Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [109]
I held up the Darksword and it was now the dragon’s turn to shield its eyes. The lids dropped, the white light was hooded. The dragon’s wings shivered, the false stars winked out. I could not see the sword for the darkness, yet its null-magic must have been piercing and deadly as daylight in the eyes of this creature of magic.
“Wrap it! Cover it!” the dragon cried in anger and in pain.
Hurriedly, I did so, shrouding the Darksword with the blanket.
Once the sword was concealed, the dragon again opened its eyes. Its loathing for me had increased tenfold, a thought that was not comforting.
“I will guard the Darksword,” the dragon said. “I have no choice. You are the master. But you must take it down to my cavern and there bury it under a cairn of rock so that no part of it is visible. I am hungry. I will go to hunt food now. But do not fear. I will return and I will do what you ask of me. You are the master.”
Spreading its wings, the dragon leapt from the rock and soared into the air. I lost sight of it immediately, for I could not tell what was night sky and what was the dragon.
But now my heart was lightened with hope. Carrying the Darksword, I entered the cave and made my way down to the very bottom, where I found the floor littered with shining black scales and bones. The dragon’s lair.
I placed the Darksword on the floor of the cavern, in a part far distant from what I took to be the dragon’s nest. I covered the sword with rocks, forming a large mound.
I had just finished when the dragon returned, entering through a back way, for it emerged suddenly into the cave. The body of a male centaur hung from its cruel teeth.
The dragon eyed the cairn, which was now illuminated with a pale, chill light.
“Leave,” it commanded, adding the single word, “Master,” in grudging tones.
I was glad to obey, for the smell of the blood of the freshly slaughtered centaur sickened me. I made my way back up to the world of true starlight. By the time I reached the cave opening, I was exhausted and could go no farther. I rested there until morning. Leaving behind the tinderbox and flint and the brand which I had carried in the tunnel, I returned home.
The Darksword was as safe as I could possibly make it. Many times I have wondered if it was still there, if the dragon was still guarding it, if the charm was still holding. Many times I was tempted to go to see for myself, but then a peaceful feeling would steal over me. Now was not the time.
It was the Almin, reassuring me.
And so I have not been back here since that day twenty years ago when I left the Darksword beneath the rock cairn with the Dragon of Night.
I would not have come back now, but the peaceful feeling is no longer in my heart. In its place is an urgency, a fear, which leads me to believe that it is the Almin’s will that the Darksword be recovered.
That it be given to Joram’s heir, to Joram’s daughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Have they truly found peace in death? Are they happy?”
“They will be, when you free them.”
JORAM AND GWENDOLYN; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD
I could not help but cast Mosiah a glance of triumph, hoping to impress upon him how thoroughly he had misjudged Saryon.
Mosiah appeared preoccupied, and did not notice. “You made one statement which I find curious, Father. You said that magic had vanished from Thimhallan. Yet Father Reuven gave me Life. The magic lives around us. I can feel it.”
Father Saryon regarded Mosiah with an expression of astonishment. “Well, certainly, my son. You were partly responsible for magic’s return. The raid upon the Well of Life . . .”
“Forgive him, Father,” Scylla interrupted. “He received a blow to the head during our fight with the thugs outside the East Road Gate. He has great gaps in his memory.