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“Stop!” Xavier screamed in fury. “Seal the Corridors, you Thon-li! Do you hear me? Seal the Corridors by my command! No one is to leave!”

Mosiah caught a quick glimpse of several pale catalysts, peering out from the magical Corridors. Their eyes wide and frightened, the Thon-li obeyed the Emperor instantly. The gaping Corridors slammed shut, leaving people stranded in the compound, wailing frantically, some even scrabbling at the empty air with their fingers, endeavoring to force the Corridors back open. Others stood as Mosiah stood—numb, appalled.

“You’re insane, Xavier!” Garald cried. Breaking free of the restraining hands of the Cardinal, the Prince lunged at the Emperor—whether with the intention of shaking sense into him or choking the life out of him, no one knew, perhaps not even the Prince himself.

Xavier, watching him with a sneer, raised his hand, and Garald slammed up against a wall of ice. Dazed, the Prince staggered backward, the Cardinal hurrying to help him.

“Why do you run, fools?” Xavier shouted and his voice—amplified by magic—rose above the chaos “Why put it off. Die quickly, here and now. This is the end of the world!” Extending his crimson robed arms, he slowly turned a full circle within his cold, glistening barrier. His eyes stared up into the heavens. “The Prophecy is fulfilled!”

“No, uncle,” came a voice in answer. “The Prophecy is not fulfilled. I have come to stop it.”

16

The Destruction Of __

The World

Once, when Garald was young, he had been caught in an open field during a weather fight between rival groups of Sif-Hanar: A lightning bolt struck near him; so close that Garald smelled it sizzle on the air. He could still remember quite clearly the dazzling, paralyzing thrill surging through him, the concussion of thunder that slammed into him a split second after, knocking the very breath from his body.

“The Prophecy is not fulfilled. I have come to stop it.”

The voice that spoke those words had the effect of that lightning bolt on him. Its rich timbre—familiar, yet different—sent a thrill through him that tingled in his blood; his entire being seemed to glow with a dreadful, powerful aura.

“Joram!” he cried, turning.

As the voice was familiar—yet wasn’t—so Garald recognized the man who stood before him—yet didn’t.

Thick, luxuriant black hair glistened in the sunlight. Garald remembered that hair, falling in long, tangled curls around the face of an eighteen-year-old youth. But now the black curls were cut short, worn shoulder-length, combed smooth and sleek. A shock of pure white hair sprang from the brow, framing the left side of the man’s face.

The face itself was familiar in its dark, finely carved beauty. But here and there the Master Hand wielding the chisel had slipped, marring the visage with lines of grief, age, and a strange, undefinable sorrow. The man’s face was so changed, in fact, that if it hadn’t been for the eyes, Garald would have doubted his first impression. But he knew those eyes. The eyes were Joram’s. Garald could see the fire of the forge smolder in them still—glowing coals of pride, bitterness, and anger.

Prince Garald recognized something else as well—the scabbard the man wore strapped about his body; the scabbard that had been a present, his present to Joram. Carried in that scabbard, Garald knew, was the Darksword.

“Joram?” the Prince repeated softly, staring at the man dressed in plain, white robes who stood in the center of the compound.

Cardinal Radisovik fell to his knees.

“Yes, Cardinal,” Xavier sneered “Pray to the Almin for His mercy. The Prophecy is fulfilled The end of the world is come.” With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the ice shield around him, then, striding ahead, he pointed his finger at the man. “And this demon brings it? Kill him? Kill—”

A flash of blinding light, and the Emperor’s words broke off in a horrible, gurgling sound. Through an afterimage of red streaking across his vision, Garald saw The DKarn-Duuk pitch forward onto his face, felled like a lightning-struck tree.