Doom Of The Darksword Part 32

Leaning close, he hissed. "If the young man talks, if he makes this public in the Emperor's presence -"

"He won't," Vanya interrupted. Lips pursed in smug satisfaction, his squinting eyes went to Lord Samuels and his daughter, standing forlornly in the sand behind the circle of catalysts.

Understanding the Bishop's meaning, Xavier relaxed. "Has the young man been told she will be here?"

"No. We hope the shock of the sight of her will keep him silent. If he tries to speak, the catalyst - Father Saryon - has instructions to warn him that the girl will suffer."

"Mmmmm," was all the warlock replied. But the sound had an ominous quality. The Bishop was reminded forcibly of the buzzing snake, which is said to emit a warning to its victims before it strikes. There was no time for further conversation, however, it being inc.u.mbent upon the two to attend their liege lord and his dead lady with a show of homage and respect.

A royal gallery was necessary now, of course, to provide seats for the Emperor and Empress. Bishop Vanya and the DKarn-Duuk would sit here as well, along with the Cardinal, these gentlemen having previously intended to simply stand on the outskirts of the circle in their haste to have this done quickly.

That was impossible now. Several Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith were summoned from the Corridor to conjure up the gallery with the a.s.sistance of the Cardinal himself, since none of the catalysts in the circle could spare the energy. The Cardinal granted the warlocks Life with an ill-humored air and was seen to fret over the delay, glancing continually into the mists that were growing brighter with every pa.s.sing second. were summoned from the Corridor to conjure up the gallery with the a.s.sistance of the Cardinal himself, since none of the catalysts in the circle could spare the energy. The Cardinal granted the warlocks Life with an ill-humored air and was seen to fret over the delay, glancing continually into the mists that were growing brighter with every pa.s.sing second.

But the warlocks did their job efficiently and the gallery took shape within the speaking of a word and the gesture of a hand. The air coalesced into hundreds of soft cus.h.i.+ons, a silken canopy fell from the sky like a wayward cloud, and Their Majesties, the Bishop. The DKarn-Duuk, and the rest were soon settled. Sitting at the head of the circle of catalysts, they had an excellent view of the Executioner and the wheeled circle drawn in the sand. Beyond that, the mists of the Boundary of the World roiled and seethed in the morning light.

Heaving a sigh of relief, the Cardinal hastily signaled for the prisoner.

14.

The Doom of the Darksword The Corridor opened again, this time in the very center of the circle of catalysts.

Saryon stepped forth, bearing the Darksword in his arms, carrying it awkwardly and gingerly, as a father carries his newborn babe. The Cardinal appeared shocked at this - bringing a weapon of evil into the solemn rite - and he looked to his Bishop for instruction.

Rising from his seat, Bishop Vanya spoke sternly. "It has been decreed that Deacon Saryon is to stand at the side of the Executioner, the Darksword raised, so that the last sight this young man's eyes see will be the thing of evil he has created."

The Cardinal bowed. There were mutterings among the catalysts, a breach of discipline that was instantly hushed by a shocked hiss from the priest. All was silent once more, so silent that the whisper of the wind sliding along the sand spoke clearly to each present, though only Saryon understood its words, having heard the wind mourn long ago.

"The Prince is Dead...."

The Corridor opened, a final time. Flanked by two Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, the prisoner stepped out onto the sand. Joram's head was bowed, the black hair falling, disheveled, over his face. He was forced to move slowly and deliberately - the same fiery rings encircling his arms and upper body. Ugly, red, blistering weals were visible on his flesh, and rumor whispered quickly among the guests in the gallery that the young man had made a last foolish, furious struggle to avoid his fate.

It seemed he had learned his lesson, for now he stood as though struck senseless by despair, unseeing, uncaring. The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith led his stumbling footsteps to the spoked wheel in the sand and positioned him in its center. He moved mechanically, no will of his own remaining in the body. The Bishop found his gaze drawn irresistibly from the young man to the corpse of his mother. The resemblance was uncanny and Vanya hastily s.h.i.+fted his gaze, a shudder making the rolls of fat at the back of his head quiver. led his stumbling footsteps to the spoked wheel in the sand and positioned him in its center. He moved mechanically, no will of his own remaining in the body. The Bishop found his gaze drawn irresistibly from the young man to the corpse of his mother. The resemblance was uncanny and Vanya hastily s.h.i.+fted his gaze, a shudder making the rolls of fat at the back of his head quiver.

