Triumph of the Darksword (16 page)

I
t was all so quiet. Garald, stepping cautiously from the Corridor, wondered briefly if the
Thon-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
Duuk-tsarith
, 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 Sharakan’s
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.

Merilon’s
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 Board’s 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 lives out there…. Nothing…

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-tsarith
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 Garald’s eye. Ignoring Radisovik’s 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 a young 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 mother’s grasp.

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 man’s body—had all been burned away.

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

“Theldara
, 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
could
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 Masters.
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. “Yes,” 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.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Radisovik. “To the east.”

The Cardinal’s tight, constrained manner of speaking caused Garald to glance up at him quickly. The Cardinal’s 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-tsarith
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 Prince 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 Joram’s death, Garald had wondered deep within himself if
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-tsarith
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.

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-tsarith
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-tsarith
, “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-tsarith
, the giant would be a valuable ally in case of attack.

“Excellent idea,” Garald said finally. “Do what you must.”

But the
Duuk-tsarith
had already gone into action. Leaving his companion to guard their charges, the warlock—who was about one-tenth the giants 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 man’s body …