Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [26]
“Are you all right, Catalyst?” the young man repeated coldly. “Can you walk, or must we carry you?”
Saryon sighed. “No, I can walk,” he said, pushing himself away from the young man with quiet dignity.
“Good,” Joram remarked. “Go see to the old man.”
He gestured at Andon, who was on his feet staring around him in sorrow. Three of the thugs lay in the street; the others had run off, leaving their fallen comrades behind. Two of the guards were dead, their bodies mauled, their necks broken by the snapping jaws of the werewolf. Saryon was surprised that he felt no regret, only a grim kind of satisfaction that shocked him. A third man lay some distance away, alive and groaning, his face and head covered with red welts. Broomstraws stuck out of his clothing like scrawny feathers. Simkin stood over him.
“Lout,” he muttered, administering a swift kick.
The henchman moaned, and covered his head with his arms. Sniffing, Simkin pulled the orange silk from the air and mopped his brow. “Dreadful melee,” he remarked. “I’m perspiring.”
“You!” Mosiah — back to his own form — sat on a doorstop, panting in the manner of the werewolf he had been. The cut on his head bled freely, his face was covered with dirt and grime and sweat, his clothes were torn. Leaning back wearily against the door, he tried to catch his breath. “I’ve never … experienced any magic … like that before!” he admitted, sucking in air. Shutting his eyes, he put his hand to his head. “I’m so … dizzy …”
“The feeling will pass soon,” said Saryon gently. “I had no idea you were such a powerful magus,” the catalyst added as he went to offer what empty words of comfort he could to the distraught Andon.
“Neither did I,” Mosiah remarked in a kind of awe. “I … I don’t remember even thinking about it. It’s just — Simkin said something about a great, hairy beast and the image was in my mind and then the magic filled me! It was like the Life of everything around me was pouring into me, surging through me. I felt a hundred times more alive! And I —”
“Oh, who cares!” Joram broke in impatiently. “Just shut up about it! We’ve got to get out of this damned place!”
Mosiah fell silent abruptly, swallowing his words. He rose to his feet without a word, his eyes flashing in anger. Andon stared at Joram in wonder. Simkin — embarrassed — began to hum a little tune. Only Saryon understood. He, too, felt the sharp tooth of envy gnaw at him. He, too, knew what it was to be jealous of those blessed with the gift of Life.
No one spoke, but stared at each other uneasily, nobody seeming to quite know what to do. It was all unreal, dreamlike. The sun, setting in a fiery blaze, cast long fingers of red through the streets. Flame flared from the windowpanes of the ugly brick dwellings. It flashed off the glazed eyes of the dead. At the forge, it glistened brightly on the metal of knife and spear-point, arrow-tip and dagger. Farther off, in the center of the village, they could hear the shouts growing louder.
“Joram’s right,” Saryon said finally, trying to shake off the disquieting feeling of both standing in this place and being somewhere else at the same time. “The sun is setting and we must be gone before evening.”
“Gone?” Andon came back to reality, staring at the catalyst in bewilderment. “But you can’t go, Father! Listen!” The wrinkled, gentle face twisted in fear. “Our peaceful life is ended! They’re —”
At that moment, the sound of a gong rang out, booming, angry.
“The Scianc!” Andon cried, grief contorting his face.
Nine times the gong dinned, its vibrations jarring body and mind. Saryon felt the shock come up from through his feet, and wondered if the earth itself shivered in rage.
“It’s war,” Joram said grimly. “Which way, Simkin?”
“This way, down the alley,” Simkin said, pointing, his usually flighty manner disappearing into the air with the orange silk. He was off at a run.
“C’mon! We better keep up!” Joram urged. “We’ll lose sight of him.”
“Only if we’re lucky,” Mosiah growled. Hurriedly, he shook hands with the old man. “Good-bye, Andon. Thank you