The prisoner was now the responsibility of the Executioner. The gray-robed warlock made a subtle gesture with his hand. The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith guarding the young man prepared to leave. guarding the young man prepared to leave.

"Joram!" cried a broken voice from outside the circle. "Joram! I -"

The words were cut off in a choked sob.

Joram raised his head, saw who it was that cried his name, and turned his gaze on the Executioner. "Take her away. Make them take her away!" he said in low, fierce tones. His eyes burned with a dull, sullen, dying glow. The muscles in the arms bunched spasmodically, the hands clenched, and the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith remained standing near. remained standing near.

"Let me speak to him," Saryon said.

"I want no words of yours, catalyst!" Joram snarled. "I want nothing for myself!" He lifted his voice; it was tinged with darkness, madness, and the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith drew closer. "Take the girl away! She is innocent! Take her away or I swear by the Almin I'll scream the truth until my mouth is stone drew closer. "Take the girl away! She is innocent! Take her away or I swear by the Almin I'll scream the truth until my mouth is stone - Ahhh!" - Ahhh!"

The young man cried out in pain, the fiery rings closing around him, burning his flesh.

"Please!" Saryon pleaded desperately.

The Executioner's hooded head moved slightly. He made a gesture with his hand and the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith backed away. Dropping the Darksword in the sand at the Executioner's feet, Saryon turned and floundered through the sand toward Joram. The young man watched him, bitter hatred in his eyes. When Saryon drew close, Joram spit on the catalysts shoes. Saryon cringed, as though he had been struck across the face. backed away. Dropping the Darksword in the sand at the Executioner's feet, Saryon turned and floundered through the sand toward Joram. The young man watched him, bitter hatred in his eyes. When Saryon drew close, Joram spit on the catalysts shoes. Saryon cringed, as though he had been struck across the face.

"With my next breath, I call the Emperor 'Father,'" Joram said through clenched teeth. "Tell them that, traitor! Unless she is freed -"

"Joram, don't you understand?" Saryon said softly. "That is why she is here! To insure your silence. I have been told to tell you that - if you speak - she will meet the same fate as your moth - as Anja. She will be cast out of her family and out of the city."

Saryon saw the flame in Joram's soul burning violently and, for a moment, he thought the fire might consume whatever was good and n.o.ble in the young man.

What can I say? the catalyst thought frantically. No plat.i.tudes will save him now. Only the truth. Yet it may drive him over the edge and he will drag her down with him.

"I warned you, my son," Saryon said, looking into the smoldering eyes. "I warned you of the grief that you would bring upon her, upon us all. You would not listen. Your life has been so centered on your own pain that you have never felt the pain of others. Feel it now, Joram. Feel it and cherish it, because it will be the last thing upon this earth that you will ever feel. That pain will be your salvation. I would to G.o.d" - the catalyst bowed his head - "that it were mine."

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the sand and by Joram's harsh breathing. Then Saryon heard a catch in the breath and looked up quickly. The flame in the eyes flickered, then - drowned by tears - it died. A sob wrenched the body, the shoulders heaved. Joram sank to his knees in the sand.

"Help me, Father!" He gagged on his tears. "I am afraid! So afraid!"

"Get rid of these!" Saryon ordered the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, making a furious gesture at the fiery rings. Hesitating, the warlocks looked to the Executioner, who nodded peremptorily. Time was running out.

The fiery rings vanished.

Kneeling beside Joram, Saryon clasped his arms around the young man. The muscular body stiffened, then relaxed. Burying his head in the catalysts shoulder, Joram shut his eyes, shut out the sight of the Executioner in his gray robes, shut out the sight of the Watchers lined up in the sand, shut out the sight of the corpse of his mother watching - unknowing - her Dead son forced into eternal life. He could not bear it. The fear that had haunted him in the long darkness of the night overwhelmed him.

To stand, forever, year after year, gnawed at by the pa.s.sage of time, always waking, always dreaming, never to find rest ...

"Help me!"

"My son!" Saryon cradled the burned, anguished body, smoothing the long black hair. "For you are my son! It was I who gave you life," he muttered. "And now I will give you life again!"

The catalyst's arms tightened their grip on the young man. "Be ready!" Saryon whispered with sudden intensity into Joram's ear.

