Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [131]
Why, then, was he afraid?
“We are here in good time,” Joram remarked, glancing up at the sun and nodding in satisfaction. He rubbed his hands together to remove the chill of the mountain air. “It is almost noon.” Turning and looking around curiously, he walked past his wife, who was just stepping out of the Corridor, without a word or a glance.
“I see no legions of ghouls thirsting for our blood, do you, Catalyst!” Joram continued caustically, going over to investigate the altar stone.
“No, but that doesn’t mean…
Saryon’s words died, he stared in perplexity.
Joram’s back was turned to him. The folds of the long traveling cloak swept the ground as he walked. Concealed beneath that cloak, encased in the magical scabbard, was the Darksword. The weapon was well hidden. No one glancing at Joram casually would have noted anything unusual or out of the ordinary about him. But Saryon, who had traveled with Joram for so long, had come to notice a difference in the way he walked when he wore the sword. Perhaps it was the weapon’s weight, or a peculiar construction of the scabbard, but Joram always appeared slightly stoop-shouldered when he wore the Darksword, as though bowed down by an invisible burden.
He bore no burden now. His back was straight, his walk free and easy.
He’s not carrying the sword. We are defenseless! Saryon’s first thought was to keep near the Corridor and he reached out to catch hold of Gwendolyn as she started to wander off.
Placidly, she allowed him to detain her and, standing beside the catalyst, she gazed about the Temple grounds, her blue eyes calm, seeing nothing in this world, caring nothing about what happened. And here was Joram, acting the same way? What could he have been thinking, to leave his sword behind?
Certainly, Joram didn’t appear worried or nervous. He stood by the altar stone, lounging against it as though waiting for someone. Why was he acting so strangely? Perhaps it had something to do with this terrible place.
Although Saryon neither saw nor felt any evil about the Temple of the Necromancers, his fear was growing. Maybe it was the oppressive sadness that hung over the Temple—the terrible sadness of those who have been long forgotten. Or maybe it was the breathless hush in the air. Everything seemed to be watching, waiting. Even the sun itself appeared to have come to a stop directly above them.
We must leave, go back through the Corridor. Somehow, he must convince Joram of the danger. That wouldn’t be easy, since it was a danger he himself could not define, but he had to try. Marshalling his arguments, Saryon started toward his friend, when Gwendolyn suddenly broke free of his grasp.
“No! No! There are too many of you!” she cried, backing away from him. “Don’t touch me!” She was not looking at the catalyst, but beyond him. Stretching out her arms, she warded off unseen hands. “There are too many of you! I can’t understand you! Stop shouting! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
Gwen clasped her hands over her ears, as if shutting out a tumult. Saryon stared at her helplessly. The only sounds that could be heard in the still, unmoving air were her own cries. He reached out to her, but, turning from him, she ran down the path, retreating as before an onslaught. Dodging first one way and then another, her erratic movements looked like some macabre dance performed with nonexistent partners.
“I can’t help! Why do you plead with me? I can do nothing, I tell you! Nothing!”
Her palms covering her ears, her golden hair gleaming pale and unlovely in the chill light, Gwen began to run toward the Temple in a desperate effort to escape the unseen mob. She made it as far as the altar stone. Tripping over the long hem of her gown, she fell to her knees, and knelt there, cowering from her tormentors.
Hastening after her, Saryon saw that Joram stood not ten paces from his terrified wife. But he made no move