Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [64]
“It was my own stupidity,” Garald said ruefully. “I could have been killed by my own blade!” He glared at the Darksword. “Why didn’t you work?” he asked, shaking it.
The answer came to Saryon’s mind, but — mathematician that he was — he had to prove it first to his own satisfaction before he revealed it.
“Give the sword back to Joram, milord,” Saryon instructed. “You take your sword and attack him, using the same spell.”
Garald frowned. “It is a powerful spell, as you’ve seen. I could kill him.”
“You won’t,” said Joram calmly.
“I agreed, milord,” added Saryon. “Please. I think you will be interested in the result.”
“Very well,” Garald said, though with obvious reluctance. He obediently switched blades, and he and Joram took their positions.
“Hawk, strike,” Garald commanded.
Instantly, his silver blade flashed in the sunlight, soaring like the bird it was named for toward its victim. Joram defended himself with the Darksword, his movements unskilled and clumsy compared to those of the Princes magically enhanced weapon. The silver blade skimmed toward the young man’s heart, only to be deflected at the last moment and turned aside as though it had hit an iron shield.
“Aahh!” cried Garald. Lowering his weapon, he rubbed his arm that tingled from the jarring blow. He looked over at Saryon. “I take it that’s what you wanted me to see. All right, why does it work for him? Does it know its owner?”
“Not at all, milord,” answered the catalyst, pleased at the success of his experiment. “Now I understand a statement I read in one of the ancient texts. It said that the swords made of darkstone were wielded by legions of the dead. I discounted it, thinking this a fanciful legend of ghosts and spirits. But now I see the Sorcerers of old meant legions of men who — like Joram — are Dead. It has to be used by someone possessing little or no magic of his own that would work against the energy of the sword.”
“Fascinating,” said Garald, regarding the weapon with awe. “This allows those who might otherwise be worse than useless in a battle against wizards to become an effective fighting force.”
“And it requires a minimum of training, milord,” said Saryon, growing more interested in his subject. His thoughts raced like quicksilver. “Unlike warlocks — whose training begins practically from birth — warriors armed with darkstone weapons can be taught to use them in a matter of weeks. Then, too, they require no catalysts —” Saryon stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much.
But Garald was quick to catch his meaning.
“No, you’re wrong!” he cried in excitement. “I mean yes, you are right — to an extent. Darkstone weapons don’t require catalysts to work. But you spoke of giving the sword Life when it was forged, Saryon. What if you gave it Life now? Wouldn’t that enhance its powers?”
“It must!” Joram said eagerly. “Let’s try.”
“Yes!” agreed Garald, raising his sword again.
“No!” said Saryon.
The two turned, staring at him — Joram angry, Garald disappointed.
“Father, I know this is difficult for you —” he began to argue tactfully.
“No,” Saryon repeated in subdued, hollow tones. “No, Your Grace. Anything else you ask of me, I would grant you, if I could. But I will not do that, ever again.”
“A vow to your god?” Joram could not help but ask bitterly.
“A vow to myself,” Saryon replied in a low voice.
“Oh, for the love of —” Joram began, but Garald cut in smoothly.
“It was a matter of curiosity, nothing more,” the Prince said, shrugging. He turned to Joram. “Certainly, it should not affect your use of the sword. You could not count upon a catalyst being with you when you might be called upon to wield it. Come, let us try it against more powerful magic. I will cast a spell of shielding around myself and we will see if you can penetrate it. Father, if you could grant me