Hands took hold of Saryon; the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith pulled him back and shoved him aside. Grabbing hold of Joram, they dragged the young man to his feet and positioned him once more in the center of what had once been a spoked wheel drawn in the sand but was now a confused muddle. Taking a position on either side of him, the pulled him back and shoved him aside. Grabbing hold of Joram, they dragged the young man to his feet and positioned him once more in the center of what had once been a spoked wheel drawn in the sand but was now a confused muddle. Taking a position on either side of him, the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith grasped Joram's arms firmly and held him in readiness for the Turning. grasped Joram's arms firmly and held him in readiness for the Turning.

Blinking back his tears, Joram ignored the warlocks. He stared at the catalyst in wonder and saw unusual firmness and resolve on Saryon's haggard face as he slowly, and with seeming disgust and reluctance, lifted the Darksword in its scabbard from the sand. He held it up before him, one hand just below the hilt.

Joram, watching intently, saw Saryon - with a quick jerk of his hand - loosen the sword in the scabbard. The young man glanced around swiftly to make certain no one had noticed. No one did. All eyes were fixed upon the Executioner. Joram tensed, ready, though he had no idea what Saryon's plan might be.

The young man heard Gwendolyn sobbing; he heard the catalysts begin their prayers, drawing the Life from the world. Clasping hands, they began to focus their energies upon the Executioner. Joram heard the Executioner begin to chant, but he shut the sound from his mind. He shut out all the sounds as he had shut out the sight of the world from his eyes moments before. He concentrated on Saryon with his entire soul, his entire being. He knew that if he let it, fear would take hold of him again and claim him for its own.

Bishop Vanya rose ponderously, once again, to his feet. In a loud, sonorous voice that carried above the sound of the chanting and praying and blowing wind, he read the charges.

"Joram. (Dispensing with parenting to the puzzlement of some, he cast a sidelong, uncomfortable glance at the Emperor, who was seen to smile slightly.) You are a Dead man who walks among the Living. You are charged with the taking of the lives of two citizens of Thimhallan. Further, and most heinous, you are charged with having consorted with Sorcerers of the Dark Arts and with having created, while living among them, a weapon of evil that is an abomination in this world. You have been found guilty of these charges by a tribunal of catalysts.

"Their judgment is that you be Turned to Stone, set to stand here upon the Borders of our land, an eternal warning to those who might be tempted to walk the same dark paths you trod. The last light of your eyes will fall upon the tool of demons you forged. When all is ended, the symbol of the foul arts that ensnared you will be carven upon your chest. May the Almin grant that in the long years to come, you repent of your crimes and that you find forgiveness in His sight.

"May He have mercy upon your soul. Executioner, do your duty."

Joram heard the words and there was an instant when he struggled with himself, anger welling up within him so that it seemed the truth must burst out. He longed to wipe the sanctimonious expressions from the faces of those around him, longed to see them sweating and pale. His gaze went to the Emperor, his father, and a wild hope sprang up in Joram's breast. He will support me! the young man thought. He knows who I am, that's why he is here. He has come to save me!

Joram's gaze s.h.i.+fted abruptly, as though drawn by some word meant for his ears alone. He stared, once again, into the dead eyes of his mother. The corpse sat motionless, eyes fixed in the translucent face. Joram understood then, and he sighed. His glance flicked back to the Emperor. His father stared not at the young man but through him, giving no sign of recognition. There was only that strange, sad smile on the lips that had appeared when Vanya left out the customary name of family from the p.r.o.nouncement.

You are my son, echoed the catalyst's words. I gave you life I gave you life.

The chanting of the Executioner grew louder. The warlock raised his hands.

Saryon stepped to the warlocks side, standing on the man's left as catalysts are taught to do when entering battle with their wizards. Slowly, Saryon raised the Darksword, holding it with both hands just beneath the hilt.

Joram, his eyes on the catalyst, saw that Saryon held not the sword itself, but the scabbard. His pulse quickened, his muscles twitched. It was all he could do to hold himself stiffly in the center of the wheel that had been trampled almost to oblivion in the sand beneath his feet. He kept his gaze upon Saryon and the sword. The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith moved away from him, retreating to the edges of the circle of catalysts. moved away from him, retreating to the edges of the circle of catalysts.

Joram stood alone upon the sand.

