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
M osiah 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 aneerie, 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 to his feet, whirled around, and skillfully stabbed a tree.
“Numskull!” he muttered. Sheathing his dagger, he shoved the clawed branch that had brushed across his neck out of his way. He glanced around hurriedly, hoping no one had seen him, then let out his breath in relief and sat back down on the hummock, nursing a cut on his hand; the branch having been able to gain some revenge upon its assailant by digging several small twigs into his flesh.
Had the battle started? Mosiah thought it likely, having convinced himself that he had been sitting here for several hours at least. Perhaps it was over? Maybe his unit had been called up and he hadn’t heard? The thought of this was so alarming that he picked up the heavy, metal crossbow and walked a few steps, peering into the fog, hoping to find somebody who knew what was going on.
Then he stopped, irresolute.
His orders had been specific. Remain silent and unmoving until the fog lifts. Prince Garald had emphasized the importance of obeying this command to the letter.
“It is you Sorcerers who hold the key to our victory,” he told them in the dark hours before the dawn when they had
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
M osiah 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 aneerie, 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 to his feet, whirled around, and skillfully stabbed a tree.
“Numskull!” he muttered. Sheathing his dagger, he shoved the clawed branch that had brushed across his neck out of his way. He glanced around hurriedly, hoping no one had seen him, then let out his breath in relief and sat back down on the hummock, nursing a cut on his hand; the branch having been able to gain some revenge upon its assailant by digging several small twigs into his flesh.
Had the battle started? Mosiah thought it likely, having convinced himself that he had been sitting here for several hours at least. Perhaps it was over? Maybe his unit had been called up and he hadn’t heard? The thought of this was so alarming that he picked up the heavy, metal crossbow and walked a few steps, peering into the fog, hoping to find somebody who knew what was going on.
Then he stopped, irresolute.
His orders had been specific. Remain silent and unmoving until the fog lifts. Prince Garald had emphasized the importance of obeying this command to the letter.
“It is you Sorcerers who hold the key to our victory,” he told them in the dark hours before the dawn when they had
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