Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [36]
“That must be their catalyst,” he whispered, hurriedly banishing those fearful memories. Moving cautiously, afraid that they might hear the sound of his hand raising, he pointed out a third individual dressed in a long traveling cloak. Although the cloak concealed his robes, the man’s tonsured head marked him a priest. He and a fourth man stood apart from the warlocks. Close together, they were obviously involved in conversation and every so often the hand of the fourth man moved as if to emphasize a point. It was this fourth man who drew the catalyst’s attention. Taller than the rest, his cloak was made of costly fabric. When the man gestured, Saryon caught the glint of jewels upon his fingers.
The catalyst pointed him out. “I’m not certain about that fourth man. He isn’t Duuk-tsarith. He’s not dressed in the black —”
“Is he a warlock of any type?” Joram asked. Shifting the Darksword restlessly in his hand in order to get a better grip on the heavy weapon, he nearly dropped it, and irritably wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt.
“No,” the catalyst answered, puzzled. “It’s odd, but by his clothes I’d take him for a —”
“It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s not Duuk-tsarith,” interrupted Joram impatiently. “There’s only two of them we have to worry about now. I’ll take one. You and Mosiah deal with the other. Where’s Simkin?”
“Here,” said a sepulchral voice from beneath the helm. “Got dark awfully quick, didn’t it.”
“Raise the visor, fool. You take care of the fourth man.”
“What visor?” came the pathetic response, the helm turning this way and that. “What fourth man?”
“The man standing by — Oh, never mind!” Joram snarled. “Just keep out of the way. Come on. Mosiah, go left. I’ll go right. You stay between us, Catalyst.” He crept forward through the brush. Mosiah headed the opposite direction while Saryon, his face haggard and drawn, followed behind.
“’Tisn’t my fault,” Simkin muttered gloomily from beneath the helmet. “Wretched invention, this. I’m completely in the dark. Knights of old and all that. Bloody nonsense. No wonder Arthur had a round table. He couldn’t see the damn thing! Probably kept bumping into it and knocking off the corners. I —”
But Simkin was talking to himself.
Mosiah fit an arrow to the bow, his hands shaking so with fear and excitement that he had to try several times before he succeeded. “Grant me Life, Father,” he whispered.
His throat dry from fear, the catalyst repeated in a cracked voice the words that absorbed the magic of the world into his body. He had not been trained in the art of supporting fighting warlocks; that required certain specialized skills that he did not possess. He could enhance Mosiah’s already strong magical powers, enabling the young man to cast spells that otherwise would have been beyond his strength, such as they had done in the fight in the village. But that had been using magic against unthinking brutes. This was far different. They were fighting experienced warlocks. Neither of them had ever been in a battle like this, neither truly knew what he was doing.
This is insane! Saryon’s mind repeated to him over and over urgently. Insane! Stop it before it goes too far!
“But it’s already gone too far,” Saryon told himself. “We have no choice now!”
“Father!” Mosiah whispered urgently.
Head bowed, Saryon laid his hand upon the boy’s quivering arm and chanted the words that opened the conduit to him. The magic flowed from the catalyst into Mosiah like sparkling wine.
Watching Mosiah’s face in the sunlight, the catalyst saw the young man’s lips part, the eyes glow. He looked like a child tasting his first sweets.
Saryon’s heart misgave him. “No, Mosiah, wait … You can’t —”
But he was too late. Whispering words the young man had learned from the Sorcerers, Mosiah let fly his arrow in the direction of the man in black robes nearest him. His aim was hurried, but it was not important. As the arrow flew, the young magus cast a spell upon it, causing the arrow to seek out and kill any warm-blooded, living object. Used by the Sorcerers of old, the spell permitted even