Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [174]
What did the Duuk-tsarith know of the darkstone? Probably not much more than Joram. What thoughts must be rushing through the warlock’s mind. Was the sword responsible for blocking his Nullmagic spell? Would it block others? Blachloch must make his decision on his next move instantaneously, split-second. For all he knew, his life might well depend upon it.
Coolly, calmly, the Duuk-tsarith chose his spell and cast it. His eyes lit with a green glow and instantly a greenish liquid condensed from the air onto Joram’s skin, where it began to bubble and hiss. Green Venom, the spell was called. Recognizing it, Saryon winced, his stomach clenching. The pain was excruciating, so he had heard, as if every nerve ending were on fire. Any magus strong enough to shield himself against the Nullmagic must fall victim to the venom’s magical paralysis. He would not be able to protect against both.
And it apparently affected the Dead as well as the Living. Joram’s face twisted in agony. He gasped, his body beginning to double over as the liquid spread and the fiery pain burned through his flesh. But it was a spell whose casting drained a magus rapidly.
“Grant me Life, Catalyst!” Blachloch demanded, his eyes glowing a more brilliant green as they stared at the young man.
This is the time, Saryon knew. The time I must decide. I am Joram’s only chance. Without me, he must fall. He cannot control the sword, if the darkstone is even working. The catalyst glanced swiftly at the weapon and a shiver of exultation swept over him. Joram’s body glowed green, the young man screamed in terrible pain. He was literally crumbling to the floor as the venom surged through his body. But his hands still gripped the sword, the hands themselves were not coated with the deadly liquid, and, even as Saryon watched, the venom began to disappear from Joram’s arms and upper body—the Darksword was absorbing the magic.
It was doing so too slowly, however. Joram would be worse than dead within seconds, his body a convulsing, writhing blob upon the sand-covered floor of the forge.
Saryon began to repeat the ancient words, the words he had learned seventeen years ago when he became a Deacon, words he had never spoken, never expected to speak …. Words each catalyst prays he will never be forced to speak ….
He began to suck out Blachloch’s Life.
A highly dangerous maneuver, it is generally practiced only in times of war when a catalyst will attempt to weaken an opponent through this means. Instead of closing off a conduit, which cuts the supply of Life given to a magus, the catalyst leaves the conduit open and simply reverses the flow. The danger lies in the fact that the wizard will instantly feel the Life beginning to seep from him and can, unless distracted, turn upon the catalyst and reduce him to dust.
Saryon knew well the danger he was in and he didn’t flinch when Blachloch’s cry of outrage split the darkness, the green-glowing eyes moved to turn their venomous pain upon him. His courage held, even as he saw his fingertips began to turn green and felt the first bursts of pain dance up his arms.
“Joram!” he shouted. “Help me!”
The young man was on his knees, sobbing. With Blachloch’s attention withdrawn and the sword absorbing the magic, the venom was vanishing from his flesh, though still slowly. At Saryon’s cry, Joram lifted his head. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise. But he was too weak to manage on his own and there was nothing near him he could use to lean upon. Finally, plunging the point of the sword into the dirt floor of the forge, he gripped the handle and dragged himself to his feet.
“Joram!” The venom ate into Saryon’s body, and the catalyst cursed himself. With all his logic, he should have foreseen this! He was absorbing Life from the warlock, but there was nothing he could do with it! In battle, he would have had a wizard as his ally. He could grant this Life to his partner, who could then use it to enhance his own strength and fight off the enemy. But the catalyst could give no