Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [91]
The last thing he heard was Simkin’s voice, sounding ghostly through the whirling mist.
“I say, old boy, I believe you’re right. Frightfully sorry.
“Simkin?” whispered Saryon into the impenetrable darkness.
“Here, old boy,” came a cheerful response.
“Do you know where we are?”
“I’m afraid so. Try to be calm, will you? Everything’s under control.”
Calm. Saryon closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking to slow the beating of the heart that was lurching unsteadily in his chest. His mouth was dry, it hurt to breathe. He was standing on firm ground, however, which was some comfort, even though when he put his hands out and groped about in the darkness he could feel nothing around him. He could sense nothing around him either—nothing living, that is. For, oddly enough, his entire being pulsed and throbbed with magic—the source of the enchantment … as Simkin must have known.
When he thought he could speak in a relatively normal sounding voice, with only the hint of a quiver, he began, “I demand to know—”
At that moment, Saryon’s vision literally exploded with light and sound. Torches flared, stars seemed to shout from the sky and go flitting about him. Specks of green fire zoomed before his eyes and danced in his head. Brilliant bursts of white phosphorus blinded him as trumpet blasts deafened him. Reeling backward, he covered his eyes with his hands and heard laughter tingle and sparkle around him, while other, deeper laughter, boomed and shouted.
Blinking and rubbing his eyes, trying to see in the dazzling, smoky atmosphere that was somehow light and dark at the same time, Saryon heard a deep, low voice flowing out of the laughter like a cool river running through a vast, echoing cave.
“Simkin, my sweet, pretty boy, you have returned. And have you have brought me my desire?”
“Well, er, not exactly. That is … perhaps. Your Majesty is so difficult to please ….”
“I am not difficult to please. I would have settled for you.”
“Ah, come, come, now, Your Majesty. We’ve been over that, you know,” Simkin answered with a catch in his breath, or so it seemed to Saryon, who was still trying to see through the bursting blaze of light. “You know I would be … be honored, but if I left the Coven, Blachloch would come searching for me and he’d find me. And then he’d find you. He’s a powerful warlock—”
Saryon heard a throaty growl of impatience.
“Yes,” said Simkin hastily, “I know you could handle him and his men, but it would be so ugly. They have iron, you know—”
At this, the darkness was filled with hissing and yammering, dreadful to hear, while the lights blinked and flared, causing Saryon to shield his eyes with his hand.
“Someday,” said the deep, low voice, “we will deal with this matter. But now there are more urgent needs.”
Saryon heard a rustling sound, as if someone had moved, and instantly silence fell. The dazzling, brilliant lights winked out, the horrible noise stopped, and the catalyst was, once more, left standing in the darkness. But this darkness was alive, he could hear it breathing all around him—light, quick, shallow breaths; deep, even, rumbling breaths; and, above them all, a soft, whispering, throaty breathing.
He had no idea what to do. He dared not speak or call Simkin’s name. The breathing continued all around him—coming closer, it seemed—and the tension built inside him until he knew that any moment he would fling himself into the darkness and begin to run aimlessly, probably dashing himself to pieces among rocks—
Light flared again, only this time it was a pleasant, yellow light that did not blind him or hurt his eyes. He could see by it, he discovered, once his eyes became accustomed to it. And, looking around, he saw Simkin.
The catalyst blinked in astonishment. It was the same young man who had found him in the wilderness, the same brown hair curled upon his shoulders, the same brown mustache adorned his upper