Triumph of the Darksword by Margaret Weis

Looking into the heavens, the Prince gave fervent thanks to the Almin that he had been born to right the wrongs of this world.

8

The Challenge
    T he Crystal Palace of Merilon outshone the sun in the early morning dawn. This was not a difficult task. Yesterday, the
Sif-Hanar
had spent most of the day practicing their war spells against the shining orb—covering it with black clouds, turning it ghastly colors, once attempting to obliterate it from the sky completely. Today the sun edged up over the mountains, appearing pale and sulky, seeming ready to set again in an instant if it caught sight of the weather magi.
    The pallid sun couldn’t hold a candle, therefore, to the brilliance of the Crystal Palace, whose lights had been burning all night. At dawn, the tapestries covering the transparent walls of every room in the palace were rolled up, curtains were opened, shades and shutters raised. Magical light spilled out, beaming down upon the city below.
    In the days of the old Emperor and his enchanting Empress, this brilliant splendor would have meant night-long revelry and merriment. In the old days, beautiful women andelegant men would have thronged the palace, filling the rooms with laughter and perfume. In these days of the new Emperor, the brightly burning lights meant night-long plotting and planning. In these days, red-robed warlocks lurked about the halls, filling the rooms with grim discussion and the faint smell of sulphur.
    On this morning, the morning of the Challenge, Emperor Xavier hovered in the air near the transparent wall of his study in the Crystal Palace, staring down at the city below his feet. To all appearances, he was waiting impatiently for his enemy. A glance showed him his War Masters at their posts, observing from vantage points both within the Crystal Palace and without Xavier and his ministers planned to be able to gauge Sharakan’s military strength by the Challenge. In particular they expected to get some hint of how Garald intended to utilize the Dark Arts of the Sorcerers in his battle formations. Not that Xavier expected Prince Garald to reveal all his secrets. No, the Prince was far too intelligent a military strategist for that. Still, Garald would have to exhibit some of his military might in order for his Challenge to be taken seriously and, according to old custom, “frighten” Merilon into surrender.
    Xavier knew, of course, from his spies in Sharakan, that the Sorcerers had taken up residency in that city and that they were working day and night developing weapons. But his spies had been unable to penetrate that closed society, whose years of persecution made them wary of strangers. The DKarn-Duuk had no idea what weapons they were developing and how many. Worst of all—as far as Xavier was concerned—he had no idea if the Sorcerers had discovered how to use darkstone or whether the Darksword—forged by Joram—was the only weapon in existence made of the magic-absorbing ore.
    An Ariel, one of the winged messengers of Thimhallan, appeared outside Xavier’s wall, the mutated man’s gigantic wings beating slowly in the morning breeze, allowing him to rest on the air currents that swirled gently about the Palace.
    Dissolving the wall with a wave of his hand, Xavier motioned the Ariel to fly inside.
    “The Taking of the Corridors has just been completed, my lord,” the Ariel informed his Emperor.
    “Thank you. Return to your post.” Dismissing the messenger, Xavier absently replaced the wall, then gave the prearranged signal. Red smoke filled the sky. His War Masters ceased talking among themselves and crowded near the walls, watching expectantly.
    The DKarn-Duuk himself was prepared to witness the event from the best possible vantage point, having had his study magically transported to the topmost turret of the crystal-spired Palace. Looking down, he could see the people of Merilon jostling to gain the best views of the proceedings. The wealthy rode in their splendid winged