With a loud cry, m.u.f.fled by his hood, the Executioner called for Life. Head bowed, each catalyst concentrated all his energy upon the warlock, drawing magic from the world. Opening their conduits, they sent Life flowing into the wizards body. So powerful were the focused energies of all the catalysts that the magic was visible - blue flame swirled about the bodies and clasped hands of the priests. Flaring like blue lightning, it leaped from them into the body of the Executioner.

Suffused with power, the man pointed both hands at Joram. When he spoke next, the spell would be cast, the Turning would begin.

The Executioner drew a breath. The gray hood quivered. He uttered the first syllable of the first word and, at that moment, Saryon hurled himself forward, the catalysts body interposing itself between the Executioner and Joram. The blue light, darting from the warlock's hand, struck Saryon. Gasping in pain, he tried to take a step, but he could not move.

His feet and ankles were white, solid stone.

"My son!" Saryon cried, his gaze never s.h.i.+fting from Joram, "the sword!" With his last strength, even as the terrible, cold numbness was spreading up into his knees, Saryon flung the weapon from him.

The Darksword fell at Joram's feet. But the young man might have been changed to stone as well. He could only stare at Saryon, dazed and horror-stricken.

"Joram, escape!" Saryon cried in an anguished voice, writhing in excruciating pain, his feet frozen to the sand.

Black shadows seen out of the corner of his eye brought Joram to his senses. Anger and grief propelled him to action. Reaching down, he drew the sword from its scabbard in one swift stroke and turned to meet his enemies.

Garald's teaching came to him. Joram swung the sword in front of him, meaning at first only to keep the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith at bay until he could fall back and a.s.sess his position. But he had not counted upon the sword's own power. at bay until he could fall back and a.s.sess his position. But he had not counted upon the sword's own power.

The Darksword came forth into air that was charged with magic as Life flowed from the catalysts into the Executioner. Thirsting for that Life, the Darksword began to suck the magic into itself. The arc of blue light jumped, flaming, from the Executioner to the sword. The catalysts cried out in fear, many trying to close the conduits. But it was too late. The Darksword gained in power every second and it kept the conduits open forcibly, draining the Life from everything and everyone around it.

Running forward to stop Joram, spells crackling at their fingertips, the warlocks saw a radiant blue light flare from within deep darkness. A ball of pure energy hit them with the force of an exploding star and the black-robed bodies disintegrated in a blinding flash.

The Darksword hummed triumphantly in Joram's hands. Blue light twined from its blade around the young man's body like a fiery vine. Dazed by the shattering explosion and the sudden disappearance of his enemies, Joram stared at the sword in disbelief and uncertainty. Then the knowledge of the tremendous power he held swept over the young man. With this, he could conquer the world! With this, he was invincible!

Shouting in exultation, Joram whirled around to face the Executioner - - and saw Saryon.

The spell had been cast. The power of the Darksword could neither alter it, change it, nor stop it.

Saryon's feet, limbs, and lower body were white stone, solid, unmoving. The bitter-cold numbness was rising; Joram could see it freeze the catalysts flesh as he watched, advancing upward from the groin to the waist.

"No!" Joram cried in a hollow voice, lowering the sword.

The DKarn-Duuk was shouting something. Bishop Vanya roared like a wounded animal. Joram had a vague impression of Corridors opening, black-robed figures streaming from them like ants. But that's all they were to him - insects, nothing more.

Springing forward, Joram grasped Saryon's arms. With a wrenching effort, the catalyst raised his hands in supplication.

"Run!" Saryon managed to utter the single word before his diaphragm froze, choking off his voice. "Run" pleaded the man's eyes through a shadow of pain.

Rage filled Joram. Floundering through the sand, he came to stand before the Executioner. The Darksword burned blue, continuing to suck Life from the world, and the Executioner had fallen to one knee. The casting of the spell had cost him much of his energy and the Darksword was draining even more. But he managed to lift his hooded head, staring at Joram with cool detachment.

"Reverse the spell!" Joram demanded, raising the sword, "or by the Almin I swear I will strike your head from your body!"

"Do what you like!" the warlock said weakly. "The spell, once cast, cannot be called back. Not even the power of that weapon of darkness can change that!"

Blinded by tears, Joram lifted the sword to carry out his threat. The warlock waited, too drained of enrgy to move, facing his killer with grim courage.

