Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [120]
There was nothing we could do but wait. Not only would we endanger ourselves if we tried to fight such overwhelming numbers, we would place the prisoners’ lives in jeopardy. There was every possibility the Technomancers would kill their prisoners rather than let them be rescued.
We hid in the darkness, straining to hear. The first voice we heard was Father Saryon’s. His tone was strong and indignant, which meant that he was well. I closed my eyes and breathed a prayer to the Almin in thankfulness.
“Joram is very ill, as you can see, Mr. Smythe. My friend needs medical attention immediately. I insist that you take him to the outpost. They have a medical facility there—”
“Certainly,” said Smythe, and his voice was smooth and eager to please. “We will provide him with the antidote to the poison— as soon as he tells me where to find the Darksword.”
“Poison?” Saryon was horrified. “You poisoned him?”
“A slow-acting variety. We use the same to cause the deaths of the organisms in our perpetual generators. Death comes very slowly and very painfully, I am told. Now, my friend. Where is the Darksword? Tell us that, and you will feel much better.”.
“He does not know!” Saryon said angrily.
“Ah, but I think he does,” said Smythe. “He gave it to his daughter to hide. We saw her in possession of the sword, so you needn’t trouble to lie about it. We are on her trail—”
“If you hurt her . . .” The voice was weak, but it was definitely Joram’s.
We heard scuffling sounds and a stifled cry.
Eliza turned her head into my shoulder. I held her tightly and the rage I felt toward Smythe at that moment appalled me. I had always thought of myself as a pacifist. Now I knew I had it in me to kill.
“Don’t! Leave him alone!” Saryon cried, and we heard a rustling sound, as if he threw himself protectively in front of Joram. “He is weak and ill.”
“He will be far more ill if he does not cooperate.”
“He can be of no use to you dead!”
“He isn’t going to die. At least not yet. As you say, I have need of him. Give him the stimulant. There. That will keep him alive a little longer. He won’t feel very good, but he’ll live, which is more than I can say for you, Father Saryon. You are of no use to me whatsoever. I have catalysts of my own, prepared to give the Darksword Life, once it is recovered.
“Listen to me, Joram. You have five minutes to reconsider your stubborn refusal to tell me where your daughter is hiding. If you do not, Father Saryon will be flayed alive, a particularly nasty way to die. Bind his feet and his hands.”
We four stared, horrified, at each other. We had five minutes to act, five minutes to rescue the hostages, or Father Saryon would most certainly be tortured and murdered. There were six guards, plus Kevon Smythe, and only four of us.
“Scylla, you have your gun,” Mosiah began, speaking in a tense whisper. “You—”
“Gun,” she said. “I don’t have a gun.”
Mosiah glared at her. “You don’t carry a gun! What kind of agent are you?”
“A smart one,” Scylla returned. “From what I’ve seen, carrying a gun is an open invitation for someone to shoot you.”
Mosiah was grim. “We have no choice, I guess. We have to take on all six of the D’karn-darah—”
“Make that seven,” Scylla said.
Another silver-robed Technomancer had apparently entered the cavern. I say “apparently” because I had been watching the cavern entrance and I had not seen anyone come inside. The new arrival glided up behind the two guards waiting at the entrance. Reaching out a silver-gloved hand, the D’karn-darah tapped one of them on the shoulder.
It was the Technomancer who had thrown the rock in the river. He jumped, turned. His robes flowed around him like liquid mercury.
“What the devil—who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want? And don’t come sneaking up on someone like that. It’s bad enough being on this blasted planet, with rocks that have eyes and God knows what else! What do you want?” he repeated nervously.
“A