Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [115]
“We will be leaving within the week,” pursued Blachloch, completely ignoring the catalyst’s words, “to lay in stores for the winter. Our work in the forge and the mines takes up so much manpower that, as you might imagine, we are unable to devote ourselves to raising food. The Field Magi settlements provide us with what we need, therefore.”
“I will accompany you, if that is what you want,” said Saryon, somewhat mystified, “but I think I could be of much more use here—”
“No, Father. You will be of much more use to me,” said Blachloch expressionlessly. “You see, the villages do not know that they are going to be helping us through the long winter. In the past, we were forced to depend on raids, stealing food by night. Demeaning work that generally acquires very little. But”—he shrugged and moved his fingers up to rest upon his lips—“we had no magic. Now, we have you. We have Life. What is more important, we have Death. This winter should be a good one for us, will it not, Simkin?”
If this sudden question was intended to startle the young man, it did not succeed. Apparently absorbed in now trying to untie the orange silk from around the feather, Simkin discovered that the knot was too tight. After tugging at it without result, he irritably consigned both hat and silk to the ethers.
“I really don’t care what kind of winter you have, Blachloch,” he said with a bored air, “since I’ll be spending most of it in court. Robbing the natives does sound a bit of a lark, though …”
“I—I cannot help you do that!” Saryon stammered. “Robbing—Those people have barely enough to live on as it is—”
“The penalty for running away, Catalyst, is the Turning. Have you ever seen it done? I have.” The fingers on the lips moved, descending slowly to point once more at Saryon. “I can see your mind working, scholar. Yes, as you surmised, I have contacts still among my Order. Telling them where to find you would be simplicity itself. I would even receive money. Not as much as I can earn using you, but enough to make the thought one that I can consider with equanimity. I suggest you spend the remaining days learning how to ride a horse.”
The hands unfolded and separated, one stretching out to grip the catalyst’s arm. “It is a pity there is only one of you,” Blachloch remarked, his eyes holding Saryon in their imprisoning gaze. “Had we more catalysts, I could mutate some of the men and give them wings, allowing them to attack from the air. I studied the skills of the DKarn-Duuk for a time.” The grip tightened painfully. “It was thought I might qualify as a War Master, but I was considered … unstable …. Still, if all goes well in the North Kingdom, who knows. Perhaps I may be War Master yet. And now, Catalyst, before you leave, grant me Life.”
Staring at the man in horror, Saryon was so shaken that he could not, for the moment, remember the words of his ritual prayer.
Blachloch’s grasp tightened still further, fingers of iron closing over the catalyst’s arm. “Grant me Life,” he said softly.
Bowing his head, Saryon complied. Opening his being to the magic, he drew it into him and let a portion of it flow through him into the warlock.
“More,” said Blachloch.
“I can’t—I am weak—”
The grip grew tighter, enhanced by magical energy. Sharp needles of pain darted through the catalyst’s arm. Gasping, he let the magic surge through him, suffusing the warlock with Life. Then he collapsed, drained, back in his chair.
His face expressionless, Blachloch released him. “You are dismissed.”
Though he did not speak and made no gesture, the door to the room opened and one of the henchmen stepped inside. Rising unsteadily to his feet, Saryon turned numbly and walked toward the door with faltering steps. Simkin, yawning, rose too, but subsided into his chair again upon noticing an almost-imperceptible flicker of the warlock’s eyelids.
“If you can’t find your way back, O Bald One,” called Simkin languidly, “wait for me. I’ll just