Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [39]
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” said one of the Duuk-tsarith, “but the boy there does not respond to our spell. He is Dead.”
“Is he, indeed?” Garald regarded Joram with a look of cool pity more wounding to Joram than any sword thrust. The young man’s face flushed deeply, his mouth twisted in fierce anger. “Use something stronger,” the elegant man said, watching Joram. “Be careful not to injure him, however. I want to learn more about this strange sword.”
“And what about the catalyst, Your Grace?” asked the warlock, bowing.
Glancing about, Garald’s gaze fixed on Saryon, and the man’s eyes widened.
“Almin’s blood, Cardinal,” Garald said in astonishment. “Here is one of your Order! Let me assist you, Father,” he added courteously, extending his hand to the confused catalyst.
Though spoken in the utmost respect, the words were not an invitation so much as a command, and Saryon had no choice but to obey. Garald took hold of Saryon’s arm, gently assisting the catalyst to step out of the tangle of thick brush.
Seeing Garald preoccupied, Joram made a move toward retrieving his sword. He came to an abrupt halt as three rings of pure fire descended from the air and hovered about him — one level with his elbows, one dropping to his waist, the other to his knees. The flaming rings did not touch Joram, but they were close enough to his skin that he could feel their flesh-searing heat and he dared not move.
Satisfied that their prey was, for the moment, under control, the Duuk-tsarith looked expectantly at their lord, asking in their silent way for further instructions.
“Search the glade,” Garald ordered. “There may be others out there, hidden in the grass. Oh, first — get rid of this confounded darkness, will you?”
The Duuk-tsarith complied. Night departed and day returned with a suddenness that left everyone blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight. When Saryon could see again, he noted that the warlocks, like darkness embodied, had vanished with it. He was staring around in confusion when he became aware that Garald was speaking to him.
“I trust you are not in league with these young bandits, Father,” he said steadily, but with a certain coldness in his voice. “Although I have heard that there are renegade catalysts abroad in the land.”
“I am not a renegade catalyst, Your … Your Grace,” Saryon began, then stopped, flushing, as he remembered. “Well, perhaps I am,” he faltered. “But, please listen to my story,” he said, turning to the Cardinal who had joined them. “I — We are not thieves, I assure you!”
“Then, what is the meaning of the invasion of our glade and this attack upon us?” Garald asked with increasing coldness and a hint of anger in his voice.
“Please, let me explain, Your Grace,” Saryon said desperately. “It was a mistake —”
The two Duuk-tsarith appeared suddenly, materializing out of the air to stand in front of Garald.
“Yes?” he said. “What have you found?
“There was nothing in the glade, Your Grace, except this.” Extending his hand, one of the black-robed figures held out a large wooden bucket.
“A curious object in these savage lands, but not particularly worthy of your attention, I should think,” remarked Garald, glancing at it without interest.
“It is a rather remarkable bucket, Your Grace,” said the Duuk-tsarith.
“No, ho,” said the bucket hastily. “Just a plain, ordinary bucket. Nothing remarkable about me, I assure you.”
“Name of the Almin!” Garald breathed, while the Cardinal took a hasty step backward, muttering a prayer.
“A humble bucket. The old, oaken bucket,” continued the bucket in a husky voice. “Allow me, kind sir, to carry your water. Soak your feet in me. Soak your head —”
“I’ll be damned!” Garald cried. Springing forward, he grabbed the bucket from the hands of the warlock. “Simkin!” he said, shaking the bucket.