Triumph of the Darksword (9 page)

“You know, my dear Mosiah,” he said, staring into nothing with casual intensity, “there’s one thing that appears to me to be of the utmost importance and no one will listen to me.”

“What’s that?” Mosiah asked moodily, thinking about the storm on the Borderland.

“I kept trying to tell Garald, but he’s so hungry for war he refuses to eat anything else that’s set before him. Xavier knows, and he’s afraid. That’s why he kept trying to take the sword. Vanya knows, that’s why he had the stroke. The late and unlamented Emperor—Joram’s real father—knew, that’s why he vanished. Joram didn’t flee into Beyond because he was trying to escape the
Duuk-tsarith.
He didn’t need to.”

“Why? What do you mean?” Mosiah looked up apprehensively, the cold fear creeping over him again.

“Joram had. The Darksword…. Joram was winning …”

F
earful that Prince Xavier had. The Darksword and hoping to strike before the warlock learned to use its full powers, Garald accelerated his country’s preparations for war. The catalysts and warlocks began their drills early in the morning and did not end until far late into the evening; many so exhausted that they slept where they collapsed on the floor of the War Room.

The forge of the Sorcerers glared into the night with bright eyes; the gnashing of its metal teeth and the breath of its bellows made it seem as though a monster had been captured and chained up in the center of the city. The Sorcerers as well as the warlocks were learning to work with catalysts; having had only one—Saryon—in the last dark years of their history. Combining magic and Technology, they were able to construct their weapons easier and faster—a fact that not all took as a blessing.

Finally, Garald deemed his city-state ready for war. In a formal, centuries-old ceremony that involved the donning of
red robes and odd-looking hats (a source of considerable suppressed merriment and speculation among the nobility for no one remembered where the hats had come from or why), Prince Garald and the high ranking of the land came before their King, read the grievances against Merilon, and demanded war.

The King agreed, of course. There was a grand party that night in Sharakan and then everybody prepared for the next step—the Challenge.

There were strict rules of warfare in Thimhallan, dating back to the time when the people first came to this world. It was hoped by those early residents that a people driven from their birthworld by prejudice and violence could have lived in peace in this new one. Such was not human nature, however, as the wisest of the new inhabitants knew. Therefore they set down Rules of War that had been strictly followed and obeyed (for the most part) throughout the centuries, the exception being the destructive Iron Wars.

It was due to the breaking of these very Rules that the Sorcerers had been driven from the land. According to the catalysts (who maintained the histories), the Sorcerers slipped the leash held by their masters—the War Masters—and attempted to take over the world by force. Refusing to accept the outcome on the Field of Glory—the outcome decided by War Masters utilizing the Gameboard—the Sorcerers brought real, deadly war to the land. Prince Garald’s use of Sorcerers in this war, therefore, was raising cries of outrage throughout Thimhallan, despite the fact that the Prince patiently reassured his allies (and his enemy) that he had them under complete control.

The Rules of War as drawn up by the ancients were rather like the rules of dueling—considered a civilized means of settling disputes between men. The affronted party aired his grievances publicly, then issued the Challenge—tantamount to tossing a glove in the face of ones enemy. There were two responses to the Challenge. It could be Taken Up—which meant war—or the party so challenged could issue an Apology, in which case the city-state then negotiated terms for surrender. There was no fear of an Apology in this instance; plans for war were being made in Merilon as well as Sharakan.

There are advantages and disadvantages to being the Challenger as opposed to the Defender. If the Challenge is impressive, the Challenger is considered to have gained the psychological upper hand. In return, the Defender is allowed to choose his position on the Field of Glory and is granted the opening move on the Gameboard.

The long-awaited day of the Challenge finally arrived. All Sharakan had been up throughout the night in preparation for the event, which was to begin at midday with the ceremonial battle between the
Thon-li—
the Corridor Masters—and the forces of the Prince.

In the ancient days, this battle had been a real one—fought between the War Masters and those who built the Corridors, the Diviners. But those magi gifted with divining the future had been wiped out during the Iron Wars, leaving only the catalysts that had assisted them—the
Thon-li—
to maintain the pathways by which the people of Thimhallan traveled through time and space.

Since the
Thon-li
were merely catalysts, with little magical Life of their own, the War Masters—the most powerful magi in Thimhallan—could have literally blown them off the face of the earth. This would have meant destruction of the transportation system in Thimhallan, however, something not even to be considered. Therefore, the
Thon-li
were permitted by the Rules of War to surrender after a token resistance, opening the Corridors to the armies of Sharakan.

Prince Garald put on a grand show for his people that day. The battle began with the stirring music of trumpet and drum, calling the people to war. Out they came, dressed in their best clothes, clutching wildly excited children by the hand. Surging into the streets, the citizens gathered around certain predesignated locations throughout the city where the War Masters and their catalysts, dressed in accoutrements of war—red robes for the magi and gray with red trim for the catalysts—stood waiting.

