Forging the Darksword (32 page)

“I’m sure I don’t know why he would. Not to
you
peasants. Go ahead and laugh. I have merely to await the day of my vindication. This Saryon is after you, Dark One.”

“He looks in fairly bad shape. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing! ’Pon my honor. Is it my fault, Mosiah, that it is a cruel and vicious world out there? A world into which, I
daresay, our catalyst will not soon dare to venture by himself.”

Saryon awakened with a sneeze.

His head was clogged and aching, and he was afflicted with a sore, raw throat. Coughing, the catalyst huddled into his robes, afraid to open his eyes. He was lying in a bed, but where? In my own bed, in my cell in the Font, he told himself. When I open my eyes, that’s what I’ll see. This has all been a dream.

For several pleasant minutes he lay wrapped in his blankets, pretending. He even pictured all the old familiar objects in his room, his books, the tapestries he’d brought from Merlion, all would be there, just as it was.

Then he heard someone moving about. Sighing, Saryon opened his eyes.

He was in a small room, the likes of which he had never seen before. Pale sunlight filtering through a cracked window illuminated a scene the catalyst might have pictured existing Beyond. The walls of the room were not shaped of stone or of wood, but were made up of perfectly formed rectangles arranged one on top of the other. It had a most unnatural appearance and, looking at it, the catalyst shuddered. Everything in the room appeared unnatural, in fact, he noticed with growing horror as he propped himself up to look around. A table in the center had not been crafted lovingly from a single piece of wood, but was made up of several different pieces of wood brutally forced together. Several chairs were formed the same way, looking misshapen and fiendish. If Saryon had seen a human being walking about whose body had been made from the bodies of other dead humans, he could not have been more appalled. He imagined he could almost hear the wood screaming in agony.

But there was the sound again. Saryon peered uncertainly into the shadows of the small room.

“Hello?” he wheezed.

There was no reply. Puzzled, he lay back down again. He could have sworn he heard voices. Or had that been a dream? He’d had so many dreams lately, terrible dreams. Faeries and the most beautiful woman and a dreadful tree—

With another sneeze, he sat up in bed, groping about for something to wipe his streaming nose.

“I say, O Bruised and Battered Father, will this do?”

A bit of orange silk materialized out of the air, fluttering to lie on the blanket near Saryon’s hand. The catalyst drew back from it as though it had been a snake.

“Tis I. In the flesh, so to speak.”

Looking behind him, toward the sound of the voice, Saryon saw Simkin standing at the head of the bed. At least the catalyst supposed it was the young man who had “rescued” him in the Outland. Gone were the plain brown robes of a woods ranger, gone were the leaves of the faerie. A brocade coat of the most startling blue, combined with a paler blue waistcoat, covered a red silken blouse that glowed brighter than the watery sun. Green skintight breeches were buckled with red jewels at the knees, his legs were wrapped in red silken hose, while green frothy lace peeped out from everywhere—wrists, throat, waistcoat. His brown hair was sleek and shiny, his beard combed smooth.

“Admiring my ensemble?” asked Simkin, smoothing his curls. “I call it
Corpse Blue.
‘Dreadful name, Simkin,’ said the Countess Dupere. ‘I am aware of that,’ I replied with feeling, ‘but it was the first impression that came into my mind and things so
rarely
come into my mind at all that I thought I’d better latch hold of it, so to speak, and make it feel welcome.’”

Simkin sauntered over to stand beside Saryon as he talked. Gracefully lifting the orange silk scarf from the blanket, he handed it to the astounded catalyst with a flourish. “I know. The breeches. Never seen anything like them, I suppose? Latest fad at court. Quite the rage. I must say I’m fond of them. Chafe my legs, though …”

Another sneeze and a fit of coughing from the catalyst interrupted Simkin who, motioning a chair to come to his side, sat down upon it, crossing his legs so that he might better admire his hose.

“Feeling a bit rotten? Nasty cold you’ve caught. Must have been from when we tumbled into the river.”

“Where am I?” croaked Saryon. “What is this place?”

“I say, you’re positively froglike. And as for where you are, it’s where you wanted to be, of course. I was your guide,
after all.” Simkin lowered his voice. “You’re among the Technologists. I’ve brought you to their Coven.”

“How did I get here? What happened? What river?”

