Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [24]
“It’s started!” Andon cried in a panic. Hastening out the door, he broke into a tottering run. Joram and Mosiah dashed after him. There was nothing for the catalyst to do but gather up his robes and follow, running as fast as he could to catch up.
“Ah, ha,” reflected Simkin, flitting along merrily behind. “Maybe I’ll attend a funeral after all.”
6
Ambushed!
“Here’s the catalyst! I told you the old man would fetch him!”
Saryon heard the words and caught an indistinct impression of movement out of the corner of his eye. He heard Mosiah cry out, then Simkin shriek, “Let loose of me, you great, hairy beast!” Then everything was a confusion of panic, futile struggle, and grunting voices.
“Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”
A hand caught hold of Saryon’s wrist, wrenching his arm behind his back. Pain seared like flame from his elbow to his shoulder, and Saryon gasped. But he was astonished to find himself more angry than afraid. Perhaps it was because he sensed the fear of his captors. He could hear it in the harsh, heavy breathing and the husky voices. He could smell it, a rank odor mingled with sweat and the fumes of the false courage Blachloch’s men had been gulping down from a wineskin.
The attack was swift and sudden. The warlocks henchmen may not have been smart in many respects, but they were skilled and knowledgeable at their trade. Having been sent to fetch the catalyst, they had seen Andon enter the prison and guessed that the old man would inadvertently deliver Saryon into their hands. Ducking back into an alley, the former henchmen of the late warlock had waited for the group to pass by, and the fight was over practically before it had begun.
Pinned in the grip of one brawny thug, Joram could not reach his sword. Mosiah lay facedown in the street, blood streaming from a cut on his head, a booted foot planted firmly on the back of his neck. The guards flung Andon to one side; the old man lay like a discarded doll in the street, blinking dazedly up at the sky. One man held Saryon, twisting the catalyst’s arm painfully behind his back. As for Simkin, he had completely disappeared. The guard who had jumped the gayly clad figure now stood staring at his empty hands in disbelief.
One of the thugs, obviously the leader, glanced around the field of battle to make certain the quarry had been run to the ground. Then, satisfied, he came to stand before Saryon. “Catalyst, grant me Life!” he demanded, making some attempt to imitate the cool, intimidating manner of the late Blachloch.
But these were common criminals, not disciplined Duuk-tsarith. Saryon saw the leader’s eyes shift nervously from him to the empty street, glancing in the direction of the forge. Sounds of shouts and cries indicated something was going on up there. The Sorcerers were going to war. Saryon shook his head, and the thug lost control.
“Damn it, Catalyst, now!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Break his arm!” he ordered the man who held Saryon.
“Almin’s blood, Catalyst, don’t be a fool!” Joram said. “Do as he says. Grant him Life.”
The man holding Saryon gave his arm another expert twist. Biting his lips to keep from crying out in pain, the catalyst glanced at Joram in astonishment, only to see the young man’s dark eyes flick quickly and meaningfully to Mosiah.
“Yes, Father,” Mosiah mumbled, his cheek pressed down into the mud and filth of the street by the foot of the guard. Though it was impossible that he could have seen Joram, he had picked up on the subtle emphasis in the voice. “Do as they say. Grant Life!”
“Very well,” said the catalyst, bowing his head in apparent defeat. The look of relief on the leader’s face was almost pathetic.
Trying desperately to concentrate through the pain, Saryon began to repeat the prayer that drew the magic from the world and focused it within his body. Fortunately it was a prayer he had learned as a child, so he did not have to think about it. There was no time to determine the amount of Life he could safely extend