Triumph of the Darksword (25 page)

“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
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
Advisor
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
Advisor
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. I’ll 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, whoever’s next in line, have him report here to me in”—he glanced at his visitor—“half an hour,” he concluded coldly.

“Yes, 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. You 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
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 magician’s 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.

“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 to 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.

Menju’s strong hand closed over Boris’s wrist.

“Let us discuss this rash retreat you are planning,” the Sorcerer said pleasantly.

“Rash—”

“Yes, rash. Not only in terms of your future career in the military—I am not without influence as you well know—but in terms of your life 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 Sorcerer’s grip. The smile never left the magician’s face. A sound of crunching bone brought a gasp of pain from the Major.

“You are strong, but now I am stronger.” Menju’s hand continued to tighten on James Boris’s wrist. Furious, the Major grabbed the magician’s arm and tried with all his legendary strength to pry the man’s 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 Major’s 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
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 in 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 drains the magical energy from this world. Now it seems it has the capability of draining the physical energy used in our world as well.

“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
that’s
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’ll 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?”