Read more
Informationen zum Autor Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Klappentext Volume III in the heroic saga of magic, betrayal and adventure, The Darksword Trilogy. In the realm where magic is life, Joram was one of the Dead. Born without power, he was denies his royal birthright and sentenced to the Turning-his mind to be imprisoned inside a husk of living stone. Yet at the last moment, Saryon took his place, suffering the eternal torment for his young master, And joram and his wife Gwendolyn vanished into the mists that marked the Border of the World. . . . Now, ten years later, Joram and Gwendolyn have returned to reclaim their rightful place in Merilon. Wielding one last time the terrible, magic-thirsting Darksword, Joram must confront the evil sorcerer Menju and his army of Technologists from beyond the Border in a final apocalyptic battle. Rejoined by Saryon, the mage Mosiah and Simkin, Joram will fulfill the ancient prophecy of the Darksword-the prophecy that puts in his hands the power to destroy the world . . . or save it.The Watchers had guarded the Border of Thimhallan for centuries. It was their enforced task, through sleepless night and dreary day, to keep watch along the boundary that separated the magical realm from whatever lay Beyond. What did lie Beyond? The ancients knew. They had come to this world, fleeing a homeland where they were no longer wanted, and they knew what lay on the other side of those shifting mists. To protect themselves from it, they encompassed their world in a magical barrier, decreeing that the Watchers be placed on its Border—eternal, sleepless guards. But now it was forgotten. The tides of centuries had worn away the memory. If there was a threat from beyond the Border, no one worried about it, for how could it pass the magic barrier? The Watchers kept their silent vigil still—they had no choice. And when the mists parted for the first time in centuries, when a figure stepped out of the shifting gray fog and put his foot upon the sand, the Watchers were appalled and cried out their warning. But there were none, now, who knew how to listen to words of stone. Thus the man’s return was unheralded, unannounced. He had gone forth in silence and in silence he returned. The Watchers shrieked, “Beware, Thimhallan! Your doom has come! The Border has been crossed!” But no one heard them. There were those who might have heard the silent cries, had they been attentive. Bishop Vanya, for one. He was the highest ranking catalyst in the land and, as such, it seemed likely that his god, the Almin, would have called His minister’s attention to such a calamity. But it was dinner time. His Holiness was entertaining guests and, though the Bishop prayed beautifully and devoutly over the meal, everyone had the distinct feeling that the Almin really hadn’t been invited. Prince Xavier should have heard the warnings of the stone Watchers. He was a warlock, after all—DKarn-duuk, a War Master, and one of the most powerful magi in the land. But he had more important matters to consider. Prince Xavier—pardon, Emperor Xavier—was preparing for war with the kingdom of Sharakan and there was only one thing more important to him than that. Or rather, it was all tied together. How to retrieve the Darksword, held fast in the arms of a stone statue. If he possessed this powerful sword—a weapon that could absorb magic—Sharakan must fall to his might. And so Bishop Vanya sat in his elegant chambers at the top of the mountain fastness of the Font, dining on boar’s head and piglet tails and pickled shrimp, discussing the nature and habits of marsupials with his guests, and the warnings of the Watchers were swallowed up with the wine. Prince Xavier paced about his laboratory, occasionally darting over to read the text in some musty, brittle-paged book, consider it, then shake his head wi...
