Nightworld

The heaviness in Glaeken's chest grew as he stood at the far end of the living room and watched poor Sylvia flee with her relapsed child.

Because this is war, he thought in answer to her parting question. And every war exacts its price, on victors and vanquished alike.

Even in the unlikely event we win this, we will all be changed forever. None of us will come through unscathed.

That knowledge did not make him grieve any less for the loss of that poor boy's mind.

A single sob burst from Carol and echoed like a shot in the mortuary silence. Bill slipped his arms around her. Jack stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. And Ba looked simply…lost. And tortured. Anything that hurt his mistress hurt him doubly. His pain-filled eyes reflected the war within—torn between following Sylvia or staying with the others.

"Please don't go yet, Ba," Glaeken said. "We may need you." He turned to the others. "We are ready."

"How can you be so cold?" Carol said.

"I am not immune to their torment," Glaeken told her. "I ache for that child, and even more for his mother. He may have lost his awareness and his ability to respond to the world around him, but he has lost his perspective as well—he doesn't know what he has lost. Sylvia does. She bears the pain for both of them. But there is no time to grieve. If the price the child has paid is to have meaning, we must take the final step."

"Okay," Jack said. "What do we do?"

"Put the hilt and the blade together."

"That's it? Then it's done?"

Glaeken nodded. "Then it is done."

"Then let's get to it."

Jack picked up the hilt, hefted it, and turned to the blade where it rose from the floor.

"Wait, Jack," Glaeken said. "There's something you should know."

The easiest thing would have been to allow Jack to ram the hilt onto the blade's butt spike and have done with it. But it was only fair to warn the man what he was getting into. Glaeken wished someone had warned him countless years ago before his own first encounter with the weapon.

But I was so reckless and headstrong then. Would it have made a difference?

Jack stood by the blade, waiting.

"When you join the two halves," Glaeken said, "you are, in a very real sense, joining yourself to the weapon and the force that fuels it. It's an intimate bond, permanent, one you will not be able to break no matter how much you desire to."

"Just by putting it together?" Jack said. "No spells or incantations or any of that stuff?"

"None of that stuff," Glaeken said, allowing himself a tiny smile. "Because that's just what it is—stuff. Show biz. This is the real thing."

He noticed that Jack seemed to have lost some of his enthusiasm for joining the hilt to the blade.

"You are free to choose to do so or not, Jack. Just as the weapon is free to decide who shall wield it."

"It has a say?"

"Of course. The Dat-tay-vao resides within it now. That is not an inert amalgam of metals you hold in your hand, it is very much alive—and sentient."

Jack's gaze dropped to the hilt, then rose again. Glaeken sensed the indecision there.

"What about you, Glaeken? Didn't this used to be yours? Shouldn't you be handling this?"

Glaeken fought the urge to back to the farthest corner of the room.

"No. This is not my age. I'm from another time, a long-dead time. This is your age. I saved mine. Someone from your time must save yours."

"One of ws?"

It was Bill. The ex-priest released his grip on Carol and approached Jack, hesitantly, as if Jack were holding a poisonous snake.

"Yes. You, Ba, Jack. Each of you qualifies, each of you has risked his life to bring us to this point. One of you is next."

Glaeken watched Jack. He could tell he would have liked nothing better than to hand the hilt to Bill, but his pride would not allow it. The hellish weight of machismo. Jack was burdened with an especially heavy load.

"All right," he said in a low voice. "Unless anyone objects, I'll go first."

Jack glanced around. No one objected. Shrugging, he hefted the hilt and stepped next to the blade. Glaeken was glad it was Jack first. He was almost certain Jack was the one. He had a warrior's heart. He was the perfect choice to wield the weapon.

Jack upended the hilt over the butt spike, then paused.

"What's going to happen?"

"Maybe nothing," Glaeken said. "It may be too late for anything to work. Rasalom may have us sealed off too completely for the signal to break through."

"But if it does work, how will I know?"

