Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [23]
“But surely Andon won’t let them now that he knows —”
“It’s not our problem anymore!” Joram interrupted tersely. “It doesn’t matter to us. At least, not to me.” He cinched the bundle together tightly and slung it over his back. “You and Simkin can stay here if you want.”
“And let you and the bald-headed wonder go traipsing off into the wilds alone?” said Simkin indignantly. “I couldn’t sleep nights, thinking of it.” With a wave of his hand, he shifted his attire. His red clothes changed to an ugly greenish brown. A long gray traveling cloak settled over his shoulders, hip-high leather boots crawled slowly up his legs. A cocked hat with a long, drooping pheasant feather appeared on his head. “Back to Muck and Mud,” he said gloomily.
“You’re not going with us!” Mosiah said.
“Us?” Joram repeated. “I didn’t know we were going anywhere?”
“You know I’ll go,” Mosiah retorted. “I’m glad,” Joram said quietly.
Mosiah flushed in pleasure at the unexpected warmth in his friend’s voice, but his pleasure didn’t last long.
“Of course, I’m going,” Simkin struck in loftily. “Who else do you have to guide you? I’ve come and gone safely through the Outland for years. How about you? Do you know the way?”
“Perhaps not,” Mosiah said, eyeing Simkin darkly. “But I’d a damn sight rather be lost in the Outland than guided to wherever it is you’ve got in mind. I don’t want to end up the husband of the Faerie Queen!” he added, with a glance at the catalyst.
Saryon appeared so alarmed at this reminder of a near disastrous adventure he’d had with Simkin as guide, that Joram cut in. “Simkin goes,” he said firmly. “Perhaps we could make it through the Outland without him, but he’s the only one who can get us in to where we want to go.”
The catalyst regarded Joram with concern, having a sudden chilled feeling he knew the young man’s destination. But before he could say a word, Joram continued, “Besides, Simkin’s magic can help us get past Blachloch’s men.”
“That’s nothing to worry about!” Simkin scoffed. “There’s always the Corridors, after all.”
“No!” Saryon cried, his voice hoarse with fear. “Would you walk into the arms of the Duuk-tsarith?”
“Well, then, I could change us all into rabbits,” Simkin offered after a moment’s profound thought. “Get away in a hop, skip, and —”
“Father?” called a quavering voice from outside the prison window. “Father Saryon? Are you in there?”
“Andon!” cried the catalyst, flinging open the door. “Name of the Almin, what’s the matter?”
The old Sorcerer appeared ready to drop on the spot. His hands trembled, the usually mild eyes were wild, his clothes disordered. “Joram, bring a chair,” Saryon ordered, but Andon shook his head.
“No time!” He was gasping for breath, and they realized he had been running. “You must come, Father.” The old man clutched at Saryon. “You must talk them out of it! After all these years! They must not fight!”
“Andon,” said Saryon firmly, “please, be calm. You will only make yourself ill. That’s it. Breathe deeply. Now, tell me what’s going on!”
“The smith!” Andon said, his thin chest rising and falling more slowly. “He’s planning to attack Blachloch’s men!” The old man wrung his hands. “He and his band of young hotheads may already be on their way to the warlock’s house! I am thankful to see” — the old man looked at Joram and Mosiah bleakly — “that you are not among them.”
“I don’t think there’s anything I can do, my friend,” Saryon started to reply sadly, but Joram caught hold of the catalyst’s arm.
“We’ll come with you, Andon,” he said, giving Saryon a meaningful glance. “You will think of something, I am certain, Catalyst,” he continued, nudging Saryon. “The perfect time for one of your sermons.” Moving closer, he whispered fiercely, “This is our chance!”
Saryon shook his head. “I don’t see —”
“In the confusion, we’ll escape!” Joram hissed, exasperated. He glanced quickly at Mosiah and Simkin, both of whom appeared to comprehend his plan at once. At that moment, screams and shouts could be heard, coming from the direction of the forge. Somewhere