Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [38]
The Cardinal continued speaking. “— but it is this ugly sword, Your Grace, that has disrupted the spell of your guards.”
“The sword did that? Fascinating.”
The richly dressed man was close enough that Saryon could see him clearly in the magical moonlight. The beauty of the voice matched the features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The eyes were large and intelligent. The mouth was firm, the lines about it indicative of smiling and laughter. The chin was strong without arrogance, the cheekbones high and pronounced. Brown hair, with a slight reddish cast in the bright moonlight, was worn short in military fashion. One lock dipped down over the man’s forehead in a graceful, careless wave.
Taking a step nearer Joram, the man called Garald held out a hand gloved in fine lambskin. “Surrender your sword, boy,” he said in a voice that was neither threatening nor demanding, yet obviously accustomed to being obeyed.
“Take it from me,” Joram said defiantly.
“‘Take it from me,’ Your Grace,” the Cardinal amended, shocked.
“Thank you, Cardinal,” Garald said, and a smile played about his lips, “but I do not think this is the time for coaching thieves in court etiquette. Come now, boy. Surrender your sword peacefully and nothing will happen to you.”
“No! Your Grace,” Joram said with a sneer.
“Joram, please!” whispered Saryon in despair, but the young man ignored him.
“Who is this Garald guy?” Mosiah whispered. He started to sit up, but he froze almost immediately. The elegant man had warned the Duuk-tsarith away from Joram, but he had apparently left Mosiah in their care. Mosiah saw the glittering eyes of the warlocks fixed on him, he saw the hands clasped before the black robes make a slight movement, and he held quite still, hardly daring to breathe.
Saryon shook his head, keeping his eyes on Joram and this Garald, who drew several steps closer. Joram shifted in his position, raising the sword.
“Very well,” the elegant man said, shrugging, “I accept your challenge.”
Tossing his cloak over one shoulder, Garald drew a sword from its scabbard and stepped expertly into a fighting stance. Saryon’s throat tightened. The sword, of ancient design and make, was as delicate and beautiful and strong as the man who wielded it. The moonlight burned in it with a cold, silver flame, dancing off the sharp edge and flashing from the carved, hawk-winged hilt.
The hawk. Something stirred in Saryon’s mind, but he could not relax his attention on Joram long enough to attend to it. The boy was a shabby, almost pathetic figure compared to the tall, noble man in his rich clothes. Yet there was a pride in Joram, a fearlessness and courage in his dark eyes that rivaled his opponent’s and spoke to Saryon of the noble blood that flowed in the boy’s veins as well as in the man’s.
Moving awkwardly, Joram imitated his enemy’s fighting stance, knowing little about it except what he had been able to pick up from the books he’d read. His clumsiness appeared to amuse Garald, although the Cardinal — his eyes still on the Darksword — shook his head and murmured once more, “Your Grace, I think perhaps —”
Garald motioned the Cardinal to silence even as Joram, confident in the power of his sword and angry at the arrogant demeanor of his opponent, leaped forward.
Heedless of the watching Duuk-tsarith, Saryon sprang to his feet. He could not allow Joram to harm this man!
“Stop —” the catalyst cried, but the words died on his lips.
There was a clash of steel, a yelp of pain, and Joram stood, wringing an injured hand and staring stupidly at the Darksword as it flew through the air to land at the feet of the Cardinal.
“Seize him and the other one,” Garald said coolly to the waiting Duuk-tsarith, who did not hesitate to use their magic now that they were permitted.
With a word, they cast the Nullmagic