Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [35]
“Name of the Almin, what do we do now?” Mosiah asked urgently.
“Leave!” said the catalyst urgently. “Get out of here quickly —”
“That won’t do any good!” Simkin retorted. “They know we’re here, and they’re not far away — in the woods on the other side of the waterfall. There’s two of them, at least. They’ve obviously been watching us through the eyes of their little feathered friend. Where can we go that he can’t spot us — unless we use the Corridors —”
“No!” Saryon said hastily, his face pale. “That would be throwing ourselves into their hands.”
“This time I agree with the Priest,” Joram said abruptly. “You forget that I am Dead. Once in the Corridors, they would have me trapped.”
“Then, what do we do?” Mosiah asked, his voice too shrill. “We can’t run, we can’t hide….”
“Shush. We attack,” Joram replied.
The dark eyes were cool; a half smile touched the full lips. His face, seen from its hiding place among the grass, looked almost bestial.
“No!” Saryon said emphatically, shuddering.
“Excellent idea, really,” whispered Simkin in excitement. “The raven will tell them that we’re alerted to their presence. They’ll expect us to run and probably have their plans laid for that. What they won’t expect us to do is circle around and attack them!”
“It’s Duuk-tsarith we’re talking about!” Saryon reminded them bitterly.
“We have surprise and we have the Darksword!” returned Joram.
“Blachloch nearly destroyed you!” Saryon cried softly, clenching his fist.
“I’ve learned from that! Besides, what choice do we have?”
“I don’t know!” Saryon murmured brokenly. “I just don’t want any more killing….”
“It’s them or us, Father.” Bringing his hands together, Mosiah spoke a few words. There was a shimmer of air as a bow and quiver of arrows materialized in his grasp. “Look at this,” he said proudly. “I’ve been studying war spells. We all were, back in the village. And I know how to use it. With you to grant me Life, and Joram and the Darksword —”
“We better hurry,” urged Simkin, “before they lay any spells of entrapment or enchantment on the glade itself.”
“If you don’t want to come, Father,” said Mosiah, “just grant me Life here. You can stay —”
“No, Joram’s right,” Saryon said in low tones. “If you insist on this madness, I’m coming. You might need me for … for other things. I can do more than grant Life,” he said with a meaningful glance at Joram. “I can take it away, as well.”
“Follow me, then!” whispered Simkin. Rising to a half crouch, he began to creep slowly through the tall grass toward the waterfall.
“Where will you be?” Mosiah asked Simkin, who was changing his attire as he moved.
“In the thick of the battle, you may rest assured,” Simkin replied in a deep, grating voice. He was now clad in snakeskin, highly suitable for crawling through the grass. Unfortunately, the overall effect was rather marred by a metal helm complete with visor that covered his face, obscured his vision, and looked vaguely like an overturned bucket.
“They’re Duuk-tsarith, all right,” whispered Saryon.
It was late afternoon. The sun was just beginning its downward slide to night. Crouched in the grass at the border between meadow and forest, the catalyst could see the two men and their long black robes clearly. Saryon sighed in despair. He had been hoping that this was another of Simkin’s “monsters” which would unaccountably disappear the moment anyone looked for it.
But these were, indeed, warlocks — members of the deadly Order of Duuk-tsarith. They stood motionless, as though listening intently. Their hands were clasped in front of them as was proper, their faces hidden in the shadows of their black pointed hoods. If there was any further doubt, it was dispelled by the sight of the raven, sitting on a tree limb near the two, its eyes gleaming red in the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Saryon watched the black-robed men. His mind went back to the Font, when the two Duuk-tsarith had discovered him reading the forbidden books