Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [27]
“Yes, thank you,” Joram said briefly, his dark-eyed gaze going toward the forge. The sounds of battle were louder, coming closer. After a last look Joram started down the alley with Mosiah. The figure of Simkin could bearly be seen in the twilight, the feather in his cap fluttering in the air like a banner. He half-turned. “Hurry up, Saryon!”
“Yes, go along. I’ll catch up,” the catalyst said, reluctant to leave, afraid to stay. Andon seemed to know something of what he was feeling.
The old man smiled wanly. “I know why you are leaving, and I suppose I should be grateful that you are taking the darkstone away from us. At least we will be spared that temptation.” He sighed. “But I am sorry to see you go. The Almin walk with you, Father,” he said softly.
Saryon attempted to return the blessing, but the words would not come to his lips. It was said that in the ancient world, those who had sold their souls to the powers of darkness were physically unable to speak the name of God.
“Catalyst!” came Joram’s irritated shout.
Saryon turned and left the old man without a word. Looking back from the shadows of the alley as twilight closed over them, he saw Andon standing in the street beside the bodies of the dead henchmen, his head bowed, shoulders slumped. The old Sorcerer’s hands covered his eyes, and the catalyst knew that he wept.
7
The Outland
Leaving the Sorcerers’ village, Simkin led his charges north through a ravine filled with thick brush, canopied by broad-leafed trees. Twilight deepened to night swiftly among the trees and it was “as dark as the inside of a demon’s eyelids,” as Simkin put it. Walking through the dense tangle of vegetation became difficult, and, on occasion, almost impossible. Though Joram argued against it, the others insisted upon light.
“Blachloch’s men have other things to worry about, from the sounds of it,” Mosiah said grimly, pulling thorns from his legs where he’d crashed headlong into a gorse bush in the darkness. “One of us could break an ankle or maybe even tumble into a hole and vanish completely in this godforsaken place! I’d rather take my chances on torchlight.”
“Torchlight!” Simkin snorted. “How primitive you think, dear boy!”
Huge moths with green-glowing wings appeared in the air. Fluttering above them, the gleaming moths shed a warm, soft light that extended outward in a surprisingly wide radius.
Unfortunately, after one look into the wild- and forbidding-looking forest through which they traveled, Saryon was considerably more frightened than he had been stumbling about it in the dark.
They continued walking down the gully until its sharp-thorned bushes opened out suddenly into a swamp. Giant trees rose from the mists of a thick fog; their roots — exposed by the water — looked like claws in the eerie light cast by the glowing moths. At the sight of this, Simkin called a halt.
“Keep to the high ground on your left,” he said, from his position in the lead. He waved a hand vaguely. “Don’t fall in. Nasty sort of mud in that beastly pool. Grabs hold and won’t let go.”
“We better not try that ‘til daylight,” Joram said wearily, and it suddenly occurred to Saryon that the young man must be near dropping over from exhaustion. The catalyst was bone tired, but at least he’d been able to rest some during the day.
“Certainly,” said Simkin with a shrug. “I don’t think anything’s liable to munch on us during the night,” he added ominously.
“I’m too tired to care one way or the other,” Joram muttered.
They made their way back down into the gully and found a relatively dry place to spend the night. Taking off the Darksword, Joram laid it on the frozen ground, then made his bed beside it. Lying down, sighing in weariness, he rested his hand upon his sword and closed his eyes.
“Simkin, where are we headed, anyway?” Mosiah asked in a whisper.
Rousing himself, Joram looked up at them. “Merilon,” he said, and the next moment was fast asleep.
Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who shook his head.
“I feared as much. He must be persuaded from this course. Joram must not