Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [162]
Saryon closed his eyes again, his brain too weary to absorb any more. The light, the fog, Joram’s white face, everything merged together into a swirling, suffocating vortex. Nausea swept over him, his stomach clenched. He was going to be sick. Slumping down, he pressed his fevered cheek against the cold stone, longing for a breath of fresh air.
Above the hissing of the boiling, bubbling water, he heard Joram’s voice whispering an almost reverent invocation.
“The Darksword …”
9
Simkin’s Deal
The journey back from the forge through the gray of early morning was one of furtive stumbling, bone-chilling cold, and mind-numbing exhaustion. The gale had blown itself out. The wind died, the rain ceased. The only sounds in the still-sleeping town were the dripping rainwater from the eaves of the houses and the half-awake bark of some unusually dedicated house dog. But the cold was bitter. Even the prison began to seem a haven of peace and warmth to Saryon as he staggered through the strange, dark streets, supported by Joram’s arm. With him as well, the young man carried the Darksword, pressed close against his body, hidden beneath his cloak.
Both Joram and Saryon were worn out, drained by excitement and terror. But now rose up to haunt them the sudden fear—all but forgotten in the turmoil of the swords creation—that something might have gone wrong. Had the guard awakened and decided to investigate? Had Mosiah been caught? Was Blachloch sitting, waiting for them as a cat waits patiently for the mouse? These fears grew as the two drew nearer and nearer the prison. When they reached the street where the building stood, both stopped, shrinking into the shadows, staring at it intently before they dared go further.
All seemed quiet. No light burned in the guard’s window as must have been the case had he been aroused. No light shone in the prison window.
“Everything’s all right,” said Saryon with a sigh of relief, starting forward.
“It could be a trap,” cautioned Joram, his hand on his sword.
“At this point, I don’t care,” said the catalyst wearily, but he stayed with Joram.
Gripping his sword clumsily, not at all certain what he would do with it if attacked, Joram continued down the street. For him, too, the exhilaration was fading, leaving him feeling unusually tired and drained. The old dark despondency was rapidly claiming him.
Nothing had turned out as he had hoped. The sword was heavy and awkward. He felt no surge of power when he held it, only an aching in his wrist and arm from the unaccustomed weight. He had tried to grind an edge to it, but the hands that could be so delicate performing his “magic” had proved clumsy and unskilled in this. He had botched the job, he feared. The blade was uneven and marred, not curved and sharp as those he had seen in the ancient texts. He was a fool to think this crude, ugly weapon could ever overcome Blachloch’s wizardry, and so on and on his mind turned, spiraling downward. The blackness was coming over him; he recognized the symptoms. Well, what did it matter, he thought darkly. Let it come. He had achieved his goal, such as it was.
With a last, furtive glance at the guard’s window across the way, and seeing no sign of movement, Joram pressed softly on the door. Opening it, he motioned Saryon to come inside.
Mosiah slept sitting at the table, his head buried in his arms. Hearing movement, he started up, partially rising out of the chair in sleepy alarm.
“What—Father!” The young man came forward to catch the catalyst, whose knees were giving way beneath him. “My god, you look awful! What happened? Where’s Joram? Is everything all right?”
Saryon could only nod wearily as Mosiah led him to his bed. “I’ll get you some wine …”
“No,” Saryon murmured. “I couldn’t keep it down. I just need rest ….”
Helping the spent catalyst lie down, Mosiah covered the man’s shivering body with a worn blanket, then turned as Joram shut the door behind him.
“Saryon looks terrible. Is he hurt? You don’t look much better. What happened?”
“Nothing. We’re fine, both of us. Just tired.