Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [57]
“Fight! Damn you!” Joram shouted, leaping at the man.
The Prince spoke a word of command, and his own sword rose from the grass where it lay and flew into his hand, the blade shining silver in the gray light of sunless sky.
“Use your magic against me!” Joram challenged. He could barely speak; froth covered his lips. “I’m Dead, after all! Only this sword makes me Alive! And I’m going to see you die!”
Joram intended to kill. He wanted to kill. He could feel the satisfying impact of the sword striking flesh, see the blood flow, the proud figure crumble at his feet, the dying eyes gazing up at him …
Garald regarded him calmly a moment, then slid his own bright sword back in its leather scabbard. “You are Dead, Joram,” he said softly. “You stink of death! And you have made a sword of darkness, a thing as dead as you are. Go ahead, kill me. Death is your solution!”
Joram willed himself forward. But he couldn’t see. A film coated his eyes and he blinked, trying to clear them.
“Come to life, Joram,” Garald said earnestly. The Princes voice sounded far away, drifting to Joram out of the blood-red mist that surrounded him. “Come to life and wield your sword in the cause of life, the cause of the living! Otherwise you might as well turn that sword upon yourself, and spill every drop of that noble blood right here on the ground. At least it will give life to the grass.”
The last words were spoken in disgust. Turning his back on Joram, the Prince walked calmly from the clearing.
Sword in hand, Joram lunged after him, determined to slay the arrogant man. But he was completely blind in his fury. Stumbling, Joram fell flat on his face. With a wild, ragged cry of anger, he struggled to stand, but his rage had drained him, left him weak and helpless as a baby. Desperate, he tried using the Darksword as a crutch to pull himself to his feet. But the blade sank deep in the churned-up dirt and Joram sagged to his knees.
His hands clenching around the hilt of the sword that stood before him, buried in the mud, Joram slumped over it. Tears crept from beneath his eyelids. Anger and frustration welled up inside him until he thought his heart would burst. A racking sob tore open his chest, easing the pressure. His head bowed, Joram cried the tears that neither pain nor suffering had wrung from him since he was a small child.
13
Winter Night
“Where is Joram?” asked Saryon as the Prince returned to the glade. The catalyst’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Garald’s pale face, his muddy clothes, and the spots of blood upon the white shirt where one of his cuts had come open in his struggles with Joram.
“Rest easy, Father,” Garald said wearily. “He is back in the woods. We … had a little talk….” The Prince smiled ruefully, looking down at his torn clothing. “He needs time to think. At least, I hope he thinks.”
“Should he be out there? By himself?” Saryon persisted, his eyes going to the forest. Above the trees, gray clouds skittered across the sky. To the northwest, darker, heavier masses of clouds could be seen forming. The wind had switched direction, blowing warmer. But the air itself was heavy, laden with moisture — rain almost assuredly, snow by nightfall.
“He’ll be all right,” Garald said, running his hand through his damp hair. “We’ve seen no signs of centaurs in these woods. Besides, he isn’t by himself. Not really.” The Prince glanced around the camp.
Following his gaze, Saryon understood at once. Only one of the Duuk-tsarith was present. Instead of being comforted, the catalyst only appeared more worried. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Saryon said hesitantly, “but Joram is … is a criminal. I know that they have heard us talking.” He gestured toward the black-robed, silent figure. “Nothing escapes their attention. What —”
“What prevents them from disobeying me and taking Joram back to Merilon? Nothing.” Garald shrugged. “I certainly couldn’t stop them. But, you see, Father, as my personal guard, they are sworn to be loyal to me unto death. If they betrayed me, and took the boy