Triumph of the Darksword Read Online Free PDF

myself.” He looked at the floor, ashamed. “I know I should have, but I couldn’t bear to see Saryon to see him changed.” Coughing, he cleared his throat.
    “I know, my son. I understand.” Radisovik laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “I heard about your ordeal and it must have been a terrible one. None can blame you for not wanting to travel to that awful place until you were stronger.”
    “I must go. I need to go,” Mosiah said stubbornly, as though arguing with himself. “I need to make myself realize that it was real. That it all truly happened. Then maybe I can accept it, or understand it.”
    “I doubt if we will ever understand,” said Radisovik, watching the young man intently, his eyes noting every nuance of expression in the open, guileless face. “But certainly we must come to accept what has passed, lest rage and bitterness gnaw at us and prevent us from living out our own lives.”
    He paused, waiting to see if Mosiah said anything more. The young man, struggling with his emotions, appeared incapable of speech, however. The Cardinal shrugged imperceptively and, speaking a word of prayer, caused a Corridor to open in the room, creating an oval void of nothingness in the air.
    “Go with the Almin’s blessing, Mosiah,” Radisovik said as the young man, with a flushed face, mumbled and coughed his thanks. “May you find the peace you seek.”
    The Corridor elongated. The young man stepped inside, and the pathway through space and time formed by the ancients long ago closed around him. Mosiah vanished from the room.
    Staring after him, his brow creased, Cardinal Radisovik shook his head. “What secret gnaws at your heart, young man?” he murmured. “I wonder….”
    The Corridor closed around Mosiah with its familiar squeezing effect, as though he were being dragged through a small, dark tunnel. The young man experienced a terrifying moment of panic, recalling with horrible vividness the last time he had traveled this route….
    Her face expressionless, the witch spoke a word and Mosiah caught his breath in fear as the thorns began to grow on the Kij vines again, this time merely pricking his flesh but not digging into it.
    “Not yet,” said the witch, reading his thoughts. “But they will grow and keep on growing until they pierce right through skin and muscle and organs, tearing out your life with them. Now, I ask you again. What is your name?”
    “Why? What can it matter?” Mosiah groaned. “You know it!”
    “Humor me,” the witch said and spoke another word. The thorns grew another fraction of an inch.
    “Mosiah!” He tossed his head in agony. “Mosiah! Damn it! Mosiah, Mosiah, Mosiah.
    Then their plan penetrated the haze of pain. Mosiah choked, trying to swallow his words. Watching in horror, he saw the witch become Mosiah. Her face—his face. Her clothes—his clothes. Her voice—his voice.
    “What do we do with him?” the warlock asked in subdued tones.
    “Throw him in the Corridor and send him to the Outland,” the witch—now Mosiah—said, rising to her feet.
    “No!”
    Mosiah tried to fight the warlocks strong hands that dragged him to his feet, but the tiniest movement drove the thorns into his body and he slumped over with an anguished cry. “Joram!” he yelled desperately as he
saw
the dark void
of the Corridor open within the foliage. “Joram!” he shouted, hoping his friend would hear, yet knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. “Run! It’s a trap! Run!”
    The warlock thrust him into the Corridor. It began to squeeze shut, pressing in on him. The thorns stabbed his flesh, his blood flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of the witch—now himself—watching him, her face—his face—expressionless.
    Then, she spread her hands.
    “It’s all the rage,” he saw himself say.
    What happened after that, Mosiah couldn’t be certain. Mercifully, he lost consciousness in the Corridor. When he came to, days later, he