Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [16]
“So, what project are they working on today, Priest?”
Saryon started. He had the vague awareness that this was the second time the guard had asked the question, but he had been so lost in his thoughts he had not noticed.
“Uh, a special weapon … for the … the kingdom of Sharakan, I believe,” Saryon stammered, flushing uncomfortably. The guard nodded and lapsed into his uneasy silence again, darting swift, suspicious glances from the corners of his eyes at the townspeople they met as they continued toward the forge.
Saryon knew he was safe in mentioning Sharakan. A large kingdom lying well to the north of the Outland, Sharakan was preparing for war and had incurred the wrath, and fear, of the catalysts by daring to seek out the Sorcerers of the Dark Art and engage their help. Thus, for the past year, the Sorcerers had been working day and night, forging iron arrow-points, spear-points and daggers. Enhanced by the powerful magic of Sharakan’s own warlocks, these weapons could make them an extremely formidable enemy. And, right now, the iron dagger of Sharakan was pointed directly at the ancient and beautiful throat of the kingdom of Merilon.
No wonder Bishop Vanya was frightened. In this, Saryon did not blame him, and, as he thought about it, his heart almost misgave him. The Order of catalysts had kept the peace among the various kingdoms of Thimhallan for centuries. Now it was unraveling, the frail fabric being ripped apart. Sharakan made no secret of its plans for conquest and, though the Church was doing its best to keep this from the rest of the world lest it start a panic, rumors were spreading and fear was growing daily.
But surely, Saryon thought, now that Blachloch is dead, that will all end! Andon, the wise, elderly leader, was opposed to this talk of war among the Sorcerers. With Blachloch no longer around to foment the idea, the old man could bring his people back to their senses.
I will warn him of their danger before we leave, Saryon thought. I will tell him that Blachloch was leading them into a trap. I —
“Here we are,” announced the guard, catching hold of the catalyst, who had, in his dark musings, nearly stumbled headlong into the forge. Once again cognizant of his surroundings, Saryon heard the pounding of the hammers and the harsh breathing of the bellows, like the heart and lungs of some great beast, its eyes gleaming fiery red from the darkness of the lair in which it crouched. The beast’s master, the smith, stood within the doorway. A giant of a man, skilled in both magic and technology, the smith led the faction of Sorcerers who favored war. He favored it, however, without interference from Blachloch. No one would be more pleased to hear of the warlocks death than the smith. And there was no doubt that the henchmen had much to fear from this big man and the large number of Sorcerers who supported him.
The smith was talking with several young men now. Seeing the guard, they broke off their conversation. The young men drew back into the shadows of the cave where the forge was housed, and the smith returned to his work, though not before he cast the guard a glance of cool defiance.
“Father …” There came a touch on his arm.
Saryon looked around behind him, startled.
“Mosiah!” he cried, reaching out to clutch the young man thankfully. “How did you esca —” Glancing at the guard, he broke off. “That is, we were worried —”
“Father,” said Mosiah, interrupting gently, “I must speak to you. In private. It is a … spiritual matter,” he said, looking at the guard. “It will not take long.”
“All right,” the guard said grudgingly, conscious of the smith watching him closely. “But don’t get out of my sight, either of you.”
Mosiah drew Saryon into the shadows of a stable where they kept the horses for shoeing. “Father,” the young man whispered, “where are you going?”
“To — to talk with Joram. I have something … we need to discuss …” Saryon stammered.
“Is