Legacy of the Darksword (45 page)

A few knew the truth, perhaps;
knew that the image showing up on their radar screens was a dragon. King
Garald, Bishop Radisovik, and General Boris would have recognized the creature.
But they could not know that we rode the Dragon of the Night. They had come
here out of faith and because this was the last place to run to. They could not
know where we were bound or upon what errand. For that matter, now that I
thought of it, we knew little more. Did the Technomancers know it all? Was this
a trap? Had Gwen and Queen Eliza been an illusion?

Mosiah thought so, apparently,
but then he was one who would always term the glass half-empty. I did not know
what to think. Gwendolyn had seemed so real, the love and affection for her
daughter had been genuine,
of
that I am certain. And
how could the Technomancers have conjured up an illusion of Eliza from an
alternate time? When I thought of all this, my spirit soared with the dragon.

But they could have knowledge
about that time, I realized, and my spirit plummeted to the ground. Kevon
Smythe and the Dark Cultists had been present in that time as well. Perhaps
everything we had experienced had been their doing.

I looked up into the sky again,
the sky that was pocked with life. I thought of the millions up there, afraid,
despairing,
bewildered
. All that remained of mankind,
who had fled the only
home
he’d ever known and
embarked into space, a cold and lonely place to die. The assault ships of the
Hch’nyv would come soon, once their conquest of Earth was assured. I imagined
the sky bright with fire. . . .

Shivering, I turned my gaze away.
When I looked back, the sky was covered over with storm clouds and all was
darkness. I felt a certain amount of relief, hidden away from the pleading,
trusting, frantic gazes of those who were—all unknowing—-depending on us.

The ride was not a pleasant one.
We flew through a rain squall and were thoroughly soaked. The chill air rushing
over the dragon’s wings set our teeth to chattering. We huddled together for
warmth, clung together to keep from falling off. The dragon’s back was broad
and we sat between the wings, but the bones of the spine were sharp and dug
painfully into my backside, while my thighs soon ached from the uncomfortable
position. And though the dragon was under a geis to fly us to Merilon and the
tomb of Merlyn, the beast’s enmity toward us was strong.

The dragon loathed our touch, our
smell, and, if the charm had failed, would have immediately rolled over and
dumped us to our deaths. As it was, the dragon would occasionally veer to one
side, forcing us to cling to its mane and scales to avoid sliding off before it
would reluctantly and slowly level off. I suppose it considered that if one of
us was clumsy enough to fall, that was our own concern and it could not be held
responsible.

Eliza grasped the Darksword.
Mosiah kept hold of her, as did Father Saryon. I hung on to a bony protuberance
right above the main tendon for the wings. I could see nothing below us, except
when the frequent flashes of lightning illuminated the ground and then it was
only for an instant. All I saw at first were thick stands of forest or the
smooth grass of the plains. Then I located a winding river.

“The Famirish,” shouted Saryon
over the rush of air swirling past us. “We are getting close!”

We flew along the course of the
Famirish, the dragon sinking lower until it seemed to me that we must crash
among the tree-tops. The dragon knew its business, however, and though it came
perilously close, so close that I should think the treetops must have tickled
its belly, it never collided with any of them.

A flash of lightning more
brilliant than the rest spread across the sky in a blanket of flame. By its
light, I obtained my first glimpse of the city of Merilon .

According to lore, when the
ancient wizard Merlyn had removed his followers from the persecutions of Earth
and led them to Thimhallan, the first place they came to was a grove of oak
trees on a plain between two ranges of mountains. Merlyn was so taken with the
beauty that he founded his city here and proclaimed that this grove would be
his final resting place.

He and the other conjurers and
shapers created a floating platform of delicately carved, translucent marble
and quartz, which they had called the Pedestal. Upon this Pedestal, which
drifted among the clouds, they built the city of Merilon . But what had once
been considered a wonder in a world of magic where wonders abounded now lay in
ruin, its broken body slowly being covered over by a shroud of encroaching
wilderness.

It was a sad sight, an oppressive
sight, reminding us all too clearly that man’s works, no matter how glorious,
are but temporary, that there must come a time when the workman’s hand falls,
forever stilled, and then Nature will do her best to erase all trace of him.

“Did Merlyn’s tornb even survive,
Father?” Mosiah asked.

“Why, yes, don’t you remember?
No, of course, you wouldn’t.” Saryon answered his own question. “I forgot how
grievously you were injured in the attack on the city. The grove burned to the
ground, but the tomb remained untouched. The firestorms swept right over it.
Some have later claimed that the grass around the tomb was not even scorched,
but that is not true.” Saryon shook his head and sighed, his memories sad ones.

Another flash revealed Eliza’s
face. She was very pale, her expression one of awe, mingled with profound
sorrow. She was seeing, as I myself saw it, Merilon rebuilt, in that other
lifetime, and contrasting that image with the bleak, bitter reality.

I closed my eyes and I saw, in
that other time, Merilon. The floating platform was gone; no one was able to
summon up the powerful magicks needed to perform such a feat. The buildings—
made of ordinary stone, not crystal—stood on the ground. The palace was a
fortress, solid and thick-walled, made to withstand attacks, not play host to
glittering parties. The Grove of Merlyn had been replanted.
A
stand of young oak trees, small but sturdy, kept guard over Merlyn’s tomb.

I looked into that time and saw
the end. I saw the young oaks wither and die in the laser fire of the Hch’nyv.
I turned my gaze away and looked into that time no more.

The dragon began to spiral
downward. We could see nothing of where we were headed, because another of
those fierce, sudden storms closed in on us. Rain slashed my face, forced me to
shut my eyes. Lightning flared much too close, thunder cracked and boomed. I
saw the ground only when we were almost upon it, a flash of lightning
illuminating wet grass and the burned-out stumps of dead trees. The dragon was
descending much too fast it seemed to me, and I wondered if the beast might be
going to kill itself, and us along with it, thereby relieving itself of the
geis and a foe at the same time.

