Triumph of the Darksword (5 page)

“Why? What can it matter?” Mosiah groaned. “You know it!”

“Humor me,” the witch said and spoke another word. The thorns grew another fraction of an inch.

“Mosiah!” He tossed his head in agony. “Mosiah! Damn it! Mosiah, Mosiah, Mosiah.

Then their plan penetrated the haze of pain. Mosiah choked, trying to swallow his words. Watching in horror, he saw the witch become Mosiah. Her face—his face. Her clothes—his clothes. Her voice—his voice.

“What do we do with him?” the warlock asked in subdued tones.

“Throw him in the Corridor and send him to the Outland,” the witch—now Mosiah—said, rising to her feet.

“No!”

Mosiah tried to fight the warlocks strong hands that dragged him to his feet, but the tiniest movement drove the thorns into his body and he slumped over with an anguished cry. “Joram!” he yelled desperately as he
saw
the dark void
of the Corridor open within the foliage. “Joram!” he shouted, hoping his friend would hear, yet knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. “Run! It’s a trap! Run!”

The warlock thrust him into the Corridor. It began to squeeze shut, pressing in on him. The thorns stabbed his flesh, his blood flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of the witch—now himself—watching him, her face—his face—expressionless.

Then, she spread her hands.

“It’s all the rage,” he saw himself say.

What happened after that, Mosiah couldn’t be certain. Mercifully, he lost consciousness in the Corridor. When he came to, days later, he was in the Sorcerer’s crude town in the Outland. Andon, their elderly, gentle leader, was with him as was a
Theldara—
a healer—and a catalyst who had been sent to the Sorcerers’s village by Prince Garald himself. Mosiah begged to know the fate of his friends, but none in the secluded village could—or would—tell him.

The following weeks were ones of pain when he was awake and terrible dreams when he sank into the magically induced sleep. Then he heard, in a whispered conversation not intended for his ears, what had happened to Joram and Father Saryon. He heard about the catalyst’s tragic sacrifice, about Joram’s voluntary walk into Beyond.

Mosiah himself drew near death. The
Theldara
tried everything but told Andon that the young man’s magical Life was not working to save him. Mosiah didn’t care. Dying was easier than living with the pain.

One day Andon told him he had visitors, two people who had been brought to the village by orders of Prince Garald.

Mosiah couldn’t imagine who they could be and he didn’t much care. And then his mother’s arms were around him, her tears bathing his wounds. His father’s voice was in his ears. Gently, tenderly, his parents’ rough, work-worn hands led their son back to life.

The memories of his pain and his despair overwhelmed Mosiah and he felt as though the Corridor were smothering him. Fortunately, the journey was short. The feeling of panic subsided as the Corridor gaped open. But the terror was replaced by feelings more profound yet no less painful—feelings
of sorrow and of grief. Stepping from the Corridor, Mosiah gritted his teeth, nerving himself. Although he had never visited the Borderlands, he had familiarized himself with them and he knew what to expect.

A shoreline of fine white sand, dotted here and there with patches of tall grass that eventually, near the shifting mists of gray leading to Beyond, died out completely, leaving a beachline as stark and bare as a picked bone. Upon this beach would stand the Watchers and here, as well, would be Saryon—his flesh transformed to stone.

“The sight is not dreadful as you might expect,” Mosiah had heard Prince Garald tell a group gathered around him during a party one evening not long ago. “There is a look of peace on the man’s stone face that makes one almost envious of him, for it is a peace that no living man can know.”

Mosiah was skeptical. He hoped it was true, he hoped Saryon had found the faith the priest had lost, but he didn’t believe it. Radisovik had said Garald had one fault—he gloried in warfare. That was true, and if he had another it was that he tended to see in people and events what he wanted to see, not necessarily what was there.

Saryon’s stone form would be staring perpetually into Beyond, the shifting, ever-changing mists of the magical Border that turned in upon themselves in endless swirls and whorls.

