Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [89]
Suddenly, Saryon did hear something, or thought he did! A crashing sound, as of hooves galloping down the trail! There seemed no choice now. Gripping Simkin’s arm, the catalyst drew on the young man’s Life force—never noticing, in his excitement, that it was unusually strong—and stammered out the words that opened the Corridor. The void opened, a patch of stark nothingness gaping in the middle of the trail. Simkin leaped inside, dragging the catalyst with him.
The void elongated, condensed, and shut, leaving the forest to murmur and rustle in peaceful, morning tranquility behind them.
“Where are we?” asked Saryon, stepping cautiously out of the Corridor.
“Deep, deep in the Outland,” said Simkin softly, keeping his hand on Saryon’s arm as he stepped out. “Watch every step, guard every word, search every shadow.”
The Corridor closed behind them. Saryon glanced back at it nervously, half expecting the Thon-Li to leap out and apprehend them. Perhaps he was hoping someone would come out and apprehend them, he admitted to himself miserably. But no one did.
The two had reached their destination safely—that destination being, as far as Saryon could see, a swamp. Around them, tall trees with thick, black trunks rose up out of murky black water. The catalyst had never seen such trees in his life. Shining wet with slime, the trees’ twisted limbs curled round and about each other until one tree was so entangled in the arms of another that it was impossible to tell where a single tree left off and its cousin began. The strange trees had no leaves, only twisting tentacles that shot out from the branches and dipped down into the water, like long, thin tongues.
“This … this isn’t … the Coven?” Saryon asked nervously, feeling his feet sink into the boggy ground.
“No, of course not!” Simkin whispered. “It would never do now to appear suddenly in the middle of the Coven, stepping out of a Corridor, would it? I mean, people would ask questions. And believe me,” he said, an unusually grim note hardening his voice, “you don’t want Blachloch asking you questions.”
“Blachloch?” Saryon lifted his foot from the muck, and immediately a puff of foul-smelling gas burbled to the surface where his foot had been. Gagging, the catalyst covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his robe, watching in horrible fascination as oozing ground rushed in to cover his tracks.
“Blachloch? Head of the Coven,” said Simkin with a tight, strained smile. “Duuk-tsarith.”
“An Enforcer?”
“Former Enforcer,” Simkin said succinctly. “He decided his talents—and they are considerable—could be used more profitably for himself than his Emperor. So he left.”
Shivering in the dank, chill air of the dark, tangled forest, Saryon gathered his robes closer around him and stood looking about despairingly, wondering if there were snakes.
“You’ll learn more about him … much more … all too soon,” Simkin said darkly. “Just remember, my friend”—he gripped the catalyst’s arm—“Blachloch is a dangerous man. Very dangerous. Now, come this way. I’ll lead. Keep behind me and step exactly where I step.”
“We have to walk through this?” Saryon asked bleakly.
“Not far. We’re near the village, this is part of the outer defenses. Mind where you step.”
Looking at the black water gurgling up in the imprint left behind by Simkin’s foot in the muck, Saryon was careful to obey the young man’s instructions. Creeping along behind him, the blood pulsing in his throat and his heart beating painfully, the once sheltered and secluded catalyst stared around at his surroundings in a vague kind of dreamlike horror. Something stirred in his mind, memories of childhood stories told to him by the House Magus when she put him to bed at night. Stories of the creatures of enchantment that had been brought from the Dark Land of the ancients—dragons, unicorns, sea serpents. It was in places like this that they lived. They had terrified him then, lying safe in a warm bed. How much more terrifying were they now, perhaps watching at this very moment!
Saryon had never