At the last possible moment, when
I was certain that we were going to crash headlong, the dragon lifted its
wings, gracefully swooped upward, and reached out for the ground with its
powerful hind legs. The landing was rough for us, though not for the dragon. We
were thrown forward by the force of the impact. I hit my head on the bony mane
and scraped my hands on the scales.

“I have brought you to the tomb,”
said the dragon. “Now leave and trouble me no more.”

We were only too happy to obey. I
slid down the dragon’s rain-wet back and landed heavily on the ground. I helped
Eliza, who was still clutching the sword. She was shivering with the
cold,
her skirt hung in sodden folds around her, her blouse
clung to her breasts. Her hair was a mass of wet, tangled ringlets, straggling
over her face. She was grim, composed, resolute, prepared to do whatever might
be asked of her.

Saryon and Mosiah joined us. The
dragon reared up, its wings spread, the starlike deadly darts shining through
the lashing rain. The pale eyes flared.

“I have obeyed your command,” the
dragon declared. “Release me of the spell.”

“I do not release you,” Saryon
said, seeing the trick the dragon was attempting to play upon him. “Once you
return to your lair, the spell will be lifted.”

The Dragon of the Night gave us a
parting snarl and a frustrated snap in the air with its jaws,
then
it leapt into the storm, wings beating, and soared
upward to disappear into the clouds.

Saryon slumped when the dragon
was gone, relieved of a terrible burden.

“Perhaps we should have ordered
the dragon to remain,” Mosiah said, “or at least return if we called. We might
need to make a swift retreat.”

Saryon shook his head. “My
strength was giving out. The dragon fought me every second. I could not have
held the spell much longer. Besides”—he looked around at where we stood in the
wind and the rain—”for good or for ill, our journey ends here.”

“Where is the tomb?” Eliza
asked,
the first words she had spoken since we left the
dragon’s lair.

“I’m not sure,” said Saryon. “It’s
all so different. . . .”

The storm was beginning to
subside. Thunder still rumbled, but now from a distance. The clouds remained
overhead, however, blotting out the starlight and the lights of the starships.
Without the flaring lightning, we were all but blind.

“We could stumble around for
hours searching for the tomb,” Saryon said, frustrated. “And we don’t
have
hours.
It’s nearly midnight.”

Mosiah spoke a word, lifted his
hand. A globe of soft yellow light appeared in his palm. I don’t know when the
sight of something has been more comforting. It was as if he had reached back
to Earth and snatched a bit of sunshine from a summer day, brought it here to
cheer us and light our path. The light seemed even to ease the chill. I stopped
shivering. Eliza managed a sad smile.

“There is the tomb,” said Saryon,
pointing.

The light shone on the ruins of
the oak trees that had once been the tomb’s guardians. It was a dismal sight
until, moving
forward,
I saw where several thin,
supple saplings, growing from the seeds of their parents, were preparing to
take over the guardianship duties.

The tomb, made of pure white
marble, stood in the center of the circle of trees. The rest of the grove was
overgrown with plant life run amok, but no plants had come near the tomb. Vines
creeping that direction twined
away,
went around it.
The grass had grown tall, but the blades bent away, as if they would not, from
respect, touch it.

Mosiah held the light high, for
us to see. “I remember when I first came here,” he said quietly. “I felt very
peaceful. This was the only part of Merilon where I was truly at home. I am
glad to know that, though much has changed around it, the feel of the place
remains the same.”

“It is a blessed place,” said
Saryon. “Merlyn’s spirit remains.”

“Now that we are here, what
should I do?” Eliza asked. “Should I lay the Darksword on the tomb or—”

She caught her breath. I did the
same, both of us having seen the same thing at the same time.

Something already lay on the
tomb, a dark form against the tomb’s whiteness.

“I knew it!” Mosiah muttered,
with a bitter oath. “This was a trap. We—don’t! Eliza!
Stop!”

He reached out to grasp hold of
her but he was too late. Her loving eyes had seen
clearly
what was only a vague shadow to the rest of us
. With a wild, stricken,
hollow cry, Eliza ran toward the tomb. Reaching the marble sarcophagus, she
flung the Dark-sword down onto the wet grass. Hands outstretched, sobbing, she
threw herself on the body that lay on the tomb’s cold white surface.

The body was Joram’s.

Mosiah paid no attention to the
body on the tomb. His responsibility was the Darksword and he hastened to
retrieve it, where it lay in the grass,
a
thing of
ugly darkness, not illuminated by his magical light. He had his hand almost on
it when he halted.

“Scylla!”
Mosiah shone his light upon her.

It was not surprising we had not
noticed her earlier. She was a huddled mass, leaning against the tomb. Blood
covered one side of her face. She opened her eyes and looked up at Mosiah.

“Flee!” she warned, with a
gasping breath. “Take the Darksword and—”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

A man clad in white robes emerged
from the shadows of the charred oaks. Mosiah made a dive for the Darksword. A
beam of light flared out from the darkness, struck Mosiah in the chest,
slammed
him back against the tomb. He slid down it,
collapsed onto the wet grass.

Bending down, Kevon Smythe picked
up the Darksword.

“A pity you came too late, my
dear,” he said, speaking to Eliza. He did not even glance at the two wounded
people at his feet. “We had the antidote all prepared, but as you can
see,
it will do your poor father little good now. His last
words were to you. He said he forgave you.”

I lunged at the smug, triumphant
man. I had no weapon, but I think—I know—I could have strangled him.