Forging the Darksword (19 page)

“It be live.”

Through a haze of pain and the departing shadows of darkness, Joram stared up toward the sound of the gruff voice. He had a confused impression of greasy, matted hair covering a face that once might have been human but now had degenerated into something bestial and cruel. Hair covered human arms and a human chest as well. But it was not a human foot that had kicked Joram. It was the cloven foot of a beast.

The pain jolted his nerves, body, and mind back to reality. Once again he could see and feel, and the first feeling he had was one of terror. He saw sharp hooves standing close to his head and, looking up, the powerful body of the creature that was half-horse and half-man looming above him. A sudden vision of that hoof slamming into his head caused fear to act as the second stimulant to Joram’s system. But it could only do so much. His muscles were stiff from long disuse, his body weak from lack of food and water. Gritting his teeth, Joram managed to rise up on his hands and knees, only to feel the hoof crash into his ribs, sending him sprawling headlong into a thicket of underbrush.

Pain stabbed him. Unable to breathe, he fought for air as the hooves clattered nearer. A huge hand gripped him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. Staggering on legs that stung with returning circulation, Joram would have
fallen, but other hands held him up, binding his arms behind his back swiftly and skillfully.

A grunt. “Walk, human.”

Joram took a step, stumbled, and fell as the blood tingled in his numb legs.

The hands jerked him to his feet again and shoved him forward. The pain in his side was a slow fire, the earth heaved beneath his unsteady steps, trees reached out to maul him. He stumbled ahead, then tripped and fell into the dirt, landing heavily. His arms bound, he was unable to catch himself and he rolled in the muck.

The centaurs laughed. “Sport,” said one.

They hauled him to his feet again.

“Water,” Joram gasped through cracked lips, his tongue swollen.

The centaurs grunted, the hairy faces splitting into yellow-toothed grins. “Water?” repeated one. Raising a massive arm, he pointed. Joram, barely standing on his shaking legs, turned his head. He could see the river ahead of him, sparkling through the leaves of the trees. “Run,” said the centaur.

“Run! Human! Run!” shouted another centaur, laughing.

Desperately, Joram broke into a staggering run, hearing a cantering and thudding of hooves beating into the ground, feeling hot breath on his back, and choked by a foul, bestial odor. The river drew closer, but Joram felt his strength ebbing. He knew, too, with the certainty of despair, that the centaurs had no intention of letting him reach the river.

Once human, these creatures had been mutated by the
DKarn-Duuk
, the Battle Masters, and sent to fight in the Iron Wars. The wars had proved costly, devastating. The warlocks left alive were drained of their magic, their catalysts exhausted, having no more strength left to draw on the sources of Life. Unable to call upon the magic to change their creations back, the
DKarn-Duuk
abandoned their mutated soldiers, banishing them to the Outland. Here the centaurs lived their lives, breeding with animals or captured humans, creating a race whose human feelings and emotions were almost completely lost in the struggle to survive. Almost lost, but not quite. One emotion thrived among them, nurtured and cherished over the centuries—hatred.

Though the reason for that hatred had long since perished within the minds of these creatures who had no memory of their history, the centaurs knew one thing—torturing and murdering humans gave them a deep, inner satisfaction.

Stumbling to a halt, Joram turned with some idea of fighting. Immediately a hand crashed into his face, knocking him over. Lying on the ground, wracked by pain, the cold part of Joram’s mind told him, “Die now. End it quickly. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

He heard the hooves hitting the dirt around him. One thudded into his body. He didn’t feel it, though he heard bones crack. Slowly, determinedly, he staggered to his feet. The centaurs knocked him down again. More blows from the sharp hooves broke his bones, cut into his flesh.

He tasted blood …

The coldness of a voice stung Joram back to consciousness as the coldness of water stung his lips.

“Can we do anything for him?”

“I don’t know. He’s pretty far gone.”

“He’s conscious, at least. That’s something,” continued the cold voice. “Any signs of a head wound?”

Joram felt hands upon his head. Rough and uncaring fingers ran over his skull, twitched open his eyes.

“No. I guess they wanted to enjoy him as long as possible.” There was a pause, then the same voice continued, “Well, do we take him back to Blachloch or not?”

Another pause.

“Take him,” said the cold voice finally. “He’s young and strong. It’ll be worth our trouble to haul him back to camp. Set his bones with the splints, the way the old man showed you.”

“Do you ’spose he’s the one killed the overseer?” a voice very close to Joram’s ear boomed as rough hands gripped his limbs, making him gag with the sudden jolt of pain.

“Of course,” said the cold voice dispassionately. “Why else would he have been out here? That makes him more valuable. If he proves troublesome, Blachloch can always turn him in. He still has his old contacts in the
Duuk-tsarith.”

A bone crunched. Blackness tinged with fiery red swirled around Joram. He caught hold of the cold voice, hanging on so that the darkness would not sweep him under.

“Be quick about it,” the cold voice said irritably. “Get him on the packhorse. And stop him from screaming like that. There may be other centaur hunting parties on the border.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about his yellin’. Look at him. He’s finished.”

Indistinguishable words, vanishing in a vast distance.

A sensation of being raised …

A sensation of falling …

Days and nights tumbled into one another with a noise of rushing water. Days and nights of the vague dreamlike awareness of traveling upon the water. Days and nights of struggling for consciousness, only to be assailed by pain and the bitter knowledge of being alone and forgotten. Days and nights of lapsing into unconsciousness and hoping bleakly never to waken.

