Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [135]
Riding forward, Saryon was dimly aware of a face turned to look at him. His hood dragged back, the young man was barely visible in the bright starlight. But the catalyst recognized Mosiah, looking troubled and distraught. The dark shrouded figure beside him would undoubtedly be Joram. Saryon caught a glimpse of the young man’s eyes behind a tangle of matted hair, staring at him with cool, appraising speculation. Muffled laughter came from behind the two along with a bright flash of color—Simkin.
Seemingly of its own volition, Saryon’s horse carried him past the young men, past the rows of waiting, grim-faced Sorcerers and their nervous mounts up to the front of the line. Here Blachloch sat upon his steed—a thick-bodied charger.
The moment had come. Half-turning in the saddle, the warlock looked at Saryon. Blachloch did not speak, his face remained impassive, expressionless, but the catalyst felt courage drain from him as surely as if the warlock had slit his throat. Saryon bowed his head and, at that, Blachloch smiled for the first time.
“I am glad we understand each other, Father. You have been trained in the art of warfare?”
“It was a long time ago,” Saryon said in a low voice.
“Yes, I can imagine. Do not worry. This will soon be over, I think.” Turning around, Blachloch spoke a few words to one of his guards, apparently going over last-minute instructions. Saryon did not listen, he could not hear for the wind and the blood pounding in his head.
The warlock rode forward; a gesture brought the catalyst to ride beside him.
“The important thing to remember, Catalyst,” Blachloch murmured, “is to keep to my left and stand slightly behind me. Thus I can shield you if need be. I want to see you out of the corner of my eye, however, so make certain to keep within my visual range. And, Father”—Blachloch smiled again, a smile that sent a shudder through the catalyst—“I know that you have the ability to drain Life as well as give it. A dangerous maneuver, but one not unheard of if the catalyst feels like avenging himself upon his wizard. Do not try it with me.”
There was no threat, the words were spoken in an expressionless, even tone. But the last tiny flicker of hope within the catalyst died. Not that it had ever burned very brightly. Draining the Life from Blachloch would leave Saryon at the mercy of the Sorcerers, for such an action drains the catalyst as well. And, as Blachloch said, it was extremely dangerous. A powerful wizard could shut off the conduit, then deal swift retribution to his attacker. Still, it had been a chance, and now it was gone.
Had Bishop Vanya considered this? Had he known Saryon was going to be forced into committing these vile crimes? Surely Vanya had never intended it to go this far! Even if he had lied to him, there must be some reason, some purpose …
“Hail, strangers in the night,” came a voice.
Saryon started so that he nearly fell from his saddle. Blachloch reined in his horse and the catalyst hastily did likewise, positioning himself, as the warlock had instructed, to Blachloch’s left and slightly behind.
Glancing around, the catalyst saw that while he had been lost in his dark thoughts, they had ridden into the village. Light shone from the windows of the shaped stone homes where the Field Magi lived. It was a large settlement, Saryon noticed, larger than Walren. Hope rose again. Surely Blachloch with his small band of thirty or so would never dream of attacking a village that must have at least a hundred magi.
The door of one of the dwellings had opened and a man stood there, outlined in firelight that glowed softly behind him. He was tall and muscular, Saryon could see. Undoubtedly the overseer, it was he who had called out the greeting.
“Catalyst,” the man shouted. “We have visitors.”
The door to the stone dwelling next to his opened and another man stepped out—a catalyst by his green robes. As he hurried to take his place beside the overseer, Saryon saw the catalyst’s face reflected in the light. He was young, probably no more than a Deacon. This must