Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [137]
He found himself hoping bitterly that the man would smite him down where he sat. But Blachloch, without undue haste, moved his hand slightly pointing to another shack. It, too, burst into flame.
“I can destroy this entire village in minutes,” he said in his expressionless voice to the approaching magi. “Cast your spell. If you know anything of the Duuk-tsarith you know that I can protect both myself and my catalyst from it. And where will you get the energy to cast another? Your catalyst is dead. Mine lives.” Extending his hand to Saryon, he said, “Catalyst, grant me Life.”
Obedire est vivere.
Saryon still could not move. In a dreamlike horror, he looked from the magi to the body of the young Deacon lying in the doorway beside the helpless overseer.
Blachloch did not turn, he did not look at Saryon. He merely repeated.
“Catalyst, grant me Life.”
Again, there was no threat made, not even in the tone. Yet Saryon knew he would be made to pay for his lapse in duty. Blachloch never gave an order twice.
Obedire est vivere.
And he had no doubt the price would be high.
“No,” said Saryon softly and steadily, “I will not do it.”
“Well, well,” Joram murmured, “the old man has more guts than I’d imagined.”
“What?” Mosiah, his face pale and strained, was staring at the burning homes of the Field Magi with wide eyes. Dazedly he turned to Joram. “What did you say?”
“Look.” Joram pointed to where the warlock sat astride his horse not far from them, the two young men having ridden in the vanguard. “The catalyst. He’s refused Blachloch’s command for more Life.”
“He’ll kill him!” Mosiah whispered in horror.
“No, Blachloch’s smarter than that. He won’t kill his only catalyst. Still, I’ll bet the man will soon wish he was dead.”
Mosiah put his hand to his head. “This is dreadful, Joram,” he said thickly. “I had no idea—I didn’t know it would be like this … I’m leaving!” He started to turn his horse.
“Get hold of yourself!” Joram snapped, grasping his friends arm and jerking him back sharply. “You can’t run! The villagers might attack us …”
“I hope they do!” Mosiah shouted furiously. “I hope they kill you all. Let go of me, Joram!”
“Where will you go? Think!” Joram held onto him with the firm grip of the iron forge.
“I can get into the woods!” Mosiah hissed, trying to twist free. “I’ll hide there until you’re gone. Then I’ll come back here, do what I can for these people—”
“They’ll turn you over to the Enforcers,” snarled Joram through clenched teeth, maintaining his grip on his friend with difficulty. Their horses, alarmed by the fire and the smoke, the yelling and the young men’s struggles, were milling round and round, churning up the ground with their hooves. “Listen to reason—Wait—” He glanced up. “Look, your catalyst …”
Mosiah turned, his gaze following Joram’s in time to see two of Blachloch’s henchmen drag Saryon from his horse and hurl him to the ground. Staggering, Saryon tried to stand, but two other men, at a gesture from the warlock, leaped from their horses, grabbed hold of the catalyst, and held him, arms pinned behind his back. Seeing his commands being obeyed, Blachloch cast a last glance at the catalyst, saying something to him Joram could not hear. Then the warlock galloped off, yelling more commands to his men and gesturing toward a large building where the crops were stored. As he passed, other huts burst into flame, lighting the night like a dreadful sun fallen to earth.
All around Joram and Mosiah, the bandits rode to do their commander’s bidding, some heading for the granary, others keeping watch on the Field Magi, some of whom were fleeing in terror, others were trying