Triumph of the Darksword (47 page)

H
uddled in the shadow of their broken city Gate, their meager possessions gathered around them in crude bundles, the last inhabitants of Merilon stood in line, waiting.

They waited in silence for the most part. Bereft of their magic, forced to walk upon the ground in bodies that felt clumsy and heavy and difficult to control without the grace of Life, the magi had little energy left to expend in speech. They had nothing to talk about that was not depressing and despairing anyway.

Occasionally a baby whimpered, and then could be heard the soft reassuring murmur of a mothers voice. And once three small brothers, too young to understand what was happening, began playing at war in the rubble-strewn street. Pelting each other with rocks and screaming in glee, their voices resounded shrill and unnerving in the lifeless streets. Others, standing or sitting in line, glanced at them in irritation, and their father stopped their play with a sharp word of
reprimand, his bitter tone flicking across their innocence, inflicting wounds they never forgot.

Silence fell, and the line of people settled back to grim waiting. Most tried to keep within the shadows of the wall, though the air was chill—especially for those of Merilon who had never known winter—the sun beat down upon them unmercifully. Accustomed as they were to the meek sun that had shone over Merilon decorously for centuries, this new and fiery sun frightened them. But though the bright sunlight was unbearable, the people glanced up in fear and apprehension whenever a shadow darkened the sky. Dreadful storms, the like of which had never been known in the world until now, periodically ravaged the land.

At intervals here and there along the line of people, strange humans with silver skin and metal heads stood guard, watching the magi closely. In the guards’ hands were metal devices which, the people of Merilon knew, fired a beam of light that could either cast one into the sleep of unconsciousness or the deeper, dreamless sleep of death. The magi were careful to keep their eyes averted from the strange humans or, if they did look at them, it was with swift, furtive glances of hatred and fear.

For their part, the strange humans—though attentive to their duty—did not appear overly nervous or ill at ease. These magi they were guarding were families, generally of the lower-and middle-class workers, and were not considered dangerous. A vast difference from the long line of black-robed warlocks who were being marched down the street. Their hoods cast aside, their faces grim and expressionless, they walked with heads bowed. The glint of steel manacles could be seen gleaming beneath the long sleeves of the tattered black robes. They moved with a shuffling step, their feet chained together at the ankles. The warlocks and witches were under heavy guard, the strange humans outnumbering them nearly two to one and watching each of them with a nervous intentness that quickly stopped the slightest movement of a hand.

The
Duuk-tsarith
prisoners were hustled rapidly out of the Gate, the waiting people of Merilon barely glancing at them as they passed by. Wrapped up in their own misery, the people of Merilon had little sympathy for the misery of others.

This same lack of interest applied to a person being carried out of the broken Gates on a stretcher. A heavy, rotund man, he was borne by six stout catalysts who sweated and staggered beneath their burden. Although gravely ill and unable to walk, the man was regally attired in his rich red robes of office, his miter carefully balanced on his head. He even managed to weakly raise his right hand, extending his blessing over the crowd as he passed. A few people bowed their heads or removed their hats, but for the most part they watched their Bishop leaving their city in mute despair.

A few university students, standing near the Gate, peered out into the plains, attempting to see what was happening; rumors having spread among the students that the warlocks were going to be exterminated. The captive, black-robed
Duuk-tsarith
were, however, loaded into the body of one of the silver creatures along with Bishop Vanya’s pathetic entourage. Seeing that the prisoners hadn’t been lined up and set on fire, the students—somewhat disappointed—lounged back against the crumbling, charred walls, muttering imprecations at the guards and whispering plans for rebellion that would never come to fruition.

The rest of the people of Merilon avoided looking out onto the wind-swept plains. It had become an all-too familiar sight in the past week—the gigantic silver-bodied creatures that the strange humans called “air ships” opening their maws, swallowing up thousands of people, then rising into the sky and disappearing into the heavens. It would be their turn to enter one of the creature’s bellies soon enough.

