Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [187]
Comforted by that look, Joram laid his head for a moment upon the stone breast. “Grant me a measure of your strength, Father,” he prayed.
Then he stepped back from the living statue, staring defiantly at the pale and fearful faces watching him.
“You call me Dead!” he shouted. His gaze went to the Empress. Bereft of the magic that gave the corpse a semblance of life, the body of the woman lay in a crumpled heap at the feet of her husband, who had not once looked down. He might have been a corpse as well, for the lifeless expression on his face.
Joram looked away, up into the blue sky. The sun had freed itself from the mists of death and was shining down upon the world in serene, uncaring bliss. The young man sighed, it might have been an echo of Saryon’s last breath.
“But it is you who have died,” he said softly, sorrowfully. “It is this world that is dead. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Turning on his heel, he walked away from the stone statue, moving slowly and resolutely across the sand. He heard the sudden commotion behind him as the warlocks surged into action, no longer afraid of the sword that lay dark and lifeless in the catalysts frozen grasp. But Joram did not quicken his pace. He walked with the Almin, no mortal could touch him.
“Stop him!” Bishop Vanya’s voice was hoarse with terror, for suddenly he saw Joram’s intent. The DKarn-Duuk leaped from the gallery, his face contorted with fury.
“Stop him at all costs!” the warlock shrieked, his red robes swirling about him like blood-tinged water.
The black-robed Duuk-tsarith cast their spells, but many had been weakened already by the power of the Darksword. Or perhaps some trace of that power lingered still about its master for no magic touched or halted Joram. He did not even glanced behind him, but continued walking, his dark, black hair blowing back from his face by a chill wind. Shreds of mist reached out to him, curling about his feet. Still he kept walking.
One sound made him hesitate, however. It was a woman voice, and it cried to him not in pleading or in regret but in love “Joram,” she called. “Wait!”
Gwendolyn’s father, a look of horror on his face tried to clasp his arms around his daughter. They closed on nothing but air. She had vanished. Some watching say that — at this moment — they caught a glimpse of a white gown and saw the sun light glinting upon golden hair before it was swallowed in the mists.
Joram kept walking. The mists of Beyond gathered thickly about him, then he was completely lost from sight. The for boiled, frothing and rolling like a pearl-gray wave to crash is utter silence upon the sandy shore at the edge of the world.
There was vast confusion among those left standing upon the beach. Bishop Vanya gave a strangled cry, clutched his throat, and pitched forward, senseless.
The DKarn-Duuk, seeing his prey escape, ran to the stone statue and tried to grab the Darksword. But the stone catalyst held it fast, some property of the metal, perhaps, fusing it to the man’s arms. Or maybe it was the scabbard, for the runes upon is glowed with a holy silver light. Whatever the case, Prince Xavier could not budge it.
Lord Samuels ran distractedly along the shoreline, crying out for his daughter. Accosting the Duuk-tsarith, he begged for their help. The black-robed figures only looked at him in cool pity and, disengaging themselves from his clutching hands stepped into the Corridors, returning to their duties within the world.
The catalysts helped each other to stand, the stronger assisting the weaken Staggering through the sand, they made them way to the Corridors that would take them home again to the Font. Any who looked at the stone statue of Saryon hastily averted their eves.
“Shall I make the man the same size as the rest, my lord?” the Executioner asked, his gaze going to the other Watchers that stood thirty feet tall.
“No!” snarled Prince Xavier, his eyes glittering. “There must be some way to retrieve that damn sword!” His hands reached out to touch it. “Some