Then there was the vague knowledge that the journey had ended and he was on land once more. He was in a strange dwelling, and Anja came to him, kneeling beside him and combing out his tangled black hair and whispering stories of Merilon, Merilon the Beautiful, Merilon the Wondrous. And he could picture Merilon in his mind. He could see the crystal spires and the boats with silken sails drawn by fabulous animals that drifted upon the currents of air. He was happy while these dreams lasted, and his pain eased. But when the pain returned, the dreams grew distorted and terrible. Anja became a creature of fangs and claws, trying to rip open his chest and tear out his heart.

Always, over and above the dreams and through the pain, came strange sounds, as of a giant breathing, and a banging, like an untuned bell, and a hissing, like a horde of snakes. Fire sprang up, burning before his eyes, burning away the beautiful, distorted images of Merilon.

But finally there was darkness and silence. Finally there was sleep, peaceful and restful. Finally there was a day when his eyes opened and he looked around him, and Anja was gone and Merilon was gone and there was only an old
woman sitting beside him and the banging sound ringing in his ears.

“A long journey, you’ve had, Dark One,” said the old woman, reaching out her hand to smooth back his black hair. “A long journey that almost took you Beyond. The Healer did what she could, but without a catalyst to grant her Life, her arts are limited.”

Joram tried to sit up, but discovered that his arms and legs were bound.

“Untie me,” he cried hoarsely, trying to make himself heard above the banging, bellowing sounds that came from somewhere close, apparently outside the cabin.

“Nay, lad, you’re not bound,” said the old woman, smiling in gentle amusement. “No, now lie still. You had a leg broke in two places and an arm practically twisted off and ribs smashed in. The bindings you feel are holding you together, young man.” Her smile changed to one of pride. “An invention of my husband, when he was younger. It’s the best we could do for you, without a catalyst to aid our Healer. Those splints hold the bones in place while they knit themselves back together.”

Joram lay back, confused, and suspicious, but too weary to either argue or fight. The incessant banging appeared now to be coming from inside his head. Seeing him wince, the old woman patted him.

“The sounds of the forge. You’ll get used to it, in time. I don’t hear it at all now, except when it stops. Likely you’ll work there, lad,” she added, rising to her feet. “You’re a strong one, I’ll wager, and used to hard work. I can tell from your callused hands. We can use a young man of your build and girth. But don’t worry about that now. I’ll get you a bite of broth, if you think you can stomach it.”

Joram nodded. The bandages itched. It hurt to move. But then he felt an arm beneath his head and a touch of something on his lips. Opening his eyes, he saw the old woman holding a bowl and an odd-looking implement in her hand. With this implement, she carried the broth from the bowl to his mouth. The taste was salty and delicious, filling his body with warmth. Eagerly, he gulped it down.

“There, that’s enough,” said the old woman, settling him back. “Your stomach’s not used to it, yet. You must try to sleep again.”

How could he sleep with that infernal noise?

“What is a forge?” he asked wearily.

“You’ll see, all in good time, Dark One,” she said, bending over him with another kind smile. As she did, Joram noticed an object hanging from a silver chain around her neck that had slipped from the bodice of her dress and now dangled down before his eyes. It was a pendant of some sort, Joram recognized, remembering Anja telling him about the glittering jewels the people wore in Merilon. But this was not a glittering jewel. It was a crude, hollowed-out circle, carved in wood, with nine thin spokes running through it.

Seeing Joram’s gaze upon the object, the old woman touched it with her hand, fondling it as proudly as the Empress might have fondled her rich jewelry.

“Where am I?” Joram asked drowsily, feeling as if he were back on that terrible journey and the water was once more sweeping him away.

“You are with those who practice the Ninth Mystery, those who would bring down death and destruction upon Thimhallan, according to some.” The old woman’s voice was sad, like the low murmur of the river. It came to him from a distance, muffled by the banging and bellowing sounds. Floating upon the water, he heard the old woman’s voice once again, whispering as the wind.

“We are the Coven of the Wheel.”

Saryorn’s Punishment

S
eventeen years had passed since Saryon had committed his heinous crime of reading forbidden books. Seventeen years had passed since he had been taken to Merilon. Seventeen years had passed since the death of the Prince. The people of Merilon and its small empire of surrounding city-states had just completed commemorating the holiday of that mournful occasion when Saryon was summoned once again to Bishop Vanya’s chambers in the Font.

The arrival of the summons, coming as it did on the dark anniversary, brought such dreadful and unhappy memories to Saryon that he could not help but accept it with some trepidation. He had, in fact, returned to the Font from his current home in the Abbey of Merilon expressly to avoid the holiday that reminded him not only of his shattered hopes and dreams and of the Empress’s bitter sorrow, but of the sorrow of others he had seen whose children had been born Dead.

Saryon always returned to the Font, if he could, during this time every year. He found comfort there, for no one at
the Font was allowed to ever refer to the death of the Prince, much less celebrate it as a memorial. Bishop Vanya had forbidden it, an occurrence that everyone thought odd.

“Old Vanya really detests this holiday,” remarked Deacon Dulchase to Saryon as the two walked the silent, peaceful corridors of their mountain fastness.

“I can’t say that I blame him,” Saryon replied, shaking his head with a sigh.

Dulchase snorted. Still a Deacon in his middle years, and knowing that he would undoubtedly die a Deacon, Dulchase had no compunction about speaking his mind—even in the Font where, it was said, the walls had ears, eyes,
and
mouths. Why he hadn’t been sent to the fields long ago was due strictly to the intervention of the now elderly Duke of Justar, in whose household he had been raised.

“Bah! Let the Empress have her fancy. It’s little enough, the Almin knows. You heard that Vanya tried to dissuade the Emperor from declaring the holiday?”

“No!” Saryon looked shocked.

Dulchase nodded, smug in his knowledge. He knew all the gossip of the court. “Vanya told the Emperor that it was sinful to remember one who had been born without Life, one who was obviously cursed.”