Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [175]
Then Saryon saw the sword.
It stood in the ground, its arms spread like a man pleading for help. Its black metal reflected no light. It was a creation of darkness, it was darkness. Like a man pleading for help.
A feeling of shock and horror hit Saryon, numbing the growing pain spreading slowly over his body, slowly because—even still—he was draining the Life from the warlock and he could feel the man weakening.
I can not give life to Joram, but I can give it to the sword.
Closing his eyes, Saryon blocked out the sight of the black, hideous parody of a living being that seemed to be opening its rigid arms to clasp him in its embrace. I can surrender. My torment would end.
Obedire est vivere …
He saw before him the flames of the burning village, the young Deacon falling dead upon the ground, Simkin dealing a hand from a deck of faceless, colorless cards.
Vivere est obedire ….
Opening his eyes, Saryon watched Joram draw the blade from the ground and raise it above his head. But the young man appeared in Saryon’s mind only as a shadow in the moonlight. All he truly saw or could focus on was the sword. Stretching out his hand toward it, the pain making his fingers twitch involuntarily, Saryon opened a conduit to the cold, lifeless metal.
The magic surged through him like a blast of wind, its force so strong that he stumbled backward. The pain ceased abruptly, the liquid on his skin vanished. The sword glowed a brilliant white-blue and, with an inarticulate cry, Blachloch fell to the floor, the combined power of the sword and the catalyst sucking the magic from his body, leaving him nothing more than the empty shell of a human.
The sword fell to the ground. Unprepared for the tremendous jolt of power that jarred his very being, Joram had dropped the weapon and now stood staring at it in amazement as it lay on the floor, ringing and humming with an eerie, almost human screech of pleasure. Turning, he looked from the sword to the helpless warlock. Snarling in rage, Blachloch fought on, trying to regain the use of his limbs. It was a feeble attempt. Weakened by the full use of his magical power and now completely bereft of Life itself, the warlock flopped about in the dirt like a landed fish.
Appalled and sickened at the sight, Saryon turned away. Leaning against a workbench, he realized, slowly, that it was all over.
“I will open a Corridor,” he said, without looking around at Joram. He couldn’t face the sight of the warlock lying helpless on the floor, deprived of all his dignity as a human being. It was bad enough hearing his incoherent sounds and pitiful thrashings. “I have enough of his Life force left within me to do so. I will place him inside a Corridor, then close it again before the Enforcers figure out what has happened. I don’t think it likely anyone would come back here. They seem intent on avoiding this place and, once they’ve got Blachloch, I believe they’ll let the Technologists live in peace. Still, it would be best for you if you left, just in case—”
A scream interrupted him, a scream of fury and terror. Rising to a shrill shriek of excruciating pain, the scream became a wail, dying horribly in a dreadful, choking gurgle.
His soul riven by the awful sound, Saryon turned around.
Blachloch lay dead, his eyes staring straight up into the night, his mouth open in the scream that echoed still in Saryon’s brain. Joram stood above the warlock, his face stark white in the moonlight, his eyes hollows of darkness. In his hands, he held the Darksword, its blade protruding from the warlock’s chest. With a jerk, he pulled it free and Saryon saw blood glisten black upon the Darksword.
Saryon could not speak. The man’s death cry shrieked in his ears. He could only stare at Joram, trying to stifle the sound of that dreadful scream enough to be able to think.
“Why?” the catalyst whispered finally.
Joram looked over at him, and Saryon saw the half-smile glint in the dark eyes.
“He was going to attack you, Catalyst,” the young man answered coolly. “I stopped him.”
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