Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [90]
“This is ridiculous, “he told himself firmly, trying to remain calm, even as he was positive he saw the shining scaled tail of a dreadful monster slither away in the murky water of the swamp. Trembling from fear and damp and cold, he kept his eyes on Simkin, who was walking swiftly ahead of him, seemingly confident of every step. “Look at him. He’s my guide. He knows where he’s going. I have only to follow—”
The catalyst slowed, looking about him more intently, his senses now completely alert. Of course! How had he missed it at first?
“Simkin!” Saryon hissed.
“What is it, O Bald and Quivering One?” The young man turned around carefully, looking annoyed at being stopped.
“Simkin, this forest is under an enchantment!” Saryon gestured. “I can tell! I can sense the magic. It’s unlike anything I’m used to!” So it was. The magic was so pervasive, Saryon almost felt smothered by it.
Simkin appeared uncomfortable. “I … I suppose you’re right,” he muttered, glancing about at the mist drifting up from the water and twining round about the twisting trees. “I … believe I did hear at one time that this forest was … er … enchanted, as you say.”
“Who laid it? The Coven?”
“N-no,” Simkin admitted. “They don’t go in for that sort of thing, generally. Plus we haven’t had a catalyst around, like yourself, you know, so it would have been rather difficult—”
“Then who?” Saryon carne to a halt, staring at Simkin suspiciously.
“I say, old chap, I suggest you keep moving.”
“Who?” Saryon repeated angrily.
Smiling and shrugging, Simkin pointed at the catalyst’s feet.
Looking down, Saryon was alarmed to note that he was slowly sinking into the bog.
“Give me your hand!” said Simkin, tugging at the catalyst. It took considerable effort to drag Saryon’s feet free of the muck and, when they did, the ground let loose with a sucking pop as though angry at having to release its prey.
Thoroughly frightened, there was nothing for the catalyst to do but keep stumbling after Simkin, though Saryon was so oppressed with the stifling sensation of the heavy enchantment that he could scarcely breathe. It seemed it was sucking the Life out of him unbidden, draining his strength.
“I must rest,” Saryon gasped, staggering through the black water, his wet robes burdening him like a heavy weight.
“No, not now!” Simkin said insistently. Turning, he caught hold of Saryon’s arm and pulled him on. “There’s firmer ground, just a little farther …”
Clasped firmly in the young man’s grip, Saryon trudged wearily on, noticing as he went that Simkin was having no trouble walking, but was moving lightly over the surface, his boots barely leaving any impression at all.
“After all, he is a magus,” Saryon told himself bitterly, floundering after him. “Probably a wizard ….”
“Here we are,” said Simkin brightly, coming to a halt. “Now you can rest a bit, if you must.”
“I must,” Saryon said, thankful to feel solid ground beneath his feet. Following Simkin up onto a small round knoll that rose out of the bog, Saryon wiped the chill perspiration from his face with his sleeve and, shivering, glanced about their surroundings. “How far—” he began when suddenly, his breath catching in his throat, he made a strangled sound. “Run!” he cried.
“What?” Simkin whirled around, crouching, prepared for any enemy.
“Get … out!” Saryon managed to gasp, trying to move his feet but feeling the enchantment drawing him slowly and inexorably down.
“Get out of what?” Simkin’s voice seemed to come from far away. The mist was rising and swirling around them.
“Ring … mushrooms!” Saryon shouted, falling to his hands and knees as the ground shivered and quaked beneath his feet. “Simkin … look …”
With a last, desperate lunge, the catalyst tried to escape from the magical ring by flinging his body outside it. But as he lurched forward, the ground