Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [37]
But not this battle.
What drew the warlock’s attention? Perhaps it was the rustle of Mosiah’s clothes brushing against the grass. Perhaps it was the twang of the arrow leaving the string or the whisper of the feathers on the shaft as it flew through the air. Or perhaps it was the warning caw of the raven, although that came late.
Swifter than the arrow flying toward his heart, the man in the black robes spoke and pointed. There was a flash of flame and the arrow was nothing more deadly than a streak of ashes that vanished upon the winds.
The second Duuk-tsarith acted as quickly as his partner. Raising his hands to heaven, he shouted a command and darkness fell upon them with a swiftness of a thunderbolt. Brilliant, sunlit day became blinding, stifling night. Saryon could see nothing, and crouched helplessly in the brush, afraid to move. Then, just as his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, strange silver moonlight filled the forest. Though it lit up everything in the woods, it caused human flesh to glow brightly, with an eerie purplish-white radiance. The catalyst — blinking — could see clearly the astonished faces of the fourth man and the priest as they turned in their direction.
More by accident than by design, Saryon was crouched down among the brush. Even though the moonlight made his flesh gleam, he knew he must be difficult to see. But Mosiah had risen out of the grass to fire his arrow. Struggling to adjust his vision to the sudden darkness, he was bathed in the silver pool of moonlight, plainly visible to the two black-robed men. With a cry, he raised his bow.
The Duuk-tsarith spoke.
Dropping the bow, Mosiah clutched his throat.
“I — I —” He tried to speak, but the magical paralysis cast upon him by the warlock cut off his words, as it was cutting off his ability to breathe. His eyes rolled upward until the whites showed, the young man fought desperately to draw air into his lungs, but it was a futile struggle.
Saryon half rose, thinking to plead for surrender, when a dark shape hurtled past the catalyst, nearly knocking him to the ground. Mosiah’s eyes were bulging, his face was slowly darkening. Leaping in front of his friend, Joram raised the Darksword. The strange moonlight did not touch the metal, the weapon was a streak of night in his hand.
The moment the sword came between the Duuk-tsarith and Mosiah, the warlock’s spell shattered. Gasping for breath, the young man collapsed. Saryon caught hold of Mosiah and eased him to the ground as Joram stood above them protectively, holding the crude sword in his strong hands.
Saryon waited grimly for the blast of icy wind that would freeze their blood in seconds or the shattering crack as the ground opened and swallowed them — not even the power of the Darksword would stop such spells as those, he imagined. But nothing happened.
Peering out from the tall grass, Saryon saw the fourth man walking toward them. Perhaps he had spoken; the catalyst could not hear over the splashing of the waterfall some distance behind him. But both of the Duuk-tsarith had turned their hooded heads toward the tall man. He made a motion with his hand, telling them to back off, and the warlocks bowed in obedience. Saryon’s wonder increased, as did his fear. Who was this man the powerful Duuk-tsarith obeyed without question?
Whoever he was, he approached Joram coolly, without fear, his eyes studying the young man intently as he drew near.
“Be careful, Garald,” called the man in the long traveling cloak whom Saryon had taken — and rightly so — for a catalyst. “I sense something strange about the weapon!”
“Strange?” The man referred to as Garald laughed, mellow, cultivated laughter that seemed to be made of the same rich material as the fabric of his cloak. “Thank you for the warning, Cardinal,” he continued, “but I see only one strange thing about this sword — it is the ugliest of its kind my eyes have ever be-held!”
“It is that, Your Grace —”
Cardinal! Saryon, staring in bewilderment, could see the color of the catalyst