Triumph of the Darksword (44 page)

“Open a Corridor, Father!” he snarled.

“I can’t!” Saryon gasped.

Another crack split the air. Menju flung himself back against his column. Saryon shrank down, huddling near the floor. Joram appeared too weak to move, perhaps even to care. He held the Darksword in a limp grasp. His wound was bleeding again, the stain on his sleeve was growing larger.

Worriedly, the catalyst looked from Joram back to Gwen. He could barely see her. Somehow the dead had managed to persuade her to find shelter behind the crumbling altar. A dusty beam of sunlight pouring through a crack in the ceiling shone upon her golden hair and lit her bright blue eyes.

Menju followed his gaze. “Take us out of here, Catalyst, or by the gods I’ll use this on her!” He pointed the weapon at Gwendolyn. “Unless you can move faster than the speed of light, Joram, don’t try anything.”

“Joram, stop!” Laying a restraining hand on his friends arm, Saryon turned to face the magician. “I cannot open a Corridor in here because there is none to open!”

“You’re lying?” The Sorcerer kept the phaser aimed at Gwen.

“I would to the Almin I were!” Saryon said fervently. “There is no Corridor within the Temple of the Necromancer! This was sanctified ground, a holy place, the Necromancers alone were permitted to enter it. They never allowed a Corridor to be opened here. The only one is out there”—Saryon nodded—“near the altar stone.”

“And the Executioner knows it!” Joram said grimly. Sweat covered his forehead, his damp hair curled around his pale face. “That’s why he’s taken up his position there.”

Glancing at Saryon, Menju studied the catalyst’s face intently, then—with a curse—lowered his weapon. “So we are trapped in here!”

Another sharp crack blasted into the stone column near the Sorcerer, a chip of rock grazing his face. Cursing, he wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and started to fire again. Then he stopped, staring thoughtfully out across the plains. “We are trapped,” he repeated, reaching into the pocket of his robes, “but not for long.”

Bringing out a second small metal device, he pressed his thumb against it. A light blinked on and a scratching noise came from within it, sounding to Saryon like an animal with long claws struggling to escape.

Lifting the device to his mouth, the Sorcerer spoke to it.

“Major Boris! Major Boris!”

A voice came back, but it was accompanied by so much scratching that it was difficult to understand the words. The Sorcerer, scowling, shook the metal device slightly. “Major Boris!” he called again angrily.

Saryon stared at the device in horror.

“Blessed Almin!” he whispered to Joram. “Does he have this Major Boris trapped in there?”

“No,” Joram answered wearily, almost smiling. He remained standing, but only, it seemed, by sheer force of will. “The Major is in Merilon. He carries a device like that one. Through it, the two men can communicate with each other. No, hush! Let me hear!” He motioned Saryon to silence.

Saryon could not understand what Menju was saying; the man was speaking in his own language. He watched Joram’s face for a clue as to what was happening.

Seeing his friend’s lips press together in a straight, grim line, Saryon asked softly, “What is it?”

“He’s called for an air strike. They’re diverting one of the assault ships from the attack on Merilon and sending it here.”

“Yes, a simple way out, really,” said the Sorcerer complacently, shutting off the device and returning it to his robes. “The ship’s lasers will sweep the entire Garden, effectively incinerating our friend with the gun. Then the ship will land and transport us away from here. There will be a medic on board, Joram. He will give you a stimulant to keep you going
so that you can assist me in winning the battle of Merilon with the Darksword. Always keeping in mind, of course, that I’ll have your lovely wife close at hand, not to mention the catalyst, both of whom will suffer if you should attempt to—how shall I put it?—upstage me.”

Thrusting back the sleeve of his robe, Menju glanced at a device he wore on his wrist. “It will arrive in a matter of minutes.”

If Saryon didn’t understand the unfamiliar words, he understood their import. He looked at Joram. His face was expressionless, his eyes closed. Was he so despairing, so defeated,
so
hurt that he would give in? Was it, as he said, senseless to keep fighting?

