Triumph of the Darksword by Margaret Weis Read Free Book Online

pigeons—nothing. And yet we find the stone statue now, shattered into pieces when not even the most powerful spells of one of the strongest warlocks in the world could touch it.”
    Mosiah shivered. Despite the magical shield, he could feel the temperature of the air dropping. His mouth was parched and dry and the longer he stayed the stronger his feelings of uneasiness grew. “What else do you—”
    “Over there. I’ll show you,” Simkin said, gesturing insistently.
    “How far away is it?” Mosiah asked hesitantly. “I’m not sure how much longer….”
    “You’re doing fine. The shield’s holding. Just a ways. Keep going, straight ahead.”
    Mosiah walked forward, trying as best he could to avoid the sand-covered mounds that he assumed were parts of the broken stone statue. That Saryon was dead, he had no doubt. He supposed he should feel grief or relief, but right now all he felt was a numbness and a growing fear that something was terribly wrong.
    “There,” Simkin said, coming to a halt, his hands on his hips.
    Mosiah followed his gaze, staring straight ahead of him and his blood congealed in his veins, the chill causing him to shudder from head to toe.
    Garald had described the Border as gently shifting, swirling patches of mist. Mosiah saw a whirling mass of ugly greenish black cloud. Lightning flickered on the fringes, the wind sucked the sand up in twisting funnels, then spewed it out of its boiling maw, alternating inhaling and exhaling like a living thing. Mosiah felt his magical shield begin to give way.
    “My Life’s drained!” He gasped. “I can’t hold the shield much longer!”
    “Corridor!” Simkin said coolly. “Run for it!”
    Turning, they stumbled back through the sand; Simkin leading the way or Mosiah would have been instantly lost in the storm.
    “We’re nearly there!” Simkin cried, grasping hold of Mosiah as the young man collapsed onto the beach. With Simkin’s help, Mosiah staggered to his feet, but the shield vanished. Sand blasted them. The wind roared and shrieked around their ears, beating at them with gigantic fists, tugging them backward into the maw, then pitching them forward onto their knees.
    Mosiah couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. All was noise and tumult, darkness and stinging sand.
    And then there was blessed quiet.
    Opening his eyes, Mosiah looked around him in astonishment. He hadn’t even experienced the sensation of being in the Corridor and here he was, back in Radisovik’s studyalong with Simkin, looking particularly ludicrous with the orange silk tied around his nose and mouth.
    Rising from his seat, Cardinal Radisovik stared at the two in amazement.
    “What is the matter?” he asked, hurrying forward to help Mosiah, pale and trembling, to a chair. “Calm yourself Where have you been? I’ll send for some wine …”
    “The Border Borderlands?” Mosiah stammered, trying unsuccessfully to stop shaking. He jumped to his feet, rebuffing the Cardinals attempts to soothe him. “I must see Prince Garald? Where is he?”
    “In the War Room, I believe,” said Radisovik. “But why? What’s wrong?”
    “This cravat,” said Simkin, regarding himself critically in a mirror on the Cardinal’s wall. “The mauve absolutely wretched with gray…”

5

Sharakan Prepares For War
    T he War Room was, in actuality, a large ballroom located in one wing of the king’s palace in the city-state of Sharakan. Unlike the magnificent floating Crystal Palace of Merilon, the palace at Sharakan stood on firm ground. Constructed of granite, it was as unpretentious, stalwart, and matter-of-fact as its citizens and their rulers.
    The castle had once been a mountain—a small mountain but a mountain nonetheless—that had been magically altered by stone shapers of the
Pron-alban
class of wizards into a sturdy, exceedingly grim fortress. Later rulers of Sharakan had added their own touches to the palace, softening the harsh lines of the battlements, adding a garden in