Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [57]
Father Tolban, still kneeling beside Anja’s body, froze, as if turned to stone himself. The Field Magi slowly dropped to the ground, feeling the Life force ebb from them as shocked realization of what had occurred penetrated their minds.
Joram stood silently, unmoving, staring at the bodies on the ground.
Anja was a pitiable sight to her son. Thin and gaunt, clad in the rags of her former happiness, she died as she had lived, Joram thought bitterly. She died denying the truth. He spared a glance—and a glance only—for the overseer, who lay on his back, blood from the terrible wound forming a pool in the freshly turned dirt. The man had not seen the attack coming, he had not even imagined it possible.
Looking at his hands, then looking at the stone lying next to the mans crushed head, Joram’s only thought was—how easy …. How very easy it had been to kill with that simple tool ….
He felt a touch on his arm. Whirling in fear, he grabbed Mosiah, who shrank back before the madness he saw in the dark, brown eyes.
“It’s me, Joram! I’m not going to hurt you!” Mosiah raised his hands.
At the sound of the voice, Joram loosened his grip slightly, dim recognition dawning in his eyes, driving away the darkness.
“You’ve got to get out of here!” Mosiah said urgently. His face was pale, his eyes so wide that they seemed almost all white with only a tiny dot of color. “Hurry! Before Father Tolban opens the Corridor and brings the Duuk-tsarith!”
Joram stared at Mosiah blankly, then he looked back at the bodies on the ground.
“I don’t know where,” he muttered, “I can’t—”
“The Outland!”—Mosiah shook him—“The border, where you wanted to go before. There are people who live there. Outlaws, rebels, Sorcerers. You were right. I’ve talked to them. They’ll help, but you’ve got to hurry, Joram!”
“No! Don’t let him escape!” Father Tolban cried. Pointing at Joram, the catalyst opened conduits full-force to the magi, sending Life flowing into them. “Stop him!”
Mosiah turned. “Father?” he cried urgently.
“Mosiah’s right. Run, Joram,” said the magus. “Take yourself to the Outlands. If you survive, those who live there’ll watch over you.”
“Don’t worry about your mother, Joram,” came a woman’s voice. “We’ll tend to the ceremony. You better run, young man, before the Duuk-tsarith get here.”
Still Joram stood there, staring at the bodies.
“Take him partway, Mosiah,” said his father. “He’s addled. We’ll see that he gets the time to make a fair start.”
The Field Magi moved toward Father Tolban, who shrank backward, staring at them.
“You don’t dare!” the catalyst whimpered. “I’ll report you! An uprising …”
“No you won’t report us,” said Mosiah’s father calmly still advancing. “We tried to stop the boy, didn’t we?”
The other Field Magi nodded.
“Your life has been easy enough here, Father. You wouldn’t want that to change now, would you? Mosiah, get him going …”
But Joram had come to himself now, returning as if from a great distance. “Which way?” he asked Mosiah in a firm voice. “I don’t remember …”
“I’ll come with you!”
Joram shook his head. “No, you have a life here.” He caught himself, adding bitterly. “You have a life. Now, which way?” he repeated.
“Northeast,” Mosiah answered. “Cross the river. Once you’re in the woods, be wary.”
“How will I find those people?”
“You won’t. They’ll find you, hopefully before something nastier does.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Joram.”
Joram stared at the young man’s hand for a moment, the only time he could remember seeing a hand held out to him in either help or friendship. Looking into Mosiah’s face, he saw the pity in his eyes, pity and revulsion he could not hide.
Pity for a Dead man.
Turning, without a look behind, Joram ran across the plowed fields.
Mosiah’s hand dropped to his side. For long moments, he stared after Joram, then, with a sigh, he went back to stand beside his father.
“Very well, Catalyst,” said the magus, after Joram’s figure had disappeared into