The people had been reassured, time and again, that they were not being taken to their deaths. They were being relocated, removed from a world that was now unsafe. They had even been able to talk—through some demonic means of the Dark Arts—with friends and relatives who had been carried off to this other. “brave, new world.” Still, they remained huddled inside their shattered city to the bitter end. Though few could bear looking on the wreckage of Merilon without tears blurring their vision, they sought desperately to cling to its memory as long as possible.

The street was empty following the Bishop’s departure, and the crowd began to stir around in anticipation of its being their turn to go; people gathering up their bundles or
hunting about for children. There was some comment, particularly among the watching students, when a figure was seen emerging from the silver creature and walking across the plains toward Merilon. The figure drew nearer, and the students—seeing that it was only a catalyst, a stooped, middle-aged man whose brown robes were too short for his height, showing his bony ankles—lost interest.

A strange silver-skinned human stopped the catalyst as he entered the Gate. The catalyst pointed to a man under heavy guard, a man being kept apart from the rest of the people. Like the
Duuk-tsarith
, this man’s hands were manacled. He was not dressed in black robes, however. He wore velvet and silk. But the clothes that had once been elegant and rich were now torn, dirty, and stained with blood.

The guard nodded and the catalyst entered the Gate, walking up to the man, who did not notice him. The prisoner’s head was bowed, he stared at the ground in despair so dark and bitter that the people standing in line looked at him with pity and respect, finding comfort in his presence, knowing that he shared their sorrow.

“Your Grace,” said the catalyst softly, coming up to stand beside him.

Raising his head, Prince Garald looked at the catalyst and a wan smile of recognition lightened his face. “Father Saryon I wondered where you had gone.” He glanced at the catalyst’s neatly bandaged head. “I feared perhaps your injury–”

“No, I am fine,” Saryon said, reaching up to touch the bandage and wincing slightly. “The pain comes and goes, but that is to be expected, so they tell me, with what they call a ‘concussion.’ I
have
been to the healing rooms in the ship, but it was to visit our young patient.”

“How is Mosiah?” Garald asked gravely, his smile disappearing.

“He is improving … finally,” Saryon said with a sigh. “I have been with him most of the night and we came very near losing him. But we finally persuaded him to take the treatment offered by the … the healers of their kind”—he gestured toward the strange humans—“since the
Theldara
have lost their power. Eventually, Mosiah listened to me. He accepted
their help at last, and he will live. I left him in the care of Lord and Lady Samuels to come tell you.”

Prince Garald’s face darkened. “I don’t blame Mosiah. I would not have taken their treatment,” he said with a bitter oath. “I would sooner have died!”

Angry tears filled his eyes. He shook his manacled hands, fists clenched, his wrists straining against his bonds. Seeing this, one of the guards raised his weapon and said something in a sharp voice that sounded inhuman and mechanical through the metal helm.

“I would sooner have died!” Garald repeated in a choked voice, glaring at the guard.

Saryon laid his hand upon the Prince’s arm, about to offer what words of comfort he could, when a stirring among the waiting crowd caught their attention and that of their guard as well.

Three figures walked down the ruined street of Merilon. Picking their way carefully among the rubble that littered the streets, they passed the still-smoldering, fire-blackened trees of the Grove, and approached the Gate. One of the three—a short-statured, muscular man in a plain, neat uniform—did not pay much attention to the wreckage, but regarded it with the grim face of one who has seen this kind of thing all too often. The two accompanying him, however, appeared genuinely moved and distressed by it.

One in particular—a golden-haired woman with a gentle, lovely face—gestured here and there, speaking to her companion in a low voice, shaking her head as though recalling happier times. The companion—a dark-haired man dressed in white robes, his right arm in a sling—bent close to hear her; the man’s face, though stern and dark, was marked by a grief the depths of which few could know or understand.

One person watching saw, one person understood. Saryon brushed his hand swiftly across his eyes.

The three people were accompanied by at least a dozen silver-skinned, weapon carrying humans, who kept their eyes and weapons trained on the crowd.

