Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [64]
“I think we should disrupt it,” the woman said.
“Against orders,” the man returned. “Someone might see the flash and raise the alarm. Remember, those damn Duuk-tsarith are around here, too.”
“I suppose you are right,” the woman agreed charily.
The two walked on, moving at a rapid pace up the highway toward the Font.
Eliza and I kept still, waiting until they were out of earshot and beyond. I hushed Eliza when she would have spoken, for I could see by the Technomancers’ swift and easy movement that they had some sort of night vision and I was afraid they might have technologies which enhanced their hearing, as well.
When they had disappeared, going down a dip in the highway, I moved cautiously to where I could get a better view. I guessed from their words what was going forward, but I needed to see it for myself.
Here and there across the hillside, figures, shining silver in the lambent light, formed a cordon around the Font, moving inexorably toward it, closing in.
“Who are they? What are they?” Eliza demanded.
“Evil,” I signed, and she needed no translation.
“They’ve come for the Darksword, haven’t they?” she asked fearfully.
I nodded and recalled the glowing listening devices in the living room.
“Would they ...” She had to pause to find the courage to speak. “Would they kill to get it?”
I nodded again, reluctantly.
“They won’t believe Papa when he says he doesn’t have the sword,” Eliza said, thinking through the scenario, as I was myself. “They’ll think he’s lying, trying to keep it from them. If we give it to them, perhaps they’ll leave us alone. We must take it back! We’ll use the shortcut.”
I agreed. I could see no other way. But it occurred to me that even taking the shortcut, burdened as we were with the heaVy sword and forced to keep to the shadows, we would arrive long after the Technomancers had stormed the building.
Simkin! Simkin could warn Joram, could tell him that we had the sword and we were bringing it back.
I turned to see the diaphanous figure floating over the highway. The words residual magic blew hot against my face, like a dry desert wind.
“No threat? Well, we’ll see about that!” cried Simkin. “Mer-lyn? Merlyn, where are you? Never around when you might be of the slightest use, of course. The old fool!” and with that, he was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Yow fool is here to save you from your folly. Rather a nice ring to that. I must remember it.”
SiMKIN; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
I hoped that Simkin had read my thoughts and was gone to alert Joram and the others to their danger. Capricious and erratic as I knew Simkin to be, however, my hope was a forlorn one. And I did not think it likely we could count on Merlyn—with a y or an i—to save us.
“Hurry!” urged Eliza, taking my hand and drawing me back among the trees. “This way is faster! Through the fields.”
We had to cross the wall, not difficult, as it was low to the ground. Eliza was hampered by her long skirt and her cloak, and needed both her hands to climb over. She hesitated only a moment, looking into my eyes, then she handed me the Darksword, wrapped in its cloth blanket.
I knew immediately what she’d meant about the physical burden of the sword. The sword’s weight was considerable, for it was made of iron, mixed with darkstone, and had been designed to be wielded by a grown man with immense physical strength. But as heavy as the sword was to carry, it weighed far more heavily on the heart than it did on the hands. Holding it, I glimpsed the soul that had produced it—a dark maelstrom of fear and anger.
Bitter lessons learned, Joram had struggled up from the darkness of his soul, saved himself from drowning beneath the perilous waters. He had returned the original Darksword to the stone from which it was made. He had released magic into the universe. And though he had destroyed a world, he had saved the lives of many thousands who would otherwise have perished in the great war Earth waged for Thimhallan. If