Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [109]
“And by provoking Joram to attack, you’ve forced me to fight as well,” Major Boris said, staring out into the night with glazed, unseeing eyes.
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Major.” Reaching across the table, the Sorcerer patted James Boris’s right hand. Shuddering at the touch, the Major snatched his hand away, thrusting it protectively in his pocket. “It was just that I needed … insurance I think it a bit naive of you to believe that Joram would have let you escape this world unharmed anyway. You saw them mobilizing Merilon for war….”
Major Boris had seen, and he remembered. Darkening the room, Bishop Vanya had invited his guests, before they left, to look upon Merilon the Beautiful.
Preparing for war, Merilon’s twilight had been changed into day—its streets lit by countless angry, flaring suns. The Major’s grim face grew grimmer still as he gazed upon nightmare monsters flying through the air, legions of skeletons marching down the street. He could repeat the Bishop’s scornful words, tell himself that they were illusions, incapable of harm. But who would tell his men, facing these things on the field of battle? And if he did tell them, why would they believe him? Especially if they had just seen their comrades torn to shreds by the beaks of real cockatrice, their invincible tanks crushed beneath the feet of real giants. There was no separating illusion from reality in this awful world.
Fear chewed at Boris, like centaurs devouring the flesh of their living victims. His right hand, hidden in the pocket of his fatigues, shook. It was all he could do to keep from bringing it out to examine it, to see if it still was a hand….
“My men may be hunks of meat in your trap,” he told the Sorcerer bitterly, “but we’re not going to wait for the wizards to fall on us like ravening wolves. I’m going to attack their city tomorrow. Take them by surprise.”
The Sorcerer shrugged. “I don’t care what you do, Major, as long as you do not interfere with my plans for acquiring the Darksword.”
“I won’t,” James Boris returned heavily. “I need the damn sword, remember? I’ll launch the attack at noon. You’re certain Joram will be out of the way by then?”
“Absolutely.” Menju said, rising and preparing to take his departure. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Major, I have plans of my own to make for tomorrow.”
The Major continued to look glum.
“What about this … Simkin? I don’t trust him.”
“That fop?” The Sorcerer shrugged. “He’ll do what he’s promised. He wants his reward, after all.”
“But you’ve no intention of taking him back with us, have you, Sorcerer?” Major Boris stood up as well, keeping his hands in his pockets. “He may be a fop, but he’s a dangerous one. From what I’ve seen, he’s a better magician than you can ever hope to be!”
The Sorcerer regarded the Major with a cool, unfaltering gaze. “I trust that shot made you feel better, James. Now you can go to your bed with some shreds of dignity clinging to you. Not that I have to explain, but to be quite honest I had considered taking him. He would be an undoubted asset to my act. But you are right. He is too powerful. He would—so to speak—demand top billing. Once he has given me Joram, Simkin will meet the same fate as everyone else in this world.”
“And what about Joram?”
“I want him alive. He will be useful to me. He’ll tell me of the powers of the Darksword and how to construct more of these weapons—”
“He won’t, you know.”
“He’ll have no choice. I’ll have his wife.
The moon roamed