The silence of the people of Merilon broke. The crowd surged to its feet. Shaking their fists at the white-robed man, they screamed curses and threats. They threw rocks. People lunged out of line, trying to attack the man. The silver-skinned
humans closed around their commander and the man and the woman, while other guards shoved the worst offenders back against the wall or turned their stunning light beams on them, causing them to crumple to the ground. The most violent were taken into custody and hustled away to the makeshift guardhouse within what was left of the
Kan-Hanar’
s office.

The black-haired man in the white robes did not appear angry or frightened. He even stopped a guard from apprehending a young woman who had darted out of the crowd to spit upon him. His concern appeared to be for the golden-haired woman, for he put his arm around her and held her close, protectively. She was pale but composed and looked at the people with a sad sympathy, all the while appearing to speak words of comfort to the man.

The shouting and the rock-throwing continued as the three moved along the line of people standing near the Gate. The curses were bitter, the threats vile and ugly, and Prince Garald, his brows contracted in a frown, glanced at Father Saryon. The catalyst was pale and shaken.

“I am sorry you had to witness this, Father,” Garald said abruptly, his scowling gaze on the white-robed man. “But he shouldn’t have come. He brings it on himself.”

Saryon kept silent, knowing that nothing. He could say would alleviate the Prince’s bitter anger. His heart ached with sorrow—sorrow for the people, for Garald, for Joram.

Major Boris snapped a command and the guards began herding the people out of the Gate, marching them toward the waiting air ship. This distraction helped restore order, the people being forced to gather up their belongings. Slowly they filed out of the ruins of their city. All cast narrow-eyed glances at Joram as they left, shouting a final imprecation, shaking clenched fists.

Joram continued walking. Accompanied by Gwendolyn and Major Boris, surrounded by bodyguards, he was seemingly oblivious to the peoples screams of hatred, his face so cold it might have been carved of stone. But Saryon—who knew that face so well—saw the deep pain burning in the brown eyes, the jaw muscles clenched tight against it.

“If
he
is to travel with us, I refuse to go! You can do what you like to me!” Garald cried out harshly to the Major, as the three came near him.

Standing tall and straight, holding his manacled hands before him with a grimly noble air as if he wore bracelets of rare jewels instead of strong steel, the Prince cast Joram one dark look—a look so expressive of contempt, anger, and betrayal that it was far worse than the vilest curse and cut into Joram’s flesh more deeply than the sharpest rock.

Joram did not falter. He met Garald’s gaze unflinchingly, facing him with pride tempered only by sadness.

Watching the two, Saryon was reminded vividly of the time Garald and Joram had first met, when the Prince had mistaken the young man for a bandit and held him prisoner. There was the same pride in the set of Joram’s shoulders, the same air of nobility. But the fire of arrogance and defiance that had flared in the eyes of the boy was gone, leaving behind ashes of grief and sorrow.

The same memories might have stirred within Garald, or perhaps it was Joram’s steadfast, unfaltering gaze that met his without shame or apology, for the Prince was the first to avert his eyes. His face flushed, he looked out over the wrecked city of Merilon into the storm-ravaged lands beyond.

Major Boris spoke at some length in his own language. Joram listened, then turned to Garald to translate.

“Your Grace,” Joram began.

Garald sneered. “Not Your Grace!” he said bitingly. “Say ‘prisoner’ instead!”

“Your Grace—” Joram repeated, and now it was Garald who flinched, hearing in those two words a deep respect and a deeper sadness, sorrow over something precious lost, never to be regained. The Prince did not look at Joram, but continued staring off into the distance. His eyes blinked rapidly, however, and pressing his lips together, he swallowed the tears his pride would not permit him to show.

“—Major Boris extends his wish that you will consider yourself his guest aboard the transport,” Joram said. “He says it will be an honor to share his quarters with so brave and noble a soldier as yourself. He hopes that you will do him the favor of spending the long hours of the journey in teaching him more about
our
people—”

“Our
people?” Garald’s lip curled.

“—and our ways and customs so that he might better serve them when you arrive at your destination,” Joram said, ignoring the interruption.