Joram paused, raising his eyes from his enemy to look around him. Most of the catalysts had fallen to their knees in exhaustion; some had lost consciousness and lay unmoving in the sand. The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith hovered on the fringes of the broken circle of fallen priests, uncertain what to do. The warlocks had felt their Life being sucked from them the moment they stepped from the Corridor. None dared approach Joram while the sword still retained its awesome power. hovered on the fringes of the broken circle of fallen priests, uncertain what to do. The warlocks had felt their Life being sucked from them the moment they stepped from the Corridor. None dared approach Joram while the sword still retained its awesome power.

Their fear was reflected in the mottled skin of Bishop Vanya and the fearful eyes of Prince Xavier. Joram saw it clearly, and he smiled the bitter half smile that darkened his face. No one could stop him now and they knew it. The Darksword could blast open the Corridors, carry him anywhere in this world, and he would be lost to them once again.

A sound came from behind him, barely heard even in the deathly silence that surrounded him. It was a sigh, the last breath escaping from lungs solidified to rock.

Joram abruptly lowered the sword. Ignoring the Executioner, in whose eyes he saw swift, if puzzled relief; ignoring the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, waiting tensely to make their move; Joram turned his back upon them all and slowly made his way through the s.h.i.+fting sands. Coming to stand before the catalyst, he saw the entire body changed to stone; the only living flesh being the head and neck. Reaching up, Joram touched the warm cheek with his hand, stroking it gently, feeling it cool beneath his touch even as he did so.

"I understand now what I must do, Father," Joram said softly, picking up the scabbard lying in the sand at the catalyst's stone feet.

Lifting the Darksword, he slid it back into its scabbard and laid it gently and reverently in the catalyst's outstretched arms.

A single tear trickled down Saryon's face and then the eyes turned white and fixed. The spell was complete. From the feet to the head, the warm, living flesh was cold, solid rock. But the expression frozen forever on the stone face was one of sublime peace, the lips slightly parted in a last prayer of thankfulness uttered by the soul.

Comforted by that look, Joram laid his head for a moment upon the stone breast. "Grant me a measure of your strength, Father," he prayed.

Then he stepped back from the living statue, staring defiantly at the pale and fearful faces watching him.

"You call me Dead!" he shouted. His gaze went to the Empress. Bereft of the magic that gave the corpse a semblance of life, the body of the woman lay in a crumpled heap at the feet of her husband, who had not once looked down. He might have been a corpse as well, for the lifeless expression on his face.

Joram looked away, up into the blue sky. The sun had freed itself from the mists of death and was s.h.i.+ning down upon the world in serene, uncaring bliss. The young man sighed, it might have been an echo of Saryon's last breath.

"But it is you who have died," he said softly, sorrowfully. "It is this world that is dead. You have nothing to fear from me."

Turning on his heel, he walked away from the stone statue, moving slowly and resolutely across the sand. He heard the sudden commotion behind him as the warlocks surged into action, no longer afraid of the sword that lay dark and lifeless in the catalysts frozen grasp. But Joram did not quicken his pace. He walked with the Almin, no mortal could touch him.

"Stop him!" Bishop Vanya's voice was hoa.r.s.e with terror, for suddenly he saw Joram's intent. The DKarn-Duuk leaped from the gallery, his face contorted with fury.

"Stop him at all costs!" the warlock shrieked, his red robes swirling about him like blood-tinged water.

The black-robed Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith cast their spells, but many had been weakened already by the power of the Darksword. Or perhaps some trace of that power lingered still about its master for no magic touched or halted Joram. He did not even glanced behind him, but continued walking, his dark, black hair blowing back from his face by a chill wind. Shreds of mist reached out to him, curling about his feet. Still he kept walking. cast their spells, but many had been weakened already by the power of the Darksword. Or perhaps some trace of that power lingered still about its master for no magic touched or halted Joram. He did not even glanced behind him, but continued walking, his dark, black hair blowing back from his face by a chill wind. Shreds of mist reached out to him, curling about his feet. Still he kept walking.

One sound made him hesitate, however. It was a woman voice, and it cried to him not in pleading or in regret but in love "Joram," she called. "Wait!"

Gwendolyn's father, a look of horror on his face tried to clasp his arms around his daughter. They closed on nothing but air. She had vanished. Some watching say that - at this moment - they caught a glimpse of a white gown and saw the sun light glinting upon golden hair before it was swallowed in the mists.

Joram kept walking. The mists of Beyond gathered thickly about him, then he was completely lost from sight. The for boiled, frothing and rolling like a pearl-gray wave to crash is utter silence upon the sandy sh.o.r.e at the edge of the world.