Fire Sea (60 page)

In the somber Realm of Stone now known as the world of Abarrach, merriment is rare. Songs are no longer sung and seldom accompany dance.

1
Noticed and read eighty-three runes above the farthest hand placement impressions along the Sulistic Larc from the right hand. This is obviously a subroot of a larger structure and shows it is a minor part of the whole.

2
Cycles refer to the periods by which time is measured in Abarrach. I have reorganized the narrative along the sequence of these
cycles to
gain a better perspective of the progress made.

3
A Sartan magical researcher. By his position in the rune structure it is likely that he is the person who is building the rune. In mensch language structures he would be considered the voice or narrator of the text.

4
Branches back to higher order subroot runes ignored. Tenor of the text is high spirited and hopeful.

5
Reference branches back to the original rune structures for necromancy which would only animate the dead. Buffer runes prevent the power of those runes from entering into the equation of the full rune structure.

6
Branch runes lead to a large treatise on the Delsart Near State. The portion quoted here concerns those runes which were most closely tied by entry point to the reference runes just left. I did not gather—nor did I wish to know—more concerning the subject.

7
Mild warding runes direct that this text is considered privileged information.

8
This rune branch was prefaced with a number of warding runes to warn the reader. The scribe was apparently worried that the reader was about to see something that they should not know about.

9
This was the subroot rune point of entry into the text.

10
Meaning the wood table from which this rune was read.

11
The phrasing of this paragraph shows a basic lack of under- standing by the researchers concerning the nature of their world. Their own realm was once a part of the greater realm that was once sundered by our great and terrible magic. The wood touched on all other worlds but touched on their own as well. This shows a loss or corruption of knowledge even during the time of their research.

12
Tenor of the text turns smug
at
this point. The rune scribe thought the original research should not have been abandoned.

13
Obviously the name of a researcher by its rune position. It does not refer to a fruit bearing plant.

14
The Runestate Boundary is an advanced magic concept concerning that point of detail beyond which magic will not function and all certainty is lost. This chaotic boundary between order and the unknown may be the same as the Barrier of Uncertainty referred to in Sartan writings.

15
Caution and fear enter into the runes here.

16
A fellow researcher?

17
What an interesting approach!

18
The runes take on a strange texture here. The scribe writes with both awe and horror but I'm not sure whether he's referring to their own actions as researchers or the collective action of their people.

19
I translate no more. Here the runes branch into speculation on that which I might consider to be either lunatic rantings or prophesy. The runes also become heavily bound here in the runes which establish the communication with whatever or whoever they have reached.

M
ARGARET
W
EIS
and
T
RACY
H
ICKMAN
are the
New York Times
bestselling authors of the
Dragonlance®
series,
The Darksword Trilogy,
and the
Rose of the Prophet
trilogy. With over ten million copies of their novels in print around the world, they are among the bestselling fantasy writers of all time.

“No, really, ‘pon my honor,” Simkin protested, hurt, “I truly do call it
Night of the Peacock.
But I assure

you, I wouldn't dream of telling her how to copy it…”

Blachloch picked up his pen and returned to his work as his man drew nearer.

In a flash of color, Simkin changed back to his exotic clothes. Rising to his feet gracefully, he glanced around. “Don't touch me, lout,” he said, sniffing and wiping his nose. Then, placing the silk in the sleeve of his coat, he looked down at the warlock. “By the way, Cruel and Pitiless One, would you like me to offer my
services to this
catalyst as guide through the wilderness? Something incredibly nasty's liable to snatch him otherwise. Waste of a good catalyst, wouldn't you say?”

Apparently absorbed in his work, Blachloch said without looking up, “So there really is a catalyst.”

“In a few weeks, he'll be standing before you.”

“Weeks?” The henchman snorted. “A catalyst? Let me and the boys go after him. We'll have him back here in minutes. He'll open the Corridors to us and—”

“And the
Thon-Li,
the Corridor Masters, will slam shut the gate.” Simkin sneered. “Neatly trapped you'd be then. I can't think why you keep these imbeciles around, Blachloch, unless, like rats, they're cheap to feed. Personally, I prefer vermin …”

The henchman made a lunge at Simkin, whose coat suddenly bristled with thorns.

