Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [20]
“What does the sword look like?” Mosiah managed to insert the sentence as Simkin paused for breath.
“Sword?” Simkin looked at him vaguely. “Oh, yes. Joram’s sword, the ‘Darksword,’ as he calls it. Quite aptly, too, I might add. What does it look like?” The young man pondered, first sending the looking glass away with a snap of his fingers. “Let me think. By the way, do you like my ensemble? I prefer it to the black. I call it Blood and Gore in honor of the dear departed.”
Mosiah glanced at the blood-red breeches, purple coat, and red satin vest in disgust and nodded.
Adjusting the lace at his wrist — lace that was splotched with red spots, for “that splatter effect” —- Simkin sat down upon the cot in the prison house, crossing his well-shaped legs to show off his purple hose to their best advantage.
“The sword,” he continued, “looks like a man.”
“No!” Mosiah scoffed.
“Yes, Almin’s truth,” Simkin averred, offended. “A man of iron. A skinny man of iron, mind you, but a man nonetheless. Like so …” Rising to his feet, Simkin stood stiffly upright, his ankles together, his arms thrown straight out to either side. “My neck is the handle,” he said, stretching his scrawny throat to its utmost. “It has a knob o. top for a head.”
“You’re the one with a knob for a head!” Mosiah snorted.
“Take a look at it, if you don’t believe me,” Simkin said, collapsing suddenly upon the cot. He yawned. “It’s under the mattress, wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes.”
Mosiah’s gaze went to the bed, his hands twitched. “No, I couldn’t,” he said after a moment.
“Suit yourself.” Simkin shrugged. “I wonder if they’ve discovered the body yet. And do you think this is too gaudy for the funeral?”
“What powers did you say the Darksword had?” Mosiah asked, his eyes fixed in fascination upon the bed. Slowly he rose to his feet, crossed the room, and came to stand beside the cot, though he did not venture to touch the mattress. “What did it do to Blachloch?”
“Let me recall,” Simkin said languidly, lying down on the cot and putting his arms underneath his head. Staring at his shoes, he frowned and experimentally changed their color from red to purple. “You must realize it was a bit difficult for me to see, situated as I was, hanging from the wall by one wretched nail. I thought about becoming a bucket, they have such better vision than tongs, you know. When I’m tongs, one eye generally gets located on each side. It gives a wide range, but I can’t see a thing in the middle. Buckets, on the other hand —”
“Oh, just get on with it!” Mosiah snapped impatiently.
Simkin sniffed and changed his shoes back to red again. “Our Hated and Ruthless Leader was casting a Green Venom spell upon our friend — Ever see that spell in action, by the way?” Simkin asked casually. “Does nasty things to your nervous system. Paralyzes, causes excruciating pain —”
“Poor Joram,” said Mosiah softly.
“Yes, poor Joram,” Simkin repeated slowly. “He was about done for, Mosiah.” The bantering voice was suddenly serious. “I really thought it was all over. Then I noticed the strangest thing. The green venomous light that the spell casts over one’s body glowed around Joram everywhere except his hands, where he was holding the Darksword. And, slowly, the glow began to fade from his arms, and was fading from the rest of his body, as well, when our jolly old friend, the catalyst, stepped in and sucked the Life from the warlock. Good thing, too. Most timely. Even though the Darksword was having some sort of reversing effect on Blachloch’s spell, it obviously wasn’t going to act fast enough to save Joram from being turned into a quivering mass of green pudding.”
“So it somehow nullifies the magic,” Mosiah said wonderingly. He stared at the bed in longing, irresolute. Glancing out the barred window, he shivered in the chill air. Though it was midafternoon, it had grown no warmer. The weak sun had disappeared completely beneath sullen, gray clouds. It looked and felt as if the