Saryon tried to pray to the Almin, tried to summon that Presence, tried desperately to grab hold of the Hand held out to him. But fear caught hold of the catalyst instead. Clutching his throat with fingers of stone, it choked off Saryon’s faith. The Hand wavered, then disappeared, and the catalyst realized bitterly that it had all been just a delusion.

A
low humming sound grew gradually louder and louder. Saryon, starting, saw a look of satisfaction on Menju’s face. The magician’s gaze was fixed expectantly on the sky and Saryon risked peeping out past the column. It occurred to him, as he did so, that there had been no more projectiles hurled at them in the last few minutes. Perhaps the Executioner had given up.

“A fool’s dream!” Saryon muttered to himself bitterly. He scanned the clear blue sky, seeing nothing, although the humming sound was becoming increasingly loud. The Executioner would never give up, never admit he had failed in his assigned task. His Order considered death the only excuse for failure, and the Executioner would not be an easy man to kill. Although Joram had drained him of some of his magical Life, he was still a threat, still a danger. He was, after all, one of the most powerful warlocks in Thimhallan.

Does this Sorcerer from another world realize what he’s up against? Saryon wondered, glancing at Menju speculatively.
Noting the man’s calm demeanor, his smile of self-assurance, Saryon doubted it. After all, Menju had been young when he was cast out of this world—only twenty, so Joram had said. He probably knew little of the
Duuk-tsarith
, knew little about the many powers of their Order: the acute sense of hearing that allowed them to detect the approach of a butterfly by the fluttering of its wings, the keen powers of sight that let them see through a man’s skull into his thoughts.

Menju was pleased with his newly recovered abilities in magic, but he had forgotten its true power. He regarded it as a toy, an amusement, nothing more. When the crisis came, he preferred to trust in his Technology.

“There is the strike ship,” he said crisply. “It won’t be long now.” He flicked a glance at Joram. “Is our friend able to walk, Father? You’ll have to help him I’ve got to direct the ship’s fire.”

He spoke into the device again. This time the scratching sound was considerably lessened, the voices speaking back from within the contraption he held in his hand were clearer and Saryon judged—from the intent manner in which Menju stared into the heavens as he talked—that he was communicating with whatever monster he had summoned to do his bidding.

Following the magician’s gaze, Saryon could still see nothing and was just wondering if the creature was invisible when a flaring glint caught his eye. He gasped, having been unprepared for the tremendous swiftness with which the thing traveled. At one instant it was very small, a brightly shining star that had gotten mixed up and burst out during the day instead of night. The next instant, the thing was larger than the sun, then larger than ten suns. He could see it clearly now, and he stared in shock.

The catalyst had not been present at the battle at the Field of Glory. He had only heard descriptions of the great creatures of
iron
, the
strange
humans with silver skin and metal heads. This was the first time he had seen one of these creations of the Dark Arts, and his soul trembled with fear and awe.

The monster was made of silver, its body glistening in the sun. It had wings, but they were stiff and unmoving, and Saryon was at a loss to understand how it flew so rapidly.

The monster had no head or neck. Blinking, multicolored eyes sprouted on the top of its body. The only sound it made was the humming noise, now so loud that it practically drowned out Menju’s voice.

Saryon felt Joram’s hand, warm and reassuring, on his arm.

“Steady, Father,” Joram said softly. Drawing him near, he added in a low voice, “Make it appear as though you are tending my wound.”

Glancing at the magician, who was absorbed in his monster summoning, Saryon leaned closer to Joram.

“We can’t allow him to take us on board that ship. When he moves us out there, watch for my signal.” Joram paused, then said softly, “When it comes, get Gwen out of the way.”

Saryon was silent for a moment, unable to reply. When he did, it was in a husky voice. “My son, even with the Darksword you can’t fight them all! Do you know what you are saying?” He kept his head lowered, pretending to concern himself with the wound. Joram’s hand, touching his face, made him look lip and he saw the answer in Joram’s clear, brown eyes.