Blachloch moved his hand; both men froze in place. The warlock had not even looked up but continued to write in the ledger.

“A catalyst,” Simkin murmured through stiff lips. “What … power … give us! Combine … iron and magic. …”

Raising his head, ceasing to write, though he kept

his pen poised, the warlock looked at Simkin. With a word, he removed the spell.

“How did you discover this? You weren't seen?”

“Of course not!” Lifting his pointed chin, Simkin stared down at Blachloch in injured dignity. “Am
1
not a master of disguise, as you well know? I sat in his very hovel, upon his very table—a very teapot! Not only did he
not
suspect me, he even washed and dried me and set me on his shelf quite nicely. I—”

Blachloch silenced Simkin with a glance. “Meet him in the wilderness. Use whatever tomfoolery you need to get him here.” The cold blue eyes froze the young man as effectively as the magical spell. “But get him here. Alive. I want this catalyst more than I've wanted anything in my entire life. Bring him and there will be rich reward. Return without him and I will drown you in the river. Do you understand me. Simkin?”

The warlock's eyes did not waver.

Simkin smiled.“I understand you, Blachloch,” he said softly. “Don't I always?”

With a sweeping bow, he started to take his leave, his mauve cape trailing the floor behind.

“Oh, and Simkin,” Blachloch said, returning to his work.

Simpkin turned. “My liege?” he asked.

Blachloch ignored the sarcasm. “Have something unpleasant happen to the catalyst. Nothing serious, mind you. Just convince him that it would be unwise for him to ever think of leaving us….”

“Ah …” remarked Simkin reflectively. “Now this
will
be a pleasure. Farewell, lout,” he said, patting the guard on the cheek with his hand. “Igh …

Making a face, he wiped his hand on the orange cloth and swept majestically out the door.

“Say the word …” muttered the guard, glaring through the doorway after the young man, who was sauntering through camp like a walking rainbow.

Blachloch did not even deign to reply. He was, once more, working in the ledger.

“Why do you put up with that fool?” snarled the guard.

“The same might be asked of you,” Blachloch answered in his expressionless voice. “And I might make the same reply. Because he is a useful fool and because someday I
will
drown him.”

Joram stood alone upon the sand.

With a loud cry, muffled by his hood, the Executioner called for Life. Head bowed, each catalyst concentrated all his energy upon the warlock, drawing magic from the world. Opening their conduits, they sent Life flowing into the wizard's body. So powerful were the focused energies of all the catalysts that the magic was visible—blue flame swirled about the bodies and clasped hands of the priests. Flaring like

blue lightning, it leaped from them into the body of the Executioner.

Suffused with power, the man pointed both hands at Joram. When he spoke next, the spell would be cast, the Turning would begin.

The Executioner drew a breath. The gray hood quivered. He uttered the first syllable of the first word and, at that moment, Saryon hurled himself forward, the catalyst's body interposing itself between the Executioner and Joram. The blue light, darting from the warlock's hand, struck Saryon. Gasping in pain, he tried to take a step, but he could not move.

His feet and ankles were white, solid stone.

“My son!” Saryon cried, his gaze never shifting from Joram, “the sword!” With his last strength, even as the terrible, cold numbness was spreading up into his knees, Saryon flung the weapon from him.

The Darks word fell at Joram's feet. Anger and grief propelled him to action. Reaching down, he drew the sword from its scabbard in one swift stroke and turned to meet his enemies.

Garald's teaching came to him. Joram swung the sword in front of him, meaning at first only to keep the
Duuk-tsarith
at bay until he could fall back and assess his position. But he had not counted upon the sword's own power.

The Darksword came forth into air that was charged with magic as Life flowed from the catalysts into the Executioner. Thirsting for that Life, the Darksword began to suck the magic into itself. The arc of blue light jumped, flaming, from the Executioner to the sword. The catalysts cried out in fear, many trying to close the conduits. But it was too late. The Darksword gained in power every second and it kept the conduits open forcibly,
draining the Life from everything and everyone around it.

