Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [150]
The sun vanished, darkness covered them, and the terrible storm broke over the world.
13
Requiem Aeternam
One by one, blown down by the blasting winds, the Watchers on the Border toppled. The spell holding them prisoner—some for centuries—broke apart like their own stone bodies. The very last to fall, the one that withstood the fury of the storm to the end, was the statue with the clenched hand.
Long after the oldest oaks had been uprooted and tumbled across the land like twigs, long after the tidal waves had smashed upon the shores, long after city walls were crushed and burning and the armies of the battling forces of Merilon scattered in all directions, this one statue braved the storm, and—had anyone been near—they might have heard hollow laughter.
Time and again the wind slammed into it, the sand stung its stone flesh. Lightning burst over it, thunder hammered on it with its mighty fist. Finally, when the darkness was deepest, the statue fell. Crashing to the shore, its stone shattered, bursting into millions of tiny fragments that were gleefully caught up by the howling winds and strewn over the land.
His spirit freed, the catalyst joined the dead of Thimhallan to watch, with sightless eyes, the end.
The storm raged a day and a night, then—when the world had been swept clean by wind, cauterized by fire, and purified by water—the storm ceased.
All was very quiet, very still.
Nothing moved. Nothing could.
The Well of Life was empty.
Epilogue
Huddled in the shadow of their broken city Gate, their meager possessions gathered around them in crude bundles, the last inhabitants of Merilon stood in line, waiting.
They waited in silence for the most part. Bereft of their magic, forced to walk upon the ground in bodies that felt clumsy and heavy and difficult to control without the grace of Life, the magi had little energy left to expend in speech. They had nothing to talk about that was not depressing and despairing anyway.
Occasionally a baby whimpered, and then could be heard the soft reassuring murmur of a mothers voice. And once three small brothers, too young to understand what was happening, began playing at war in the rubble-strewn street. Pelting each other with rocks and screaming in glee, their voices resounded shrill and unnerving in the lifeless streets. Others, standing or sitting in line, glanced at them in irritation, and their father stopped their play with a sharp word of reprimand, his bitter tone flicking across their innocence, inflicting wounds they never forgot.
Silence fell, and the line of people settled back to grim waiting. Most tried to keep within the shadows of the wall, though the air was chill—especially for those of Merilon who had never known winter—the sun beat down upon them unmercifully. Accustomed as they were to the meek sun that had shone over Merilon decorously for centuries, this new and fiery sun frightened them. But though the bright sunlight was unbearable, the people glanced up in fear and apprehension whenever a shadow darkened the sky. Dreadful storms, the like of which had never been known in the world until now, periodically ravaged the land.
At intervals here and there along the line of people, strange humans with silver skin and metal heads stood guard, watching the magi closely. In the guards’ hands were metal devices which, the people of Merilon knew, fired a beam of light that could either cast one into the sleep of unconsciousness or the deeper, dreamless sleep of death. The magi were careful to keep their eyes averted from the strange humans or, if they did look at them, it was with swift, furtive glances of hatred and fear.
For their part, the strange humans—though attentive to their duty—did not appear overly nervous or ill at ease. These magi they were guarding were families, generally of the lower-and middle-class workers, and were not considered dangerous. A vast difference from the long line of black-robed warlocks who were being marched down the street. Their hoods cast aside, their faces grim