Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [35]
It was these reserves that could tip the scales of battle for either side, and the eyes of both commanders—Garald and Xavier—were on those cloud-shrouded hexes, trying to deduce from the position on the Board, the reports of spies, and a hundred other factors what menace lay concealed within the fog.
Xavier knew this must be the army of Sorcerers, but what weapons did they carry? What was their plan of attack? Most urgent question of all, did they carry the Darkstone?
Prince Garald little doubted what lay beneath Xavier’s cloud. A warlock, armed with the Darksword. The Prince had given his most powerful War Master a regiment of men armed with special weapons and one single instruction—at all costs, capture the Darksword.
Garald would have been astonished to know that Emperor Xavier had provided his own most powerful War Master with a regiment and the same instruction.
Capture the Darksword.
One other Order was searching for it as well. Prompted by fear of the Prophecy, the Order of Duuk-tsarith had come together in a rare, secret conclave the night prior to the battle, meeting in caverns far below the world, caverns whose whereabouts were unknown to kings and emperors.
The black-robed figures, faceless in the eternal night of the caverns, gathered in silence deeper than the darkness around a nine-pointed star embedded in the stone floor. One of their Order rose into the air above them, unseen by the eye, visible in their minds. She asked a question.
“Does the Darksword fight with the armies of Sharakan?”
“No.” The answer came from many voices on one side of the cavern chamber.
“Does the Darksword fight with the armies of Merilon?”
“No.” Again, many voices answered, this time from the other side.
“Has the Dead man, Joram, or the catalyst, Saryon, been seen in this world?”
“Yes.” This time, only one voice replied, coming from the back of the circle.
Instantly, the witch dissolved the Conclave. The black shadows slipped into the night, returning to their duties. All except one. The witch summoned him.
“Where is Joram?”
“I do not know. The Darksword shields him well.”
“But he has been seen. By whom? What is your source?”
A name formed in the man’s thoughts. He did not speak it, afraid, perhaps, to let even the night share the secret.
The witch, perceiving his thought, nodded in satisfaction.
The man appeared dubious. “Is that source to be trusted?”
“Absolutely,” said the witch.
10
Out Of The Fog
Mosiah sat upon a small, grass-covered knoll, his shoulders hunched against the thick, oppressive fog that wrapped itself around him like a chill, clammy hand. He had no idea what time of day it was or how long he had been sitting here. It might have been a half-day since his unit had been ordered to take up its position. It might have been a half-month. He had lost all sense of time in this cloud-shrouded world and he appeared close to losing his other senses as well.
He could see nothing through the impenetrable mist, not even the shapes of the others of his unit. The fact that the enemy could not see him was, he supposed, some sort of comfort. But it did not make up for the growing uneasiness he was experiencing—something deep inside whispering that the rest of humanity had long ago departed, leaving him behind, the only person left in this world.
He knew that wasn’t true. He could hear sounds, for one thing. Although distorted by the fog, the noises took on an eerie, unnerving quality almost worse than silence. Were those cold and hollow voices the voices of humans or ghosts? Were those footsteps? Was it the enemy, creeping up on him from behind?
“Who goes there?” Mosiah questioned the fog in a quavering voice.
There was no answer. Winding his words in its web, the mist dragged them away.
Was that a hand on his shoulder. …?
Drawing his dagger, Mosiah leaped