gypsies came from Egypt (hence the name gypjy), it is easy to  see
how the theory arose that the cards were Egyptian in origin, a  theory
that is open  to debate. It  is doubtful that  the gypsies  themselves
invented  the  cards.  They  used  them  merely  for  crude  forms  of
divination, without any apparent  understanding of the cards'  complex
symbolism.

    >»o WEIS AND HICKMAN The cards gained popularity in Europe despite
the fact  that they  were frowned  upon  by the  Church. Many  of  our
earliest references to the tarot  cards are edicts banning their  use.
The cards were popular among  the wealthy nobility, however, and  this
kept them in existence. Hand-painted  decks decorated with gold  leaf,
crushed lapis lazuli, and other  substances with such exotic names  as
"dragons blood" and "mummy dust" appeared in royal courts.

    It is speculated that since fortune telling was prohibited by  the
Church, games utilizing the cards  were invented. The introduction  of
movable type made  the cards  available to the  general populace,  and
eventually the tarot decks  were soon too  popular and widespread  for
the Church and politicians  to continue fighting. Christian  symbolism
even came to be used on the cards, perhaps in an effort to try to make
them more palatable to Church officials.

    In general, the tarot decks  that exist today have changed  little
over the  past  five  hundred  years.  The  tarot  deck  includes  the
twenty-two cards of the  Major Arcana and the  fifty-six cards of  the
Minor Arcana, or suit cards. The  first twenty-two cards are known  as
trump cards,  the word  trump  deriving from  the Latin  truimpbi,  or
triumph. The word tarot comes from the sixteenth-century Italian  term
taroccbi, the plural of tarocco, which was used to refer to the  Major
Arcana cards and  later to  the entire deck.  Arcana is  a Latin  word
meaning mysterious  or  secret.  Tarot is  the  French  derivative  of
taroccbi, and it was  this term for the  cards that became popular  in
the English language.

    Throughout the centuries, scholars  have attempted to analyze  the
allegorical and  mystical meanings  of the  tarot cards,  particularly
those of the  Major Arcana.  Beginning with the  first card  (numbered
either 0 or 22), known as the Fool card, the deck also includes  cards
picturing the  Magician, the  Sun, the  Moon, Death,  the Hermit,  the
Hanged Man,  the Lightning-Struck  Tower, the  Devil, and  the  World,
among others.

    A favorite theory concerning the allegorical meaning of the  tarot
is that the cards  represent the Fool's  (mans) journey through  life.
The Fool is generally represented as a youth walking heedlessly  along
the edge of a cliff. His eyes are on the sun; he is not watching where
he is going and appears to TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD 349 be in imminent
danger of falling. A small dog (mans base, physical nature) barking at
his feet appears to be  either trying to warn  the Fool away from  the
cliffs edge or drive him pver. The people the Fool meets -such as  the
Magician, the Hermit -and the experiences he undergoes in his  journey
through life  will provide  him with  the self-understanding  he  must
acquire in order to complete his journey successfully.

    Our fascination with the cards and our enjoyment of the games that
were developed  using them  continues to  this day.  Most modern  card
games use a revised  version of the tarot  deck, retaining almost  all
the cards of the Minor  Arana, or the suit  cards, plus the joker,  or
the Fool card.  Among the  Minor Arcana  are the  court cards:  kings,
queens, knights, and pages, plus cards of each suit numbering from one
(the ace) to  ten. The suits  of the early  Minor Arcana were  swords,
cups, coins, and staves,  now known as  spades, hearts, diamonds,  and
clubs.

    The game  of tarok  - still  popular in  some places  m  Europe-is
unusual in that it  retains use of  the cards of  the Major Arcana  as
well as the Minor  Arcana. It can be  played by-^wo or three  players,
although later rules include up to four players.

    There are  many different  versions  of the  rules of  tarok.  The
following comes from The Encyclopedia  of the Tarot by Stuart  Kaplan,
and was the basis for the game  played by our characters. It uses  the
seventy-eight card deck; the dealer  deals three hands of  twenty-five
cards each, leaving  three cards  facedown on the  table. The  players
sort their hands and the dealer discards his three most useless cards,
exchanging them for the three on the table.

    Points are scored before play  begins. The twenty-two trump  cards
vary in value,  and points scored  are determined by  which trump  the
players hold and  how many.  Players then score  additional points  by
taking "tricks"- high cards taking low cards. One hundred points  wins
the game.

    The Fool card is  the lowest card  in the deck.  It cannot take  a
card of any suit, but  it may be played to  any suit that is led.  The
fascinating aspect about the Fool card  as far as we are concerned  is
that it may be substituted to protect a card of greater value. If, for
example, a  king  of cups  is  led and  the  WEIS AND  HICKMAN  player
following holds the queen of cups, that player may substitute the Fool
in order to save his queen.

    For those interested in learning more about the tarot cards or the
game of tarok, the following are recommended reading: The Encyclopedia
of Tarot, Volume !, by Stuart R. Kaplan, U.S. Games Systems, Inc., New
York, 1978.

    A Complete Guide  to the  Tarot by  Eden Gray,  Bantam Books,  New
York, 1981.

    ABOUT THE AUTHORS  Born in Independence,  Missouri, Margaret  Weis
graduated from the University of Missouri and worked as a book  editor
before teaming  up  with  Tracy Hickman  to  develop  the  Dragonlaace
novels. Margaret lives in Wisconsin  with her two teen-aged  children,
David and Elizabeth Baldwin, and her two cats and a collie. She enjoys
reading (especially Charles Dickens), opera, and rollerskating.

    "Born in Salt Lake City, Tracy  Hickman resides in Wisconsin in  a
100-year-old Victorian home with his wife and three children. When  he
isn't reading or  writing, he is  eating or sleeping.  On Sundays,  he
conducts the hymns at the local Mormon church.

    The Darksword Trilogy marks Margaret and Tracy s first  appearance
as Bantam Spectra authors. They  are currently polishing up  Darluword
Adventure*, a companion volume  and game book set  in the same  world.
Bantam Spectra will publish the first novel in their next trilogy, The
Rose of the Prophet, in January 1989.