Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [185]
You are my son, echoed the catalyst’s words. I gave you life.
The chanting of the Executioner grew louder. The warlock raised his hands.
Saryon stepped to the warlocks side, standing on the man’s left as catalysts are taught to do when entering battle with their wizards. Slowly, Saryon raised the Darksword, holding it with both hands just beneath the hilt.
Joram, his eyes on the catalyst, saw that Saryon held not the sword itself, but the scabbard. His pulse quickened, his muscles twitched. It was all he could do to hold himself stiffly in the center of the wheel that had been trampled almost to oblivion in the sand beneath his feet. He kept his gaze upon Saryon and the sword. The Duuk-tsarith moved away from him, retreating to the edges of the circle of catalysts.
Joram stood alone upon the sand.
With a loud cry, muffled by his hood, the Executioner called for Life. Head bowed, each catalyst concentrated all his energy upon the warlock, drawing magic from the world. Opening their conduits, they sent Life flowing into the wizards body. So powerful were the focused energies of all the catalysts that the magic was visible — blue flame swirled about the bodies and clasped hands of the priests. Flaring like blue lightning, it leaped from them into the body of the Executioner.
Suffused with power, the man pointed both hands at Joram. When he spoke next, the spell would be cast, the Turning would begin.
The Executioner drew a breath. The gray hood quivered. He uttered the first syllable of the first word and, at that moment, Saryon hurled himself forward, the catalysts body interposing itself between the Executioner and Joram. The blue light, darting from the warlock’s hand, struck Saryon. Gasping in pain, he tried to take a step, but he could not move.
His feet and ankles were white, solid stone.
“My son!” Saryon cried, his gaze never shifting from Joram, “the sword!” With his last strength, even as the terrible, cold numbness was spreading up into his knees, Saryon flung the weapon from him.
The Darksword fell at Joram’s feet. But the young man might have been changed to stone as well. He could only stare at Saryon, dazed and horror-stricken.
“Joram, escape!” Saryon cried in an anguished voice, writhing in excruciating pain, his feet frozen to the sand.
Black shadows seen out of the corner of his eye brought Joram to his senses. Anger and grief propelled him to action. Reaching down, he drew the sword from its scabbard in one swift stroke and turned to meet his enemies.
Garald’s teaching came to him. Joram swung the sword in front of him, meaning at first only to keep the Duuk-tsarith at bay until he could fall back and assess his position. But he had not counted upon the sword’s own power.
The Darksword came forth into air that was charged with magic as Life flowed from the catalysts into the Executioner. Thirsting for that Life, the Darksword began to suck the magic into itself. The arc of blue light jumped, flaming, from the Executioner to the sword. The catalysts cried out in fear, many trying to close the conduits. But it was too late. The Darksword gained in power every second and it kept the conduits open forcibly, draining the Life from everything and everyone around it.
Running forward to stop Joram, spells crackling at their fingertips, the warlocks saw a radiant blue light flare from within deep darkness. A ball of pure energy hit them with the force of an exploding star and the black-robed bodies disintegrated in a blinding flash.
The Darksword hummed triumphantly in Joram’s hands. Blue light twined from its blade around the young man’s body like a fiery vine. Dazed