Running forward to stop Joram, spells crackling at their fingertips, the warlocks saw a radiant blue light flare from within deep darkness. A ball of pure energy hit them with the force of an exploding star and the black-robed bodies disintegrated in a blinding flash.

The Darksword hummed triumphantly in Joram's hands. Blue light twined from its blade around the young man's body like a fiery vine. Dazed by the shattering explosion and the sudden disappearance of his enemies, Joram stared at the sword in disbelief and uncertainty. Then the knowledge of the tremendous power he held swept over the young man. With this, he could conquer the world! With this, he was invincible!

Shouting in exultation, Joram whirled around to face the Executioner— —and saw Saryon.

The spell had been cast. The power of the Darksword could neither alter it, change it, nor stop it.

Saryon's feet, limbs, and lower body were white stone, solid, unmoving. The bitter-cold numbness was rising; Joram could see it freeze the catalyst's flesh as he watched, advancing upward from the groin to the waist.

“No!” Joram cried in a hollow voice, lowering the sword.

Springing forward, Joram grasped Saryon's arms. With a wrenching effort, the catalyst raised his hands in supplication.

“Run!” Saryon managed to utter the single word before his diaphragm froze, choking off his voice. “Run” pleaded the man's eyes through a shadow of pain.

Rage filled Joram. Floundering through the sand, he came to stand before the Executioner. The Darksword burned blue, continuing to suck Life from the world, and the Executioner had fallen to one knee. The casting of the spell had cost him much of his energy and the Darksword was draining even more. But he managed to lift his hooded head, staring at Joram with cool detachment.

“Reverse the spell!” Joram demanded, raising the sword, “or by the Almin I swear I will strike your head from your body!”

“Do what you like!” the warlock said weakly. “The spell, once cast, cannot be called back. Not even the power of that weapon of darkness can change that!”

Night attempted to lull Merilon to sleep, but its soothing hand was thrust away by those preparing for war. Joram took command of the city, naming Prince Garald his military leader. He and the Prince immediately began to mobilize the population.

Joram met with his people in the Grove. Gathering around the ancient tomb of the wizard who had brought them to this world, many of the citizens of Merilon wondered if that almost forgotten spirit stirred restlessly in his centuries-old sleep. Was his dream about to end and yet another enchanted kingdom fall to ruin?

“This is a fight to the death,” Joram told the people grimly. “The enemy intends to wipe out our entire race, to destroy us utterly. We have seen proof of this in the wanton attack upon innocent civilians on the Field of Glory. They have shown no mercy. We will show none.” He paused. The silence that flowed through the crowd grew deeper, until they might have been drowned in it. Looking at them from where he stood on the platform above the tomb, Joram said slowly, emphasizing each word, “Every one of them must die.”

Though the outside world was dark and slumbering, the city of Merilon burned with light. It might have been day beneath the dome—a terrible, fear-laced day whose sun was the fiery glow of the forge. The
Pronalban
had hastily conjured up a workplace for the blacksmith. He and his sons and apprentices like Mosiah worked to repair weapons damaged in the previous battle or create new ones. Though many in Merilon looked with horror upon the Sorcerers, practicing their Dark Art of Technology, the citizens swallowed their fears and did what they could to assist.

The
Theldara
tended the injured, buried the dead, and hastily began working on enlarging both the Houses of Healing and the Burial Catacombs. The druids knew that, by the rising of the moon tomorrow night, they would need many more beds … and graves.

Joram watched over everything. Everywhere he went, people greeted him with cheers. He was their savior.

Taking the romantic half-truths Garald had woven around the true story of Joram's lineage, the people further embroidered it and decorated it until it was practically unrecognizable. Joram tried to protest, but the Prince silenced him.

“The people need a hero right now—a handsome king to lead them into battle with his bright and shining sword! Even Bishop Vanya doesn't dare denounce you. What would
you
give them?” Garald asked scornfully. “A Dead man with a weapon of the Dark Arts who is going to bring about the end of the world? Win this battle. Drive the enemy from the land. Prove the Prophecy wrong!
Then
go before the people and tell them the truth, if you must.”

Joram agreed reluctantly. Surely Garald knew what was right. /
can afford honor,
the Prince had once told him.
You cannot.