“It is a calm and peaceful place, the Borderland,” Garald told the crowd in a grim voice. “To look at it, no one would ever suspect the tragedies that take place upon that Shore of Death.”

Calm….

Peaceful….

Stepping from the Corridor onto the sand, Mosiah was knocked off his feet by a tremendous gust of wind.

He couldn’t see. Sand stung his face and made it nearly impossible to open his eyes. The force of the wind was unbelievable, like nothing he had ever seen before in his life and he had once experienced a thunderstorm conjured up by two warring groups of
Sif-Hanar.
He struggled to stand, but it was a losing battle and he would have been tossed along the beach like the uprooted plants that were flying past, entangling
themselves in his legs, had not a strong hand reached out and grasped his own.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to endure much more of this, Mosiah quickly activated a magical bubble that surrounded him and the person who had saved him. Instantly, the protective shell enveloped both of them, shutting out the wind, encasing them in quiet and calm.

Rubbing the sand out of his eyes, Mosiah blinked, trying to see who had come to his rescue, wondering what anyone else would be doing on the Border. Catching sight of a flutter of orange silk, his heart sank.

“I say, old chap,” came an all too familiar voice, “thanks awfully. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that shield myself, except I was having a rollicking good time getting tumbled about like those jolly plant things that never take root but go bounding along the sand. And I’ve got a new style. I call it
Cyclone.
Do you like it?”

M
osiah glared in displeased astonishment at the figure standing next to him in the magical bubble.

“Simkin,” he mumbled, spitting sand out of his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, it’s Almin’s Day. I always come here on Almin’s Day. What did you say? This is Thursday? Well”—he shrugged—“what’s a day or so between friends.” Raising his arms, he exhibited his clothes. “What do you think?”

Mosiah glanced at the bearded young man in disgust. Everything Simkin wore—from his blue brocade coat to his purple silk vest to his shimmering green trousers—was inside out. Not only that, but he was wearing his undergarments on top of his clothes. His hair stood straight up on his head and his normally smooth beard stuck out in all directions.

“I think you look a fool, as always,” Mosiah muttered. “And if I’d known it was you I would have let you sail off until you smashed headfirst into the mountains!”

“It was I who saved
you
from sailing off, remember?” Simkin said languidly. “What a foul humor you’re in. Your face will freeze like that, I’ve warned you before. Puts me in mind of the corpse of the Duke of Tulkinghorn who didn’t die but just nastied away. I can’t think
what
you have against me, dear boy.” Conjuring a mirror, Simkin gazed at himself with pleasure, ruffling up his beard to heighten the effect.

“Oh, can’t you!” Mosiah snapped viciously. “There were only a few people who knew we were to meet in the Grove that night—myself, Joram, Saryon, you, and, as it turns out, the
Duuk-tsarith!
I suppose that’s just the sheerest coincidence?”

Lowering the mirror, Simkin stared at Mosiah incredulously. “I can’t believe it!” he cried in tragic tones. “All this time you have suspected me of betrayal? Me?” Dashing the mirror to the sand, Simkin clutched at his heart. “Break! Break!” He moaned “Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would wilt.”

“Stop it, Simkin,” Mosiah said coldly, barely able to control an urge to grab the young man around the neck and choke him. “Your games aren’t funny anymore.”

Glancing at Mosiah from beneath his fluttering eyelids, Simkin suddenly straightened, smoothed his hair, and changed his clothes to a very proper and conservative ensemble of gray silk with white lace, pearl buttons, and a tasteful mauve cravat. Adjusting the lace at his wrist, he said casually, “I had no idea you were harboring this resentment. You should have spoken out earlier. Saryon was the traitor, as I’ve told you before. Surely Prince Garald has his sources for discovering the truth? Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t and I have,” Mosiah said, scowling. “And no one knows anything if there’s anything to know—”

“Oh, there is,” inserted Simkin.

