Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [132]
Anger surged through Saryon. He didn’t know what had come over Joram. He didn’t care, not anymore. Let him sink back into the darkness! Hurrying to Gwen’s side, Saryon bent down and gently took hold of her hand.
A sharp, distinct crack split the air.
Then another.
And another.
And one more.
Saryon’s heart froze, his blood froze, his feet and legs, his hands. He could not move. He could only crouch on the pavement, holding onto Gwen, listening to the mind-numbing sounds careen among the rocks and reverberate from the Temple walls.
And then, the cracks stopped.
Fearfully, Saryon waited for the dreadful noise to come again. All he heard were the hollow echoes rattling down the mountainside. These, too, finally dwindled, swallowed up by the vastness of space.
Nothing moved, nothing stirred. Even Gwen’s cries hushed. It was as if the sounds had torn the air asunder and now silence rushed in to fill the void.
The catalyst had only one clear thought in his mind—to get out of this place. It was obvious to him that nothing in this accursed Temple was going to help Gwendolyn, who huddled, shivering in his arms. There was every possibility, in fact, that this Temple and the dead who dwelt here might drive her deeper into her madness.
“I’m taking your wife home—” Saryon began in a shaking voice, looking up at Joram. The catalyst’s breath caught in his throat. “Joram?” he whispered, letting loose of Gwendolyn and rising slowly to a standing position. “My son, what’s wrong?
Joram leaned weakly against the altar stone, staring at Saryon in the most profound astonishment. The brown eyes were open wide. His lips parted to speak, but no words came. One hand was pressed against his breast and beneath the hand, Saryon saw a crimson stain grow like a living thing, spreading out slowly over the white robes. Three more stains appeared on his body, bursting into bloom like lurid red blossoms.
Lifting the crimson-stained hand slowly, Joram stared at it in the same bemused amazement. Puzzled, he looked back at Saryon and, shoving himself away from the altar stone, he took a step toward the catalyst. Staggering, he fell before he reached him.
Saryon caught him in his arms. Touching the fabric of the crimson-stained robes, the catalyst felt the warm wetness of life’s blood draining from Joram’s body, falling through Saryon’s fingers like the petals of a shattered tulip.
8
My Poor Fool …
The sound came from behind him, a low, muffled curse.
“What was that?” Saryon raised his head “Who spoke? Is someone there? Help? Will you help me?”
It had seemed to come from the Temple.
“Who is there?” Saryon called desperately. Being careful not to disturb the injured man he held in his arms, he twisted around to look. But the shadows inside the Temple of the Necromancers remained unmoving, dark and silent as the realm they guarded.
Nothing but my imagination. Who would be there? Saryon asked himself bitterly. His gaze went to Gwendolyn, crouched on the pathway near him. She was looking around her expectantly, as though waiting.
Had it been her voice? Had she spoken? She loved Joram! Loves him still, for all Saryon knew.
“Gwendolyn?” He spoke softly and gently, fearful of startling her. “Come to me? Stay with Joram while I get help.”
Hearing Saryon’s voice, she turned to him. Her gaze went to her husband and flitted over him like butterfly wings, darting here and there over the stalks of the lifeless plants. The dead must have been shocked into silence, because Gwen’s fear of them appeared to have vanished. Slowly, she started to rise to her feet.
Suddenly it occurred to Saryon that they themselves might be in danger! Whatever had struck down Joram in this mysterious and horrifying manner might be waiting to lash out again with its whiplike cracks!
“No! Gwen! Stay down!” Saryon cried frantically, and either the terror and urgency in his voice penetrated the mists