Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [186]
Shouting in exultation, Joram whirled around to face the Executioner —
— and saw Saryon.
The spell had been cast. The power of the Darksword could neither alter it, change it, nor stop it.
Saryon’s feet, limbs, and lower body were white stone, solid, unmoving. The bitter-cold numbness was rising; Joram could see it freeze the catalysts flesh as he watched, advancing upward from the groin to the waist.
“No!” Joram cried in a hollow voice, lowering the sword.
The DKarn-Duuk was shouting something. Bishop Vanya roared like a wounded animal. Joram had a vague impression of Corridors opening, black-robed figures streaming from them like ants. But that’s all they were to him — insects, nothing more.
Springing forward, Joram grasped Saryon’s arms. With a wrenching effort, the catalyst raised his hands in supplication.
“Run!” Saryon managed to utter the single word before his diaphragm froze, choking off his voice. “Run” pleaded the man’s eyes through a shadow of pain.
Rage filled Joram. Floundering through the sand, he came to stand before the Executioner. The Darksword burned blue, continuing to suck Life from the world, and the Executioner had fallen to one knee. The casting of the spell had cost him much of his energy and the Darksword was draining even more. But he managed to lift his hooded head, staring at Joram with cool detachment.
“Reverse the spell!” Joram demanded, raising the sword, “or by the Almin I swear I will strike your head from your body!”
“Do what you like!” the warlock said weakly. “The spell, once cast, cannot be called back. Not even the power of that weapon of darkness can change that!”
Blinded by tears, Joram lifted the sword to carry out his threat. The warlock waited, too drained of enrgy to move, facing his killer with grim courage.
Joram paused, raising his eyes from his enemy to look around him. Most of the catalysts had fallen to their knees in exhaustion; some had lost consciousness and lay unmoving in the sand. The Duuk-tsarith hovered on the fringes of the broken circle of fallen priests, uncertain what to do. The warlocks had felt their Life being sucked from them the moment they stepped from the Corridor. None dared approach Joram while the sword still retained its awesome power.
Their fear was reflected in the mottled skin of Bishop Vanya and the fearful eyes of Prince Xavier. Joram saw it clearly, and he smiled the bitter half smile that darkened his face. No one could stop him now and they knew it. The Darksword could blast open the Corridors, carry him anywhere in this world, and he would be lost to them once again.
A sound came from behind him, barely heard even in the deathly silence that surrounded him. It was a sigh, the last breath escaping from lungs solidified to rock.
Joram abruptly lowered the sword. Ignoring the Executioner, in whose eyes he saw swift, if puzzled relief; ignoring the Duuk-tsarith, waiting tensely to make their move; Joram turned his back upon them all and slowly made his way through the shifting sands. Coming to stand before the catalyst, he saw the entire body changed to stone; the only living flesh being the head and neck. Reaching up, Joram touched the warm cheek with his hand, stroking it gently, feeling it cool beneath his touch even as he did so.
“I understand now what I must do, Father,” Joram said softly, picking up the scabbard lying in the sand at the catalyst’s stone feet.
Lifting the Darksword, he slid it back into its scabbard and laid it gently and reverently in the catalyst’s outstretched arms.
A single tear trickled down Saryon’s face and then the eyes turned white and fixed. The spell was complete. From the feet to the head, the warm, living flesh was cold, solid rock. But the expression frozen forever on the stone face was one of sublime peace, the lips slightly