Mosiah shook his head in exasperation. “As for the catalyst betraying us, I’ve heard that wild story you concocted about Saryon and Joram and I don’t believe it. Father Saryon would never have betrayed us and—”

“—I would?” Simkin finished calmly, smoothing his hair. With a wave of his hand, he pulled a bit of orange silk from the air and dabbed at his nose. “You’re right, of course,” he continued imperturbably. “I might have betrayed you, but
only if things got dull. As it turned out, I didn’t need to. You must admit, we had rather an exciting time of it back there in good old Merilon.”

“Bah!” Angrily turning his gaze from the primping Simkin, Mosiah peered out from the shelter of the shield into the flying sand and howling wind. “I didn’t know storms like this struck the Borderland. How long will it last?” he asked coldly, making it clear he was talking to Simkin only because he needed information. “And keep your answer brief!” he added bitterly.

“They don’t, and a long, long time,” replied Simkin.

“What?” Mosiah demanded irritably. “Say what you mean.”

“I did,” retorted Simkin, offended. “You told me to make it brief.”

“Well, maybe not that brief,” Mosiah amended, feeling more and more uneasy the longer he stayed here. Although it was nearly midday, it was almost dark as night and growing increasingly darker. Though protected by the shield, he could tell that the force of the wind was rising, not abating. It was costing him more and more of his Life energy to keep the magical bubble around them. He could feel his strength beginning to drain and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it in position much longer.

“Are you going to insult me anymore?” Simkin demanded loftily. “Because if you are, I won’t say a word.”

“No,” muttered Mosiah.

“And you’re sorry you accused me of treachery?”

Mosiah didn’t answer.

Simkin, placing his hands behind his back, gazed out into the raging wind. “I wonder how far one would get out there before being hurled into something large and solid like an oak….”

“All right, I’m sorry!” Mosiah said sullenly. “Now tell me what’s going on!”

“Very well.” Simkin sniffed. “They
never
have storms on the Borderland. Has to do with the magical boundaries or some such thing. And therefore as to how long this particular storm will last, I have a presentiment that it will last a long, long time. Much longer, I imagine, than any of us would care to consider.”

This last was spoken in low tones, Simkin’s face growing increasingly more solemn as he stared out the magical shield into the wind-driven sand.

“Can we walk in this thing?” Simkin asked suddenly. “Can you move
it
and us with it?”

“I suppose so,” Mosiah said reluctantly “Although it will take a lot of energy and I’m feeling pretty weak as it is—”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be here long,” Simkin interrupted “Head over in that direction.” He pointed.

“You know, you could help me keep this shield in place.” Mosiah said as they floundered through the sand. He had absolutely no idea where they were going, being completely unable to see anything.

“Couldn’t possibly,” Simkin said “Far too fatigued. Having your clothes blown off, then blown back on inside out and upside down takes a great deal out of one. It’s not far.”

“What isn’t?”

“The statue of the catalyst, of course. I thought that was what you came to see?”

“How did you know—? Oh, skip it,” Mosiah said tiredly, stumbling as the sand shifted out from beneath his feet. “You said you come here a lot Why? What do you do?”

“I keep the catalyst company, of course,” Simkin said, regarding Mosiah with a self-righteous air. “Something you are too busy to do. Just because the poor man’s been turned to stone doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings. Must get frightfully boring, standing there all day, staring out into nothing. Pigeons landing on your head, that sort of thing. Might be different if the pigeons were interesting. But they’re such wretched conversationalists. Then I should think their feet must tickle, don’t you?”

Mosiah slipped and fell. Reaching down, Simkin hauled him upright. “Not far,” the young man said reassuringly. “Almost there.”

“So, what do you … uh … talk about?” Mosiah asked, feeling unaccountably guilty. He knew that those sentenced to the Turning were, in actuality, still living, but he had never considered that it might be possible to talk to them or to provide them with some measure of human involvement.