Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [21]
Making up his mind, the young man walked swiftly to the cot. Kneeling beside it, he inserted his hands beneath the mattress. Gently, almost reverently, he pulled out the bundle of rags.
Leaning back upon his heels, Mosiah unwrapped the sword and stared at it. The young man’s face — the open, honest face of a Field Magus — twisted in repugnance.
“What did I tell you?” Simkin said, rolling over on the cot and propping himself up on one elbow so that he could see. “Beastly looking piece of work, isn’t it? I personally wouldn’t be caught dead carrying it, though I don’t suppose that bothers Joram. Get it,” he persisted playfully when Mosiah did not laugh. “Caught Dead?”
Mosiah ignored him. Both fascinated and repulsed, he stared at the sword, unable to withdraw his gaze. It was, in truth, a crude and ugly weapon. Once, long ago, the Sorcerers had made swords of shining beauty and graceful design, with flashing steel blades and gold and silver hilts. Magical swords, they were endowed as well with various properties laid on them by rune and spell. But all swords had been banished in Thimhallan following the Iron Wars. Weapons of evil, they were called by the catalysts, demonic creations of the Dark Art of Technology. The making of steel swords passed out of knowledge. The only swords Joram had seen were pictured in the books he found. And although the young man had some skill in metal work, he was not skilled enough, nor did he have the time or the patience, to craft a weapon such as men of ancient days had carried with pride.
The Darksword that Mosiah held in his hands was made of darkstone, an ore that is black and unlovely. Given life in the fires of the forge, and granted magical Life by the reluctant catalyst Saryon, the Darksword was nothing more than a shaft of metal beaten and pounded and clumsily sharpened by Joram’s inexperienced hand. He had no knowledge of how to craft hilt and blade and then join the two together. The sword was made out of one piece of metal and — as Simkin said — it did resemble a human being. The hilt was separated from the blade by a crosspiece that looked like two arms outstretched. Joram had added the bulbous-shaped head at the hilt in an attempt to weight it, causing it to look very much like the body of man turned to stone. Mosiah was about to slide the ugly and unnerving object back beneath the mattress when the door slammed open.
“Put that down!” came a harsh voice.
Startled, Mosiah nearly dropped the weapon.
“Joram!” he said guiltily, turning around. “I was just looking —”
“I said put it down,” Joram said gruffly, kicking the door shut behind him. Crossing the cell in a bound, he snatched the sword from Mosiah’s unresisting hands. “Don’t ever touch it again,” he said, glaring at his friend.
“Don’t worry,” muttered Mosiah, standing up and wiping his hands on his leather breeches as if to wipe off the touch of the metal, “I won’t. Ever!” he added feelingly. Giving Joram a dark glance, Mosiah turned from him and went to stare moodily out the window.
The silence of the streets flowed into the cell, settling over them all like an unseen fog. Joram thrust the weapon into a leather sling he had fashioned in a crude imitation of the sword sheaths he had seen in the books. Casting a sideways glance at Mosiah, Joram started to say something, then checked it. He pulled a bag from beneath his bed and began to fill it with his few clothes and what little food there was in the cell. Mosiah heard him but did not look around. Even Simkin was quiet. Contemplating his shoes, he was in the act of changing one to red and the other to purple when there came a soft knock and the door opened.
Saryon stepped inside. No one spoke. The catalyst looked from the flushed, angry face of Joram to the pale face of Mosiah, sighed, and carefully shut the door behind him.
“They’ve found the body,” he reported in low