“It will be better this way, Father,” he said simply.

“What about your wife?” Saryon asked, when he could speak for the burning ache in his chest.

Joram looked toward the back of the Temple, where Gwendolyn sat amid the shadows, the single bright ray of light glistening in her hair. “She fell in love with a Dead man, who brought her nothing but grief.” The dark, ironic smile twisted his lips. “It seems I can be of more use to her dead than alive. And at least”—he breathed a sigh, half-bitter, half-wistful—“perhaps she will talk to me then.” His hand tightened around Saryon’s arm. “I leave her in your care, Father.”

My son, I will not live through this! were the words in Saryon’s heart and they very nearly burst out. But he checked them, swallowing them with his tears. No, it was better that Joram find peace in his last moments.

I will hold him in my arms as I held him when he was a baby. And when the brown eyes close forever and he is at rest, when the struggle that has been his life is finally ended,
then I will rise up and, in my clumsy, fumbling way, I will strike out at the cold and uncaring Presence until I, too, fall.

A blinding flash followed by an explosion jolted Saryon from his bleak imaginings. A beam of light from the monster struck the ground near the altar stone, blowing a gigantic hole in the dirt not far from where Simkin’s body lay. Wisps of smoke curled into the air. The metal creature, hovering overhead, was slowly sinking down toward the ground. Menju shouted into the device, his voice questioning.

“What is he saying?” Saryon whispered.

“He’s asking if they destroyed the warlock.” Joram paused, listening, then he looked up at the catalyst with grim amusement. “They say they did. At least, no life registers on their screens.”

“No life! Fools,” Saryon muttered, but—catching a warning glance from Joram—he fell silent. Menju drew near them, keeping a wary eye on the Garden.

“Our gun-toting friend is finished apparently,” the magician said. “Let’s get ready to move out.” He gestured toward the rear of the Temple. “Unless you want your wife to remain here, Joram, and become a permanent member of her own fan club, you had better get her away from those ghoulish bodyguards.”

“I will bring her,” offered Saryon.

The catalyst moved slowly, a prey to despair that clutched at his footsteps and caught at the skirts of his robes, threatening to drag him down.

Gwendolyn sat on the dusty floor behind the broken altar, her head resting against a large stone urn. She did not look up as Saryon approached, but stared straight ahead into nothing. The catalyst gazed at her pityingly. Her golden hair was bedraggled, her gown torn and dirty. She had no care for where she was or what was happening, no care for Joram, no care for herself.

“Hurry up, Father!” Menju ordered peremptorily, “or we will leave her behind. You will serve me as hostage just as well.”

Maybe that would be kinder, Saryon thought, reaching out his hand. Gwen glanced up at him. Docile as always, she appeared perfectly willing to come with him and started to
rise up from her hiding place behind the altar. But invisible hands, catching hold of her, held her back.

In the one shaft of sunlight filtering through the dust, Saryon could almost see the unseen eyes staring at him suspiciously, the mouths silently shouting to him to leave the sacred ground he was violating. So vivid was this impression that he very nearly put his hands over his ears to blot out the sound he couldn’t hear, closing his eyes to the sight of the anger and distress he couldn’t see. This is madness! he thought, panicking.

“Father!” Menju said warningly.

Saryon took hold of Gwen’s hand firmly. “I am grateful for what you have done,” he called out to the empty air. “But she is among the living still. She does not belong to you. You must let her go.”

For an instant it seemed he failed. Gwen’s chill fingers closed over his, but when he tried to pull her toward him, he met a resistance so strong that he might well have tried to pull the Temple from the side of the mountain.

“Please!” he begged urgently, tugging Gwendolyn forward, the dead pulling her back. A wild impulse to laugh hysterically at this absurd situation overtook him. He choked on it, knowing that his laughter must end in him breaking down and sobbing like a frightened child. The shouts of the silent voices around him reverberated in his ears, though he couldn’t hear a word.