Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [111]
“Better that,” Mosiah’s father said to his wife as they both prepared to practice for battle, “than dead.”
A call went forth for War Masters, who came to Merilon through the Corridors from all parts of the world. Under their tutelage, the civilians, including the Field Magi, were given hasty instruction in fighting the enemy, aided by their own catalysts.
Mosiah’s parents took their places beside old Father Tolban, the Priest who had served the village of Walren for so many years. Due to his advanced age, the meek, dried-up Field Catalyst could have remained behind with the children. But he insisted on going to battle with his people.
“I have never done a worthwhile thing in my entire life,” he told Jacobias. “I have never known a proud moment. Let this be it.”
Though the outside world was dark and slumbering, the city of Merilon burned with light. It might have been day beneath the dome—a terrible, fear-laced day whose sun was the fiery glow of the forge. The Pron-alban had hastily conjured up a workplace for the blacksmith. He and his sons and apprentices like Mosiah worked to repair weapons damaged in the previous battle or create new ones. Though many in Merilon looked with horror upon the Sorcerers, practicing their Dark Art of Technology, the citizens swallowed their fears and did what they could to assist.
The Theldara tended the injured, buried the dead, and hastily began working on enlarging both the Houses of Healing and the Burial Catacombs. The druids knew that, by the rising of the moon tomorrow night, they would need many more beds … and graves.
City Below was thronged with people: War Masters arriving continually from all over Thimhallan, catalysts coming from the Font, refugees pouring in from the Outland, fleeing the nameless terror. The streets were so crowded it was difficult to either fly or walk. University students filled the cafes and taverns, singing martial songs and thirsting for the glories of battle. Moving through the crowd, the Duuk-tsarith walked the streets like death personified, keeping order, quelling panic, and quietly whisking away those of the students whose eagerness in practicing their spell-casting seemed likely to prove more dangerous to themselves than the enemy.
City Above was wide awake as well. Like the Field Magi, many of the nobles were also practicing for battle. Sometimes their wives, too, stood beside them. But more often the noble ladies could be found opening their large houses to the refugees or tending the injured. A Countess might be seen brewing herbal tea with her own hands. A Duchess played at Swan’s Doom with a group of peasant children, keeping them amused while their parents prepared for war.
Joram watched over everything. Everywhere he went, people greeted him with cheers He was their savior. Taking the romantic half-truths Garald had woven around the true story of Joram’s lineage, the people further embroidered it and decorated it until it was practically unrecognizable. Joram tried to protest, but the Prince silenced him.
“The people need a hero right now—a handsome king to lead them into battle with his bright and shining sword! Even Bishop Vanya doesn’t dare denounce you. What would you give them?” Garald asked scornfully. “A Dead man with a weapon of the Dark Arts who is going to bring about the end of the world? Win this battle. Drive the enemy from the land. Prove the Prophecy wrong? Then go before the people and tell them the truth, if you must.”
Joram agreed reluctantly. Surely Garald knew what was right. I can afford honor, the Prince had once told him. You cannot.
No, I suppose I can’t, Joram thought. Not with the lives of thousands in my hands.
“The truth shall make you free?” he repeated to himself bitterly. “I am destined, it seems, to spend my life in shackles!”
It was nearly midnight. Joram walked by himself in the garden of Lord Samuels’s home. Leaving the city, he had come back—at