Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [25]
In response to his prayer, the magic flowed into the catalyst. There had been a time when this holy feeling of oneness with the world gave Saryon an almost sublime feeling of pleasure. Blachloch had ended that. In granting Life to the warlock — Life that Blachloch had subverted to death — Saryon had come to hate the tingling of the blood, the thrill that went through every nerve. Now he was too tense, too eager to strike back at these murderers, to notice. But he was, once again, enjoying the experience of possessing the magic within him, even though he must soon release it. Suffused with Life, Saryon opened a conduit to Mosiah.
The magic leaped from the catalyst to the young man in a flash of blue light, an occurrence that happens only when the catalyst gives of himself completely to his wizard. The magic crackled in the air. The thug holding Saryon started, slightly loosening his grip. But in that moment, the leader realized he’d been betrayed. The blade of a knife flashed in the late afternoon sun.
Involuntarily raising his arm in a feeble attempt to fend off the attack, Saryon heard a ferocious growl. The thug holding Saryon shouted a warning, and the leader whirled around, his knife raised. He faced Mosiah, but the apparently harmless young man had changed. Fur covered his body, his teeth were fangs, his hands paws, his nails claws. The leaping werewolf crashed into the man, driving him to the ground. The knife flew from his nerveless hand as scream after scream rent the air, then ended suddenly in a horrible gurgling sound.
Turning from its victim, the werewolf’s fiery red eyes stared straight at Saryon and the catalyst could not help falling backward, feeling his soul shrivel in primal terror. Blood and saliva dripped from the creatures jaws; a rumbling growl shook its massive chest. But the eyes were not on Saryon, they were on the guard crouching behind the catalyst, pitifully attempting to use the catalyst’s body as a shield. Hands shoved Saryon from behind, propelling him forward into the teeth of the animal. But the werewolf leaped nimbly to one side. The catalyst fell heavily on his hands and knees. The werewolf sprang past him, and Saryon heard the thug’s high-pitched wail of terror and a savage growl of triumph.
Dazed and hurting, drained of all energy, Saryon watched the battle raging around him in a dreamlike state, unable to react. He saw Joram kick a dagger from the hand of the men who had been holding him, and round upon the thug with a clumsy swing. The flailing fist missed its mark and the thug landed a blow to the young man’s jaw. Joram stumbled backward, fumbling for his sword. The guard pressed his advantage, jumping on him, when a broom appeared out of nowhere and began to pummel the guard viciously.
“Take that, you lout!” the broom shrieked grimly, coming at the astounded man from every conceivable angle, striking him on the head and whacking him across the backside. Thrusting itself in between the thug’s legs, it tripped him, sending him sprawling. Lying in the street, the thug covered his head with his hands, but the broom kept at him, crying “lout!” with every blow.
The catalyst had the vague impression that their attackers were fleeing. He tried to stand, but there came a roaring in his ears; he felt sick and faint. Hands that were strong yet surprisingly gentle helped him to his feet. Though the words were cold as always, he felt more than heard an underlying warmth of concern that startled him.
“Are you all right?”
Weak and dizzy, the catalyst looked into Joram’s face. What he expected to see — from the tone — he wasn’t certain. Flesh and blood, perhaps.