Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [113]
“Fools!” he managed to gasp.
Scylla advanced a step, her sword raised.
The same Duuk-tsarith again moved his hand. Scylla’s steel blade changed to water, ran down her upraised arm, and dripped upon the stone at her feet. She stared, in openmouthed astonishment, at her empty hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” Father Saryon demanded angrily.
“Relinquish the Darksword,” another of the Duuk-tsarith commanded. He approached Eliza. “Relinquish it and you will come to no harm.”
“We have no need of you. Leave us. We will take the Darksword to the Emperor!” Eliza said imperiously.
“Emperor no more,” countered the Duuk-tsarith. “Garald and his false, lying bishop have been deposed. We rule Thimhal-lan now. Give us the Darksword.”
Eliza fell back before them. “You have no right—”
Red flame sprang from the fingertips of the Duuk-tsarith, formed into fiery tentacles that reached out to encircle Eliza and make her captive.
Instinctively, she lifted the Darksword to shield herself from the magic.
Tentacles of flame struck the Darksword. The darkstone drank them in greedily and began to glow with a white-blue flame of its own.
“The child of the traitor Joram is hereby sentenced to death,” the Duuk-tsarith pronounced.
Magic surged and heaved and sparked.
“Stop! Cast no spells!” Saryon cried in terror. He stumbled forward, to put himself between Eliza and the Duuk-tsarith. “The dragon—”
The Darksword sucked in the magic. The metal seemed superheated, the white-blue glow of the flame was dazzling, blinding. . . .
The Dragon of the Night roared in pain and fury. It lifted its wings, the deadly stars glittered. The dragon opened its eyes wide. Its mind-shattering light flared within the cavern. Saryon clutched his head and reeled in pain, then he collapsed upon the stone floor. White stars of death showered down around us. The Duuk-tsarith’s black robes burst into flame. They and their spells withered in the horrific blaze.
“Fools!” Mosiah repeated, with the grim quiet of despair. “You have doomed us all!”
I looked for Scylla, but could not find her. Weaponless and alone, she must have gone forth to do battle with the dragon.
“Eliza!” I cried, and ran into the cave, not to save her, for nothing could do that, but to die with her.
I ran and it was as if I had leapt off an immense cliff. I spread my arms and discovered I could fly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Simkin’s a monumental liar. I don’t see how you can put up with him!”
“Because he’s an amusing liar. And that makes him different.”
“Different?”
“From the rest of you.”
MOSIAH AND JORAM; FORGING THE DARKSWORD
Again, the frightening sensation of being squeezed, the air forced from my lungs, my body compressed and flattened like that of a mouse squeezing itself into a tiny crack. My flight ended abruptly and painfully in a tumble. I rolled down a rocky incline, came up hard against a stone wall.
For a moment I lay there, dazed and bruised and cut, gasping for air like a landed fish. Fearing the dragon, I opened my eyes, prepared to do what little I could to defend myself and Eliza. I looked around, blinked.
The dragon was gone. The Duuk-tsarith were gone. Father Saryon was gone. Scylla was there, and Mosiah, and Eliza. We were in a cavern, the same cavern. It smelled the same. The floor was covered with refuse, bones lay scattered about. Eliza stood in the center of the cavern, holding the Darksword.
Dropping the sword, she hurried to me, bent over me. “Reuven! That was a nasty fall! Are you all right?” Was I? No, I wasn’t.
Eliza no longer wore the blue velvet riding outfit, no glittering golden circlet adorned her head. She was dressed in the plain woolen skirt and simple blouse she had been wearing when we first set out upon this strange journey.
I started to push myself up, mindful of entangling myself in my robes, except that I wasn’t wearing robes. I was wearing jeans and a blue sweater.
“Scylla! Quick! He’s hurt!” Eliza cried.
Scylla, clad in combat fatigues,