Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [138]
By the light of the burning dwellings, Joram saw a hand clench, then he heard the sound of a fist thudding into flesh. The catalyst doubled over with a groan, but the guard who held him hauled him upright. The attacker’s next blow smashed into Saryon’s head. His face suddenly dark with blood, the catalyst’s choked cry was cut off as the guard drove his fist once again into the priest’s stomach.
“My god!” whispered Mosiah. Feeling his friend’s body stiffen, Joram turned to him in alarm. Mosiah’s face had gone ashen, sweat stood on his forehead, and he was staring at the catalyst with white-rimmed eyes. Looking back, Joram saw the catalyst slumped in his captor’s grasp, moaning, flinching as more blows landed on the unresisting body with ruthless efficiency.
“No! Don’t—Are you mad?” Joram shouted, hanging onto Mosiah. “They’ll do worse to you if you interfere …”
But he might have been talking to the air. Giving his friend a bitter, angry look, Mosiah kicked his horse violently in the ribs and dashed forward, nearly dragging Joram out of his saddle in his wild plunge.
“Damn!” Joram swore, searching around for help to try to catch Mosiah.
“I say,” came a lilting voice in his ear, “grand conflagration this. I’m quite enjoying myself. What about toodling over to the granary and watching them load sacks—Almin’s blood, what’s the matter, dear boy?”
“Shut up and come on!” Joram shouted, gesturing. “Look!”
“More jollity,” said Simkin with enthusiasm, riding after Joram. “I’d completely missed that. What are they doing to our poor catalytic friend?”
“He refused one of Blachloch’s commands,” Joram said grimly, urging his excited horse to a gallop. “And look, there’s Mosiah! Going to get himself mixed up into this.”
“I feel I should point out that from the looks of things, Mosiah is already mixed up in this,” panted Simkin, jouncing along behind as he tried to keep up. “Now, I enjoy beating up a catalyst as much as the next man, but Blachloch’s boys seem to be having quite a good time and I don’t think they’d appreciate us horning in on their sport—Almin’s blood and brains! What is our friend doing?”
Leaping off his horse, Mosiah had hurled himself bodily at the man who was beating Saryon, knocking the henchmen to the ground. As the two went down in a struggling heap, the other guard, who had been holding Saryon while his companion inflicted the blows, flung the catalyst to one side. Conjuring up a huge branch in his hand, the guard started to smash it down on the young man’s head.
“Mosiah!” Joram called, sliding off his horse and dashing madly toward them. But he knew, with an aching in his heart that startled him, that he must be too late. The blow was falling that would split the young man’s skull. Then Joram stopped, staring in astonishment as a brick appeared out of nowhere, materializing in the air right above the guards head.
“I say, take that!” shouted the brick. Dropping down, it rapped the guard smartly on the head, then tumbled into the grass. The guard took a staggering step, swayed drunkenly, and keeled over, landing on top of the brick.
Jumping forward, Joram grabbed hold of Mosiah, who had his hands around the guard’s throat.
“Let him go!” Joram grunted, wrenching his friend from his victim. The man rolled over, gasping for air. Struggling to escape Joram’s hold, Mosiah lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the guard in the head. The guard lay still.
“He’s finished! Leave him alone!” Joram ordered Mosiah, shaking him. “Listen! We’ve got to get out of here!”
Glancing up at his friend, his eyes burning with bloodlust, Mosiah shook his head dazedly. “Saryon,” he gasped, wiping blood from a cut lip.
“Oh, for the love of—” Joram began in disgust. “There he is, but I think he’s past helping.” He gestured to the catalyst’s inert body, which was lying crumpled on the grass. “Get him on a horse then, if you insist. Damn it, where the devil’s Simkin …”
“Help!” shouted a muffled voice. “Joram!