Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [161]
“They are on their way to the Grove?” the witch asked with a touch of impatience.
“So the betrayer said,” the warlock responded, “and we have no reason to doubt him.”
Betrayer! Sickness swept over Mosiah, wrenching his bowels, bringing a hot, bitter bile to his throat. So that was the answer. They had been betrayed, and now Joram was walking into a carefully laid trap. But who had turned them in? A vision of a bearded young man in white robes, wafting a bit of orange silk in the air, came vividly to Mosiah.
Simkin! He choked. Tears of rage stung his eyes. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll kill you!
Calm, calm, his mind commanded. There’s a chance. You must find Joram, warn him …
Mosiah forced himself to forget, to concentrate on one thing — escape. Cautiously, he moved a hand, holding his breath for fear the Duuk-tsarith would notice. But they were absorbed in their conversation, confident that their spell held the young man captive. Mosiah let his hand crawl silently over the ground and his heart leaped when his fingers touched the rough surface of a stick. Never mind that it was a tool, that he would be giving Life to that which was Lifeless.
His hand closed over the weapon. Raising his head ever so slightly, he peered upward. Elation flooded his body. The warlock stood with his back to him. A swift blow to the head, keep the limp body between himself and the witch, use it to block her spell. Mosiah’s grip tightened on the stick. His muscles bunched. He sprang to his feet —
Cords of Kij vine sprouting sharp thorns leaped from the ground and wrapped themselves around the young man’s upper arms and thighs. With an agonized cry, Mosiah dropped the stick as the thorns pierced his flesh and the vines bound him tight. Toppling over, he lay writhing in the grass at the feet of the warlock, who turned to look at him in some astonishment, then glanced apprehensively at the witch.
“Yes, you erred,” she said to the warlock, who bowed his head, chagrined. “I will deal with your punishment later. Now, our time is short. I know his face. I must now hear his voice.”
Kneeling beside the struggling Mosiah, the witch laid her hand upon him and the thorns suddenly vanished. With a gurgling sigh, Mosiah rolled over on the grass, moaning. Blood oozed from a hundred small puncture wounds, sliding down his arms, staining his clothes.
“What is your name?” the witch asked coolly, turning the young man’s sweaty, pain-twisted face toward her, studying it intently.
Mosiah shook his head, or at least tried to; it was more of a spasmodic jerk.
Her face expressionless, the witch spoke a word and Mosiah caught his breath in fear as the thorns began to grow on the vines again, this time merely pricking his flesh but not digging into it.
“Not yet,” said the witch, reading his thoughts on his pale face, seeing the eyes widen. “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, his mistake obviously rankling him.
“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 warlock’s 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