The martial music ceased. Silence fell. The crowd held its breath. Then the call of a single trumpet, blown by a bugler standing beside Prince Garald upon the palace battlements, rang through the clear, crisp air (the
Sif-Hanar
outdid themselves that day). At this signal, Prince Garald raised his voice in a shout that was echoed by his War Masters around the
city, demanding in the name of the King of Sharakan that the
Thon-li
open the Corridors.

One by one, Corridors opened, forming gaping voids in the center of the streets. Standing within them were the
Thon-li
, the Corridor Masters.

“In the name of the King of Sharakan and his loyal subjects, we call upon you to grant us safe passage to the city-state of Merilon, that we may issue the Challenge to war,” cried Prince Garald to the
Thon-li
who faced him. The demand was repeated by all the War Masters throughout the city to all the
Thon-li
who faced them.

“In the name of the Almin, who watches over the peace of this world, we refuse,” answered the
Thon-li
to the Prince in return. A high-ranking member of the catalysts and chosen especially for this important part, she threw herself into her role, glaring at Garald as fiercely as if he truly meant to take her post by storm.

Though somewhat taken back by the catalyst’s vehement defiance, the Prince signaled for the trumpet to sound again. His War Masters came forward, their catalysts at their sides, and the “battle” began.

The catalysts opened conduits to their wizards; the Life that they gathered into their bodies arcing into that of the magi with a blue light. Suffused with magic, the War Masters cast their spells. Balls of fire exploded in the skies. Cyclones appeared out of clear air, spinning in the palms of the warlocks who threatened to unleash their fury upon the
Thon-li.
Lightning crackled from fingertips, fiery hail sizzled on the street. The children shrieked in excitement, and one young War Master was so carried away by the spectacle that he accidentally caused a crack to open in the earth, frightening the populace as much or more than the
Thon-li.

Fortunately, the Corridor Masters surrendered immediately at this show of power, even the fierce catalyst who continued to glower at Prince Garald with wounded dignity. Stepping out of her Corridor, she held her hands in front of her, wrists together. The other
Thon-li
followed her example. The War Masters bound the wrists of the catalysts loosely with silken cord. The trumpet rang out in victory and a great cheer went up from the populace.

Then the
Thon-li
returned to their Corridors, the citizens returned to their homes, and the Prince and his forces set forth to issue the Challenge.

What the people of Sharakan did not know was that their Prince wasn’t playing a grand game. Garald believed secretly—and he had not shared this with anyone, either his father or the Cardinal, although he was fairly certain Radisovik suspected—that Xavier would not be content with winning on the Gameboard if he won. He would certainly not be content if he lost. No matter what the outcome on the Field of Glory, Prince Garald believed that once again war—true war—had come to the world.

His heart swelled with excitement. Dreams of deeds of bravery done on the field of battle, of the glories of victory won over an evil foe set his blood burning. Looking into the heavens, the Prince gave fervent thanks to the Almin that he had been born to right the wrongs of this world.

T
he Crystal Palace of Merilon outshone the sun in the early morning dawn. This was not a difficult task. Yesterday, the
Sif-Hanar
had spent most of the day practicing their war spells against the shining orb—covering it with black clouds, turning it ghastly colors, once attempting to obliterate it from the sky completely. Today the sun edged up over the mountains, appearing pale and sulky, seeming ready to set again in an instant if it caught sight of the weather magi.

The pallid sun couldn’t hold a candle, therefore, to the brilliance of the Crystal Palace, whose lights had been burning all night. At dawn, the tapestries covering the transparent walls of every room in the palace were rolled up, curtains were opened, shades and shutters raised. Magical light spilled out, beaming down upon the city below.

In the days of the old Emperor and his enchanting Empress, this brilliant splendor would have meant night-long revelry and merriment. In the old days, beautiful women and
elegant men would have thronged the palace, filling the rooms with laughter and perfume. In these days of the new Emperor, the brightly burning lights meant night-long plotting and planning. In these days, red-robed warlocks lurked about the halls, filling the rooms with grim discussion and the faint smell of sulphur.

On this morning, the morning of the Challenge, Emperor Xavier hovered in the air near the transparent wall of his study in the Crystal Palace, staring down at the city below his feet. To all appearances, he was waiting impatiently for his enemy. A glance showed him his War Masters at their posts, observing from vantage points both within the Crystal Palace and without Xavier and his ministers planned to be able to gauge Sharakan’s military strength by the Challenge. In particular they expected to get some hint of how Garald intended to utilize the Dark Arts of the Sorcerers in his battle formations. Not that Xavier expected Prince Garald to reveal all his secrets. No, the Prince was far too intelligent a military strategist for that. Still, Garald would have to exhibit some of his military might in order for his Challenge to be taken seriously and, according to old custom, “frighten” Merilon into surrender.

Xavier knew, of course, from his spies in Sharakan, that the Sorcerers had taken up residency in that city and that they were working day and night developing weapons. But his spies had been unable to penetrate that closed society, whose years of persecution made them wary of strangers. The DKarn-Duuk had no idea what weapons they were developing and how many. Worst of all—as far as Xavier was concerned—he had no idea if the Sorcerers had discovered how to use darkstone or whether the Darksword—forged by Joram—was the only weapon in existence made of the magic-absorbing ore.