Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [136]
The overseer peered into the night, trying to see who rode into his village at this hour. He was wary, cautious. Blachloch had not spoken nor had he replied to the hail as was customary.
We must look like nothing more than black windows cut into the night, Saryon realized. Then he felt a cold hand touch his wrist and he blenched, his stomach quaking.
“Grant me Life, Catalyst.”
The words were not spoken, they reverberated through Saryon’s head. Closing his eyes, he blotted out the lights of the hovels, the puzzled, suspicious face of the overseer, and the tense face of the young catalyst. I could lie, he thought desperately. I could say I am too weak, too frightened to sense the magic …
The cold hand tightened its grip painfully. With a shudder, feeling the magic rise from the ground, from the night, from the wind, and flow through him, Saryon opened the conduit.
The magic surged from him to Blachloch.
“I said ‘Hail, stranger.’” The overseer’s voice grew gruff. “Are you lost? Where do you ride from and where are you bound?”
“I ride from the Outland,” Blachloch said, “and this is my destination.”
“The Outland?” The overseer folded his arms across his chest. “Then you can turn around and ride back to that god-cursed territory. We want none of your kind around here. Go on, get out of here. Catalyst—”
But the young Deacon was quick-thinking, opening a conduit to the overseer before he asked.
By this time the sound of talking had roused other villagers living nearby. Some looked out of windows, several of the men came to their doors, and a few stepped into the roadway.
Sitting calmly on his steed, Blachloch might have been waiting for this audience, for he smiled again, as if in gratification.
“I said, Begone!” the overseer began, taking a step forward.
Blachloch removed his hand from Saryon’s arm, breaking the conduit so swiftly that the catalyst gasped as some of the magical power surged back through him.
Pointing his hand at the overseer, Blachloch whispered one word. The overseer began to glow with an eerie aura that surrounded his body, giving off a faint greenish glow—the magus was of the Mystery of Earth. The aura grew brighter and stronger, and by its light, Saryon saw the overseer’s face contort in astonishment, then fear, as he realized what was happening to him. The light was his own magic, his own Life. When the glow died, the man’s body slumped to the ground.
Saryon’s throat constricted, he could not breathe. All his life he had heard of the terrible power of Nullmagic, but he had never seen it used. The overseer was not dead, but he might as well have been. He lay on his doorstoop, more helpless than a newborn child. Until the spell was reversed or until such time as he might train his body to live without the magic, he would be able to do nothing but stare about him in impotent fury, his arms and legs twitching feebly.
Several of the magi were running toward their overseer, shouting in alarm. Kneeling beside the fallen man, the young Deacon raised his head to look at Blachloch. Saryon saw the catalyst’s eyes widen in fear, his lips open in a plea, a protest, a prayer …
Blachloch moved his hand again, spoke again. This time there was no light, no sound. The spell was swift and efficient. Compressed air slammed into the young catalyst like an ocean wave, surging over him, smashing his body up against the stone wall of the overseer’s house.
The shouts of alarm became anger and outrage. Sickened and horrified, Saryon swayed in the saddle, the lights of the village swam about him, the shadows leaped and danced in his dazed vision. He saw Blachloch raise his hand, saw it burn with flame and heard the answering sounds of horses’ hooves thudding behind him. The band was riding to the attack. He had the vague impression that some of the Field Magi appeared ready to fight Blachloch with their own magic, weakened though it might be after a day in the fields, when the warlock lifted his fiery hand and pointed.
A dwelling place burst into an inferno of flame. Sounds of screaming came