“Don’t you remember?” Simkin sounded hurt. “After I risked my life, changing into a tree and then leaping over the precipice, holding you in my branches—er, arms—as tenderly as a mum holds her child.”

“That was real?” Saryon peered blearily at Simkin through watery eyes. “Not … a nightdream?”

“I am cut to the quick!” Simkin sniffed, looking deeply wounded. “After everything I’ve done for you and you don’t remember. Why, you’re like a father to me …”

Shivering, Saryon pulled the blankets up around his neck. Closing his eyes, he blotted out everything, Simkin,
Corpse Blue
coats, the abysmal room, the voices he’d heard or dreamed. The young man prattled on, but Saryon ignored him, too sick to care. He almost dozed, but a horrifying feeling of falling came over him and, with a catch in his breath, he started awake again. Then he became aware of a sound in the distance, a sound that had seemed a thumping, rhythmic undercurrent to his nightdevils.

“What’s that?” he asked, coughing.

“What’s what?”

“That … noise … That banging ….”

The iron forge …

The iron forge. Saryon’s soul shrank within him. Vanya had been right. The Sorcerers of the Coven
had
relearned the ancient, banished art—the art of darkness that had nearly caused the destruction of the world. What kind of people were these who had lost their souls to the Ninth Mystery? They must be fiends, devils, and he was alone among them now. Alone, except for Simkin. Who was Simkin? What was he? If Saryon hadn’t dreamed the tree and the faeries, then perhaps the voices he had heard had been real, too, and that meant Simkin had betrayed him.
He’s been sent here after you, Joram.
There had been no frippery in the voice that said those words.
Is it my fault that it is a cruel and vicious world out there? A world into which, I daresay, our catalyst will not soon dare to venture by himself.
There was no green lace, no orange silk, no sleek, shining smile. Corpse Blue. As cold and cutting as the iron.

Joram knows who I am and why I am here, Saryon realized, shuddering. He will kill me. He has done murder before. But perhaps they won’t let him. They need a catalyst, after all. At least, that’s what Vanya said. Yet how can I help these fiends, these foul Sorcerers? Will I not be helping them further their dread art? Didn’t Vanya foresee that?

Saryon sat up in bed, struggling to breathe, his thoughts coming sluggishly through the cold in his head. I won’t! he determined. The first time this Joram and I are alone together, I will open a Corridor and return with him. Though he may be Dead, he and I together possess Life enough between us to effect the magic. I will take him back and rid myself of him, let Vanya do to him what he will. Then I will leave their Font and their spies, their lies and their pious, empty teachings. Perhaps I will return to my father’s house. It is empty, the Church owns it. I will shut myself up with my books ….

Saryon lay back down, tossing feverishly. He had the vague impression that Simkin had left the room, flying through the air like some gaudy, tropical bird, but he was too ill and too distraught to pay any attention.

The catalyst sank into a troubled sleep. A vision of a Sorcerer rose up before him, emerging from the flame and smoke of the iron forge—a man whose face was twisted by every evil passion, whose eyes burned red from having stared into the fire day after day, whose skin was coated with the foul soot of his black art. As Saryon stared in petrified fear, the Sorcerer drew near him. In his hand, he held a glowing rod of iron …

“Easy, Father. Do not be alarmed.”

Sitting up without any conscious remembrance of doing so, Saryon found himself trying desperately to throw off his blankets and escape from his bed. The bright glare of flame blinded him in the darkened room. He couldn’t see … He didn’t want to see …

“Father!” A hand on his shoulder shook him. “Father, wake up. You’re having a fever dream.”

Shuddering, Saryon came to himself. Sanity returned. He’d been dreaming again. Or had he? Blinking his eyes, he stared into the flame. The voice that spoke wasn’t Simkin s. It was older, deeper. The Sorcerer ….

As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Saryon saw the glowing rod of iron diminish into nothing but a flaming torch, held in the hand of an old man, whose wrinkled face peered at him benignly. The touch of the hand upon his shoulder was gentle. With a shivering sigh, Saryon sank back down onto his pillow. This was not a Sorcerer. Nothing but a servant, perhaps. Glancing about, he saw that the room was dark. Was it night, he wondered vaguely, or had the blackness of this evil place finally blotted out the light?

“There, that’s better, Father. The lad said you were restless. Lie back and relax. My wife is coming with the Healer—”

“Healer?” Saryon stared at the old man, puzzled. “You have a Healer?”

