Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [170]
“A Corridor will be open, the Duuk-tsarith will be there. I could turn you over to them, as I was instructed to do by my superior.”
“But you won’t, will you—Saryon?” Joram said without looking at him. In the corner, Mosiah moaned and turned fitfully, trying to wriggle out from beneath the moon’s gleeful stare. “You won’t. I give you Blachloch and you give me my freedom. You need not fear me, Catalyst. I have no such ambition as Blachloch. I do not intend to use my power to take over the world. I simply want back what is rightfully mine. I will go to Merilon and, with the help of this sword I have forged, I will find it!”
Watching him, Saryon saw the young man’s face soften for a moment, becoming as wistful and longing as a child’s gazing at some bright, jeweled bauble. Pity surged through the catalyst. He recalled the dark stories he had heard of Joram’s youth, of his insane mother. He thought of the hard life the young man had led, the constant struggle for survival, the need to hide the fact that he was truly Dead. Saryon, too, knew what it was like to be weak and helpless in this world of wizards. Memories came back to him—the longing to be able to ride the wings of the wind, to create beauty and wonder with a wave of the hand, to shape stone into towers of grace and usefulness …. Now Joram had this power, only it was reversed. He had the power to destroy, not create. And all he wanted to buy with it was a child’s dream.
“You will undoubtedly be a hero.” Joram’s voice came to Saryon as if out of this dream. “You can return to the Font, go back and crawl under your rock again. I trust your failure as far as bringing me to justice will be overlooked. They can always try to apprehend me in Merilon. If they dare ….”
Joram was silent a moment, then he returned to reality, the wistful, childlike face hardening, becoming the face of the Sorcerer who had murdered the overseer with a stone. “When the warlock is in the forge, I will attack him with the Darksword and absorb his magic—”
“You hope,” Saryon retorted, angry because he was suddenly discovering he was beginning to care for this young man. “You have only the vaguest idea of the sword’s power. You know nothing about wielding such a weapon.”
“I don’t need to be skilled in swordplay,” Joram said irritably. “We’re not going to kill him, after all. When I attack and the Darksword begins to draw off his magic, you must attack also, and drain him of his Life.”
Saryon shook his head. “That’s too dangerous. I’ve never been trained for this …”
“You have no choice, Catalyst!” Joram said, his teeth clenching, his hand gripping Saryon’s arm again. “Simkin says that Blachloch has found the crucible! If he doesn’t already know about the darkstone, he soon will. Do you want to make Darkswords for him?”
The catalyst put his head in his trembling hands. Slowly releasing his arm, Joram sat back in his chair again, nodding to himself in satisfaction.
“How can we get out of here?” Saryon asked, raising a haggard face and glancing around the prison.
“Run to the guards. Tell them you were asleep, and when you woke, you discovered I was gone. Demand that they take you to see Blachloch. In the confusion, I’ll slip out.”
“But how? They’ll be searching for you! It’s—”
“—my concern, Catalyst,” Joram said coldly. “You worry about your part. Stall Blachloch for as long as you can, to give me time to get there.”
“Stall! What should I—”
“Faint! Be sick on him! I don’t know! It shouldn’t be difficult. You look as though you could do both right now anyway.” With a scathing glance at the catalyst, Joram stood up and began pacing restlessly about the room.
“I am not as weak as you consider me, young man,” Saryon said softly. “I should never have agreed to assist you in bringing this weapon of darkness into the world. I did, however, and now I must accept responsibility for my actions. I will do what you ask of me this night. I will help bring this evil warlock to justice. But not because I will be a hero, not to enable me to go back.” Saryon was silent a moment, then, drawing a