Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [127]
The Sorcerer studied the boulder critically. It was huge! It must stand at least seven feet tall. His arms would not even go halfway around it. It weighed—what—a ton? If it was darkstone, its value would be incalculable? His hand, touching it, shook with anticipation.
“Joram will know if it is darkstone or it isn’t,” the Sorcerer murmured, smiling to himself. “I must try to keep him conscious when I capture him, at least until he’s had a chance to tell me.”
Patting the altar stone fondly and longingly with his hand, the Sorcerer continued his inspection, finally reaching the Temple itself.
Nine stairs shaped out of stone led up to the porch. Nine crumbling columns supported a broken roof that jutted out from beneath the spiraling summit of the mountain. Drawing nearer, the Sorcerer saw that parts of the ceiling had collapsed beneath the weight of rock and years. Large chunks of stone littered the floor. The altar, barely seen through the shadows, appeared to have been crushed by a ceiling beam. Climbing the crumbling stairs, Menju noted with satisfaction that the darkness inside the Temple was thick and impenetrable.
Menju nodded to himself. Taking one final look around, he glanced out over the plains far to the north, to where the city of Merilon stood glittering in the sun. Squinting, he stared intently at the city, thinking he saw the glint of metal. Was it Major Boris’s tanks taking up position to bombard the magical dome? Or was it the sunlight, flashing off an icebound lake? He couldn’t be certain.
Shrugging, the Sorcerer turned away. Once he had. The Darksword, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Meanwhile Boris and his men could have their fun. It kept the Major occupied, kept him from brooding. And it would heat up the blood of the soldiers, filling them with the fear and hatred necessary to exterminate the people of this world.
The sun was high above his head. It was nearly time. Returning to his selected hiding place, Menju mulled over matters in his mind. The fighting on this world was likely to be long and costly, even with the Darksword. These people wouldn’t go to their deaths without a struggle. A pity he couldn’t use some of those depopulation bombs that killed without damaging buildings and such. Would those disrupt the magic? Possibly not. He’d have to consult the physicists. Come to think of it, Joram might know.
What about Joram? Would he cooperate? Entering the Temple, the Sorcerer allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. His plan was foolproof. Joram was known to be devoted to his mad wife. Once realizing that Menju had Gwendolyn captive, Joram would be only too happy to cooperate. Insane though the woman may be, at least she was capable of some form of rational thought. Better that than seeing her mental capacity reduced to the level of a rotting tomato.
Menju switched the setting on his phaser from “kill” to “stun.” Crouching down in the darkness behind a column of the ruined Temple, conscious of a breathless hush that had settled over the top of the world, the Sorcerer waited.
6
The Executioner
Menju’s instincts were right. He was being watched. And though most of the eyes watching him belonged to the dead, one pair did not. One pair belonged to the living. Someone else had arrived at the Temple of the Necromancer. Someone else was waiting.
The presence of the humans disturbed the dead, who had not seen living bodies on their hallowed ground in centuries. But it was not just the presence alone of these two men that caused the spirits restless agitation. Clustered about their Temple, they watched with unseeing eyes, listened with deaf ears, spoke with dumb mouths. For there was no one to understand them, no one to hear them, and their sense of frustration was great. The dead—who were one with the mind of Almin—knew the danger but were helpless to act. All they could do was watch with those watching and wait with those waiting.
This second Watcher was, in reality, the first. He had arrived at the Temple