Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [159]
“He’s biding his time, that’s all,” Saryon said softly. “He has the people so firmly in his grip now that he can take what he wants.”
Joram did not answer; his gaze was fixed on the clay box, though he glanced impatiently at the hourglass now and then. Saryon, too, fell silent, his thoughts leading him places he would just as soon not wander. The silence grew so deep that he became aware of the difference in the sound of their breathing—his somewhat rapid and shallow as opposed to Joram’s deeper, more even breaths. He began to fancy he could hear the swishing of the sand falling through the neck of the glass.
The sands ran out. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Joram rose to his feet and reached for a hammer. Grasping it in his hands, he stood above the mold where it rested on the stone floor of the cavern, staring down at it.
“What about you?” Saryon asked suddenly. “Why did Andon show the books to you?”
Looking up at the catalyst, the dark eyes dark no longer but glowing as if their cold ore had been heated among the coals, Joram smiled—a smile of victory, triumph, a smile that touched his lips, if only with darkness. “He didn’t. Not the first time. Simkin did.”
Raising the hammer, Joram hit the clay box, shattering it at one blow. The firelight gleamed orange on his skin as he crouched over the dark object lying in the midst of broken clay and splintered wood. His hand shaking with eagerness, he cautiously reached out to pick it up.
“Careful, the heat …” warned Saryon, moving nearer to it, drawn by a fascination he refused to explain to himself or even to admit.
“It isn’t hot,” whispered Joram in awe, holding his hand above the object. “Come nearer, Saryon! Come look! See what we have created!” Forgetting his enmity in his excitement, he grasped the catalyst’s arm and dragged him closer.
What had he expected? Saryon wasn’t certain. There had been illustrations of swords in the ancient text—detailed drawings of gracefully curved blades, ornately carved handles, done with the loving remembrance of those who had once held these tools of darkness in their hands. Saryon was surprised he recalled the illustrations with such clarity, having told himself repeatedly that these were tools of darkness, instruments of Death. Yet now he realized, when he felt the pangs of disappointment, that he had been picturing them in his mind, secretly admiring them for their delicate efficiency. He had been eager—maybe as eager as the young man—to see if he couldn’t emulate this beauty.
They had failed. Recoiling, Saryon jerked his arm from Joram’s grasp. This thing that lay upon the stone floor was not beautiful. It was ugly. A tool of darkness, an instrument of Death, not a bright and shining blade of light.
It occurred to Saryon that centuries of craftsmanship had been behind the making of the swords portrayed in the ancient texts. Joram was a beginner, untrained, without skill, without knowledge, with no one to teach him. The sword he had fashioned might have been wielded a thousand years before by some savage, barbaric ancestor.
It was made of a solid mass of metal—hilt and blade together, possessing neither grace nor form. The blade was straight and almost indistinguishable from the hilt. A short, blunt-edged crosspiece separated the two. The hilt was slightly rounded, to (fit the hand. Joram had added a bulbous protrusion on the end in some attempt to weight it, Saryon having reasoned that this would be necessary in order to handle the weapon effectively
The weapon was crude and ugly. Saryon might have been able to deal logically with that. But there was something more horrifying about the sword, something devilish—the rounded knob on the