Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [17]
“What rumor?” the catalyst asked uneasily.
“Blachloch…. He’s missing.” Mosiah regarded Saryon intently. “Hadn’t you heard?”
“No.” Saryon averted his eyes and drew further back into the shadows.
“They’ve sent a search party into the wilderness.”
“How — how do you know?”
“I was at Blachloch’s house when Simkin came to tell the warlocks men the news.”
“Simkin?” Saryon stared at Mosiah. “When? What did he say?”
“Early this morning. You see, Father,” Mosiah continued hurriedly, his eyes on the guard, “last night, after you and Joram left, the guards came and took me away. Blachloch wanted to question me, or something like that, they said. When we arrived at the house, he wasn’t there. Someone said he’d gone with you to the forge. We waited, but he never came back. Some of his men went to the forge looking for him and couldn’t find him. Then, near morning, Simkin turned up with a story about how Blachloch had gone into the woods to settle an old score with centaurs —”
Saryon groaned.
Mosiah looked at the catalyst intently.
“This isn’t news to you, Father, is it? I didn’t think it would be. What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you now!” Saryon said in a low voice. “How did you get away?”
“Just walked off in the confusion. I came to warn Andon. Blachloch’s men are gathering up there, making plans to take over the village and crush any rebellion before it starts. They’ve got weapons — clubs and knives and bows —”
“Hey, come along! I ain’t got all day,” the guard shouted, obviously eager to escape the smith’s wrathful gaze.
“I’ve got to go,” Saryon said, starting for the forge.
“I’m coming with you,” Mosiah said firmly.
“No! Go back to the cell! Keep an eye on Simkin!” Saryon ordered desperately. “The Almin knows what he’ll say or do next!”
“Yes,” Mosiah said, after an instant’s consideration, “that’s probably a good idea. You’ll be coming back?”
“Yes, yes!” Saryon answered hastily. He saw the guard glance at the young man uncertainly, as though thinking it odd that Mosiah was free to walk the streets. But if the guard had any intentions of stopping Mosiah, another glance at the frowning smith caused him to reconsider.
“The priest here says he’s come to help you with some special project,” the guard said to the smith, each eyeing the other darkly.
“You know … the special project, for Sharakan,” Saryon added, licking his dry lips. The sound of hammering from the back ceased. The catalyst saw Joram looking at him, his black eyes gleaming as red as the coals in the pit. “The project the young man Joran is working on …” Saryon’s voice gave out, his well of lies run dry.
A smile twitched on the smith’s lips, but he only shrugged and said, “Aye, that project.” He made a gesture with a blackened hand. “Go on back, Father. Not you!” he ordered in a stern voice, glaring at the guard. The guard’s face flushed, but the smith lifted his gigantic hammer, holding it easily in one huge fist. With a muttered curse, the guard backed off. Turning on his heel, he headed up the street toward the house on the hill.
“Better hurry, Father,” the smith said coolly. “There’s going to be trouble and you don’t want to be caught in the middle, I’ll wager.”
The smith struck a horseshoe he was holding in his tongs a ringing blow with his hammer. Saryon, glancing at it, saw that the horseshoe was stone cold, already shaped and finished, in fact. The crowd of young men had reappeared, converging in front of the cavern entrance. Their numbers appeared to be growing.
“Yes, thank you,” the catalyst said. “I — I’ll be quick.”
Hardly able to hear himself think over the hammering, Saryon made his way through the clutter of the forge. Memories of last night assailed him. His gaze went involuntarily to the place on the floor where the warlocks bleeding body had rested —
“Almin’s blood! What are you doing here?” Joram swore through clenched teeth. A red-hot, glowing spear-point lay on the anvil before him. He started to lift it with the tongs, to plunge it into a bucket of water. But Saryon stopped him with a hand on his arm.