Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [129]
Various members of Duuk-tsarith, engaged in sorting and cataloging the effects, bowed in homage to one so high-rank ing in their Order, and stood aside from their work to allow him to examine the objects. He was not interested in the remarkable timekeeping devices or the ugly jewelry or the pieces of parchment that had captured images of other strange humans, mostly females and children. The Executioner passed over these without a glance. He was interested only in the weapons.
Although not born to the Ninth Mystery himself, the Executioner was familiar with the tools of the Dark Arts, having studied them as he had studied much else in this world. Carefully he went over the cache of weapons, examining each one he came to, being careful not to touch any of them. Occasionally he asked a question of one of the Duuk-tsarith standing respectfully nearby. The Executioner discovered, however, that he knew as much, or in some cases more, about these weapons than they did.
Although he had not participated in the battle, he had watched it with interest, noting the lethal swiftness with which the weapons casting the beams of light could kill. He studied these first. Small enough to fit in the palm of the hand, the metal devices gave absolutely no indication, at least outwardly, of how they were operated.
The Executioner was just beginning to think he might have to trust his luck to one of these anyway, hoping he would not accidentally incinerate himself while endeavoring to figure out how it worked, when he came to something that suited him much better.
A projectile weapon.
He had read of these in the ancient texts of the Dark Arts. Although as far as anyone knew, none of these devices had ever been constructed on Thimhallan, they had been theorized and a few crude renderings of how they might work still existed. This weapon was, of course, much more complex than any of the drawings the Executioner had seen, but he assumed it operated along the same principles.
Wrapping it gingerly in a cloth, the Executioner placed the weapon and a large number of what appeared to be its projectiles in a box. He sealed the box with strong runes of protection against fire and explosion, then, carrying the box carefully, he left the dark and secret chambers of the Duuk-tsarith, and traveled the Corridors to Merilon.
The blacksmith, nearly on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, was considerably startled to see a gray-robed figure emerge from the Corridor outside his makeshift forge in Merilon. Everyone on Thimhallan knew of the Executioner, by legend if not by sight. Strong and stalwart man though he was, the blacksmith could not help shuddering with fear when the warlock approached him.
A panicked thought entered the smiths weary mind. “I’m going to be blamed for the enemy’s attack and executed without benefit of a trial.” Lifting a hammer, the smith prepared to sell his life dear.
But the Executioner, speaking in his cool, deep voice, assured the smith at once that it was his brains the warlock sought, not his head.
Bringing the box out of the folds of his robes, the Executioner rubbed out the runes, unwrapped the cloth, and exhibited the weapon to the blacksmith.
Sighing in awe, the smith lifted the weapon and ran his hands over it lovingly. The ingenuity and perfection of its workmanship and design caused his eyes to mist over with tears. The Executioner abruptly cut short the smith’s rapturizing, however, by demanding to know how the thing worked.
It is possible that the Executioner cringed slightly when the smith began to dismantle the weapon. Possible … but doubtful. The Executioner was a highly disciplined individual who, if he had emotions, never revealed them to anyone. To all outward appearance, he stood unmoved and unmoving, his face concealed by his gray hood the entire time the smith worked on