Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [15]
Drawing the leather thong tight, Saryon shut the bag and slipped it back once more into its hiding place. He kept one rock fast in his hand, however, holding it tightly. His decision made, he moved rapidly now, plans and thoughts falling into place in his mind with the logic and clarity of the skilled mathematician.
“I must go to the forge. I must talk to Joram, convince him of our danger. We’ll escape, travel into the Outland. By the time the Duuk-tsarith arrive, we will be far away.”
Still clutching the rock in his hand, Saryon splashed water on his face and, grabbing up his cloak, flung it — all tangled and awry — around his shoulders. With a backward glance at the slumbering Simkin, he tapped on the barred window of the prison house and beckoned to one of the guards.
“What do you want, Catalyst?”
“Weren’t you given orders this morning regarding me?” Saryon asked, assuming a smile he hoped would be taken for bland innocence but which felt more like the frozen grin of a dead possum.
“No,” the guard said with a frightful scowl.
“I — um — am needed at the forge this day.” Saryon gulped. “The smith is undertaking a difficult project and has asked to be infused with Life.”
“I don’t know.” The guard hesitated. “Our orders were to keep you inside.”
“But surely those orders were for last night,” Saryon said. “Haven’t you … er … received new orders today?”
“Maybe we have and maybe we haven’t,” the guard mumbled, with an uneasy glance at the house on the hill. Following the guard’s gaze, Saryon saw a group of Blachloch’s henchmen gathering in a small, dark knot outside the door. He wished desperately he knew what was going on.
“I guess you can go,” the guard said finally. “But I’ll have to take you.”
“Of course.” Saryon checked a relieved sigh.
“Is the twit still in there?” The guard jerked his head toward the prison house.
“Who? Oh, Simkin.” The catalyst nodded.
Peering through the barred window, the guard saw the young man stretched out on the bed, his mouth wide open. His snores could be heard clearly in the street and, at that moment, he was seized with a particularly violent one that practically lifted him from the bed.
“Pity he don’t choke.” The guard opened the door, let the catalyst out, then shut it with a vicious snap. “Come on, Priest,” the guard said, and the two began their walk.
As they passed through the village streets with their rows of brick houses — houses that Saryon could still not look upon without a shudder, houses that had been made by the tools and hands of man instead of molded from the elements by magic — the catalyst noticed the restlessness growing among the people. Many men had given up all pretense of working and now stood around in small groups, talking in low tones, glaring at the guard as he passed with grim defiance.
“Aye, just wait,” the guard muttered, glaring back at them. “We’ll take care of you shortly.” But Saryon noticed that Blachloch’s henchman said this beneath his breath. Clearly, he was nervous and worried.
The catalyst did not blame him. Five years ago, the man called Blachloch had appeared in the Sorcerers’ village. Claiming to be a renegade from the ranks of the powerful Duuk-tsarith, the warlock had easily wrested control from Andon — the gentle, old man who was the leader of the Coven. Bringing in his henchmen — thieves and murderers sent expressly by the Duuk-tsarith for this purpose — the warlock tightened his grip upon the Sorcerers, ruling through both fear and the promise that it was now time for the Sorcerers to rise up and take back their proper place in the world. But there were those