“A Druid of the
Mannanish
class, nothing more, I’m afraid. She is quite skilled in herb lore, however, having much knowledge that has been lost in the outside world. Such skills are not needed among the Druids, I suppose, with you catalysts to assist them in their work.”

Padding over to the far end of the room, the old man used the flame of the torch to start a fire in the grate, then doused the torch in a bucket of water. “Perhaps we will not need to rely upon the gifts of nature now since you are among us, Father,” the old man continued. Taking up what appeared to be a slender stick of wood, he thrust one end of it into the blaze, caused it to burn, and carried it over to the table, talking all the while about the Healer and her skill.

Lying back, Saryon followed the old man’s movements about the firelit cabin with a strange sense of euphoria, his mind only half attending to the conversation. Even the sight of the old man using the end of the flaming stick to set fire to the top of several tall, thick sticks that stood on crude pedestals did not disturb the catalyst’s strange sense of uncaring relaxation. He was rather startled to notice that the fire did not die out or immediately consume the sticks. A small flame remained burning steadily at the top of each, filling the room with a soft, glowing light.

“The
Mannanish
is a good woman, very dedicated to her calling. Her healing arts have saved the lives of more than one person in our settlement. But how many more could have lived if her powers of magic had been enhanced? You have no
Idea,” the old man said with a sigh, returning to his seat and smiling down at Saryon, “how long I have prayed to the Almin to send us a catalyst.”

“Pray to the Almin?” Saryon was confused for a moment, then the truth penetrated his slow-moving mind. “Ah, of course. “You’re not one of
them.”

“One of whom, Father?” the old man asked, his smile broadening slightly.

“The Sorcerers”—Saryon gestured outside, coughing—“these Technologists. Are you a slave?”

Reaching beneath the collar of his long gray robes, the old man brought forth a strange-looking pendant attached to a finely wrought golden chain that hung about his neck. Made of wood, the pendant was carved into the shape of a hollowed-out circle connected by nine spokes.

“Father,” said the old man simply, a look of pride coming into his wrinkled face, “I am Andon, their leader.”

“Steady, Father. That’s right. Lean on my arm. This is your first day out. We don’t want to overdo it.”

Walking slowly beside the old man, his hand on Andon’s arm, Saryon blinked in the bright sunshine as he gratefully drew in a breath of fresh air, fragrant with the smells of late summer.

“Your adventures must have been quite terrifying,” Andon continued as they proceeded slowly out of the cabin’s small yard and into the dirt road that ran through the settlement. Noting the stares of the villagers, the old man acknowledged them with a nod of his head. No one spoke to them, however, although many regarded the catalyst with unabashed curiosity. Their respect and veneration for the old man was obvious, however, and they did not disturb them.

So these are Dark Sorcerers, Saryon thought. Faces of twisted evil passions? Faces of young mothers, nursing small babies. Red, glowing eyes? Tired, weary, work-worn eyes. Chants to the powers of darkness? The laughter of children, playing in the street. The only difference that he saw between these people and those in the village of Walren, or even between these people and those in Merilon, was that these people used little or no magic. Forced to conserve Life since they had no catalysts to replenish it for them, the Sorcerers
walked, trudging through the mud of the refuse-strewn street, wearing soft, leather boots.

Saryon’s gaze went to a group of men working busily, shaping a dwelling place. But these were not magi of the
Pron-alban
, lovingly drawing the stone up out of the earth, skillfully molding it with their magical spells. These men used their hands, stacking the rectangular blocks of unnatural stone one on top of the other. Even the stones themselves were made by the hands of men, so the old man said. Clay put into molds and baked in the sun. Pausing a moment, Saryon watched in grim fascination as the men placed the stone in neat and orderly rows, joining them together with some sort of adhesive substance that they spread between them. But this was not the only use of Technology. Everywhere he looked, in fact, he was confronted with the Dark Arts.

None were more in evidence than the symbol of the coven itself, the pendant the old man wore around his neck—the wheel. Small wheels caused laden carts to roll across the ground, a huge wheel stole Life from the river, using it—so Andon said—to run other wheels inside a brick building. These wheels caused great stones to rub together, grinding wheat into flour. Marks of the Sorcerers were even carved into the land itself.