Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [130]
The blacksmith spent an hour in intense examination of the tool and, at last, after reverently reassembling the components, announced bluntly, “I know how it works, my lord, though how they captured all that power is beyond me.”
“That,” answered the Executioner, “is more than sufficient.”
The blacksmith, holding the weapon. In his hands and stroking it fondly, explained matters clearly and concisely.
“Aim the weapon at your target. When you press against this small lever with your finger”—the blacksmith pointed—“the weapon will shoot forth the projectile with such force that it should go through damn near anything.”
“Flesh?” asked the Executioner offhandedly.
“Flesh, rock, iron.” The blacksmith looked at the weapon with wistful longing. “I don’t suppose you’d care to see it demonstrated, my lord?”
“No,” the warlock replied. “Your explanation is satisfactory.”
Retrieving the weapon, the Executioner stepped into the Corridor and vanished. With a heavy sigh, the smith hefted his hammer and began pounding on a crude spear tip, all the joy having gone out of his work.
Returning to the safety and privacy of his own chambers in the Font—chambers far underground, studiously avoided by everyone, and the only place where, it was said, the eyes of the Font were blind and the ears stopped up—the Executioner demonstrated the weapon himself. Pointing it at a wall, he wrapped his finger around the small lever as the blacksmith had indicated and squeezed.
The concussive blast nearly deafened him, the weapons recoil staggered him. He all but dropped the thing and his hand stung with the shock for minutes afterward. Going to examine the target on the wall, once he had recovered himself, the Executioner was frustrated to find no trace of the projectile. The wall was smooth and undamaged. Further investigation revealed, however, that this was not the fault of the tool but the fault of the one using the tool. The Executioner had missed his target by, if not the proverbial mile, then certainly a city block.
Undaunted, the Executioner cast a temporary spell of deafness over himself. Holding the weapon with both hands, he finally managed, after an hour, to at least come close to hitting his target. Measuring the holes he had made in the wall, the Executioner saw that they fit well within a space large enough to accommodate a human’s upper body. This was good enough. It was nearly dawn anyway and he had to make certain he took up his position unseen and unsuspected.
When he arrived at the Temple, the Executioner stationed himself near the altar stone, protected from all eyes except those of the dead by his shield of invisibility. From this vantage point, he observed the Sorcerer’s arrival (the Executioner could have reached out and touched the man) and watched with keen interest as Menju selected his own hiding place.
The Executioner glanced at the sun. Not too much longer. Standing in the bright sunlight, conscious of a breathless hush that had settled over the top of the world, the Executioner waited.
7
Watching, Waiting
Father Saryon peered cautiously at the Temple of the Necromancer, intending to investigate this place of rumored evil before setting foot upon its grounds.
“Come on, will you?”
Pushing past the reluctant catalyst, Joram stepped out of the Corridor onto the crumbling white marble walkway. His intense, eager gaze scanned the area swiftly: the ruined Temple behind him; the altar stone in the center of the wheel; the vast vista of the world spread out before him, Merilon shining in the distance like a teardrop upon the face of the land.
Saryon followed, every nerve fiber tense and alert. Reaching out with his being, as he did when he drew Life into his body, he felt about him with mental fingers as a blind man feels about him with his hands. He sensed Life—the magic was extremely strong here, but that was not unusual. They were, after all, standing directly above the Well of Life itself. He sensed death, too, but that may have been his overwrought imagination.
His fears were apparently groundless.