"Oh, you'll know," Glaeken said. "Believe me, you'll know."

Jack continued to stare at him questioningly.

Glaeken said, "For one thing, the blade and hilt will fuse. That will be your confirmation that the blade has accepted you."

And that will be the least of it, he thought, but said nothing. If you're the one Jack, there will be no doubt.

Jack nodded. Glaeken took a surreptitious step backward and looked away as Jack lined up the hole in the hilt over the butt spike, inhaled deeply, and rammed it home.

Nothing happened.

"Well," Jack said after a few heartbeats, "I don't feel any different." He pulled up on the hilt and it easily slipped free of the butt spike. "And neither does this thing. I guess I've been rejected."

Glaeken cursed softly under his breath. Jack would have been perfect. Why hadn't the instrument accepted him?

Jack glanced around the room.

"Ba—you want to give it a try?"

A good choice, Glaeken thought. Ba was the other warrior in the room. And he had a personal grudge against Rasalom—his friend Dr. Buhner had died and Jeffy had been harmed because of Rasalom. His righteous fury would further fuel the weapon.

The big Oriental's expression remained calm but Glaeken sensed a tightening in the muscles of his throat. His nod was almost imperceptible.

Jack held up the hilt. "All yours, buddy."

As Ba stepped forward with no hint of hesitation, Glaeken noticed Sylvia slip back into the far corner of the room holding her listless Jeffy by the hand. She must have been listening, must have heard Ba's name called. She watched intently as Ba took the hilt from Jack and slipped it down over the spike.

Again—nothing.

Glaeken ground his teeth and hid his frustration. Not Jack, not Ba. Who?

Without a word, Ba removed the hilt and turned to Bill.

"Me?" Bill said.

Ba held it out to him.

"But I can't…I mean, I'm not…"

"But perhaps you are," Glaeken told him. "In a way, you've been Rasalom's nemesis since his rebirth—since before his rebirth. Is there anyone alive today—besides me—who Rasalom hates more? Anyone Rasalom has tried to harm so dreadfully? Is there anyone else from this age who has actually harmed Rasalom? No. Only you, Bill."

Yes. It was Bill. It had to be Bill. He was perfect—a holy man's soul and a warrior's heart. Bill had drawn first blood and had withstood the death, misery, and horror of Rasalom's vicious campaign to break him.

They were made to face off against each other.

Although at the moment Bill looked anything but the fearless standard bearer.

"Yeah," Jack said, smiling tightly. "It's you, Bill. I should've seen it."

Carol was clutching Bill's arm, but she let go as he moved forward. She stood back with her eyes fixed on the hilt and both hands pressed tight against her face, covering her mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bill reached out with trembling hands and took the hilt from Ba.

"It can't be me," he said.

Ba stepped aside, clearing the path to the blade.

Like a sleepwalker, Bill shuffled to the blade, fitted the tip of the spike into the opening—and paused. He looked around.

"It's not me," he said. "I know it's not." But his hoarse voice lacked conviction.

Bill didn't shove the hilt down, he merely let it fall upon the spike. Once again, Glaeken averted his eyes…

But nothing happened.

Bill stepped back from the instrument, his entire body trembling.

"I—I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"Well, then, who is it?" Carol said in a high voice verging on anger. "It's got to be somebody!" She turned to Glaeken. "And who said it has to be a man?"

Glaeken had no answer for that, and Carol wasn't waiting for one anyway. She stepped forward, lifted the hilt, and rammed it back down.

Nothing.

"Don't tell me we went through all this for nothing!" she said. "It's gotto—"

She spotted the watcher at the far end of the room. "Sylvia! Sylvia, you try it. Please."

Sylvia wiped away a tear. "I don't…"

"Just come over and do it."

Leading Jeffy by the hand, Sylvia approached the instrument. She made eye contact with no one.

"This is a waste of time," she said.

The words proved too true. She released Jeffy, lifted the hilt, and rammed it home with no more effect than anyone before her.