Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [94]
Sniffing, wiping his nose with orange silk, Simkin flung himself back on the couch pillows and stared gloomily at the ceiling.
“Seventy-two hours,” Joram muttered to himself “That’s the time from the nearest starbase.
“You believe him?” Garald demanded.
“I must!” Joram flashed back. “And so must you,” he added grimly. “I don’t know how to explain it, but he’s seen the Sorcerer. He’s described him and Major Boris! And what he claims he overheard makes sense. Boris didn’t come here with orders to slaughter us! He came, undoubtedly, to intimidate us with a show of force, figuring we’d surrender. But Menju doesn’t want that.” Joram shifted his gaze from Garald back to the flickering embers. “He wants the magic. He is of this world. He wants to return to it and gain its power. And he wants everyone in it who could be a threat to him dead!”
“That’s why he has taken the catalysts prisoner,” said Saryon in sudden understanding. “He is using them to give him Life—”
“—and he is using that Life to intimidate Major Boris and to seal off the Corridor.”
“I don’t believe it! This is ridiculous!” Standing in the shadows of the study, practically forgotten, Mosiah had listened to Simkin’s story in disbelief. Now, coming forward, he looked from the Prince to Joram to Saryon pleadingly. “Simkin’s made this all up! They couldn’t kill us all—everyone in Thimhallan! That’s thousands, millions of people!”
“They can and they will,” Joram said flatly. “They have committed genocide before on their own world, back in ancient times, and when they went forth into the stars and found life there, they did it again—slaughtering large numbers of beings whose only crime was that of being different. They have developed highly efficient methods of killing—weapons that are capable of wiping out entire populations within minutes.
“They won’t use those here on this world, however,” Joram added thoughtfully. “Menju needs the magic in this world to remain intact, undisturbed. He couldn’t risk using a high-energy weapon, one that might disrupt Life….”
Garald shook his head, frustrated, obviously not understanding. “I agree with Mosiah. It’s impossible!”
“No it isn’t!” Joram cried angrily. “Get that out of your mind! Admit the danger! There are millions of people here, yes! But there are hundreds of thousands of millions in Beyond! Their armies are enormous. They can bring in soldiers numbering three times the population of Thimhallan if they choose!
“We fight. We defend our cities.” Joram shrugged. “In the end we must lose, overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers alone. Those that survive the sieges and the battles will be systematically rounded up and put to death: man, woman, and child. The Sorcerer will keep a few hundred catalysts or so, to make certain their kind doesn’t die out, but that will be all. He will gain control of this world, of its magic, and he and those few like him in the world Beyond will become invincible.”
“The end of the world….” Garald spoke before he thought. Saryon saw his face flush, and he cast a swift glance at Joram. “Damn it!” the Prince said suddenly, slamming his hands on the desk. “We’ve got to stop them! There must be a way!”
Joram did not immediately answer. The fire flared and, for an instant, Saryon saw by its light the man’s lips twist in a dark half-smile and suddenly the catalyst was no longer in Lord Samuels’s home, in the snow-bound city of Merilon. Once again, Saryon stood in the forge in the Sorcerer’s village; he saw the fire of the hot coals shine in dark eyes, he saw a young man hammering a strangely glowing metal, once again, he saw the bitter, vengeful youth forging the Darksword.
Someone else saw that youth, too. Someone else in the room saw and remembered. Mosiah looked at the man who had a year ago been