Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [122]
“What if he decides to talk, Master?”
“Get his information, then transport him immediately to me at HQ. Use the teleporter.”
“Yes, sir. Do we still kill the priest?”
“What do you think?” Smythe demanded impatiently. “He’s of no use to me.”
“Yes, sir. Could you leave someone to help us, sir? The tele-porter is not functioning efficiently on this planet.”
“I’ll stay here and give them a hand,” said Simkin from beneath his silver hood.
“Very well.” Smythe was obviously anxious to be gone. He left the cavern, his four bodyguards trooping after him.
I looked at the others, to see my own feelings of revulsion, horror, and fury reflected on their faces. I could not comprehend how any human could be so consumed with power that he would make a deal with a heinous enemy, a deal sacrificing millions of his fellow humans on the altar of his own ambition.
The two Technomancers went into the prison to retrieve the captives. Simkin remained outside, rocking back and forth on his heels and humming to himself. The humming was off-key and extremely jarring to the nerves. He did not once look in our direction or give us the slightest sign.
I was beginning to think that we had been mistaken. Perhaps the Technomancer wasn’t Simkin, after all. Perhaps it was merely a Technomancer with an odd taste in footwear.
Mosiah shared my doubts. “That fool! What’s he doing? If it is him . . .”
“Whether it is or it isn’t, he got rid of Smythe,” Scylla pointed out. “And four of the guards. We should attack now.”
“Let them bring the hostages out of the cell first,” said Mosiah. “They’re probably using a stasis field to hold them and we’d never be able to remove it ourselves.”
“Good point, Enforcer,” said Scylla admiringly. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan!” Mosiah snorted. “I’m the only one with a weapon and that’s my magic.”
“Not even a laser pistol would have any effect on that protective armor of theirs,” Scylla returned in a hoarse whisper. “Besides, I have my own weapons.”
“Which are?”
“You’ll see. I guarantee you that I’ll put one out of commission, if you can handle the other.”
Mosiah didn’t like it, but this was no time to argue. We could hear scuffling sounds from inside the prison. Simkin’s humming grew louder and more nerve-racking, if that was possible.
“At my signal, Scylla, you attack,” Mosiah ordered. “Reuven, you and Eliza rescue Joram and Father Saryon.”
“Where do we take them?” Eliza asked.
“Down the tunnel.Back to the cavern where you hid the Darksword.”
“What then?”
“Let’s get that far first,” Mosiah said.
Simkin’s humming was setting my teeth on edge. I’ve never heard such a strange and ear-piercing sound come from any living human throat. But then, this was Simkin. The two Technomancer guards emerged. One had hold of Father Saryon. He looked upset and anxious, but I knew that his anxiety was for Joram, not for himself, though he was the one who was about to be put to death. Saryon kept twisting his head, trying to see over his shoulder, trying to see Joram, who was being dragged out behind him.
At the sight of her father, Eliza gave a small moan and immediately covered her mouth with her hand to prevent any further cries from escaping her.
Joram’s skin was a grayish white, beaded with sweat. Blood matted his hair and was caked on one side of his face, where a deep, ugly wound crossed over his cheek, almost laying the bone bare. His right hand was clasped over his left arm, which hung limp. His shirt was torn, blood covered the shirtfront, and the sleeve of the left arm was saturated. The stimulant, his fever, and his anger gave his eyes an unnatural luster. He was weak, but grimly alert and defiant.
“Release Father Saryon. Then and only then will I tell you where to find the Darksword.”
“You’ll tell us,” said one of the Technomancers. “When you see the priest lying there with half his flesh flayed from his body, screaming for us