Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [133]
He scanned the Temple once again, then the Garden, the pathways, the jagged edges of the summit, searching frantically for their enemy.
“Not that I care for myself,” the old Priest muttered, lowering his head over the body he held in his arms, tears dimming his eyes. Although still breathing. Joram had lost consciousness. Gently, Saryon stroked the thick, black hair back from the deathly white face. “I am tired of this life, tired of the fear, tired of the killing and the dying. If Joram must die here, then I can find no better resting place.”
Shaking his head angrily, Saryon fought back his tears. Give way to despair and you are dead, and so is Joram and so is Gwendolyn! She must get to a place of safety. If there was such a place…. The Temple! It had once been sacred ground. Perhaps the Almin’s blessing lingered there still.
“Gwen, run to the Temple,” instructed Saryon, forcing himself to speak calmly and quietly, “Quickly, my child! Run to the Temple.”
Gwendolyn made no move to go. Gazing around with that same expectant look, she gave no indication that she had even heard him.
“Take her there!” Saryon cried urgently to the shadows in the empty Garden. “Take her to the Temple! Guard her there!”
It was a cry born of desperation, and no one was more astonished than the catalyst to see Gwen lifted to her feet by unseen arms, unseen hands helping her stand.
“Hurry!” he breathed, waiting in fear for that sharp crack.
Bearing Gwen along, the dead swept past him. He could feel the soft whisper of their presence upon his cheek; he saw it flutter Gwen’s gown and stir her golden hair as they bore her to the Temple. When she stumbled, she was caught and supported. When she started to falter, she was hurried forward. Saryon saw her stumble up the nine stairs leading into the Temple, and he saw her vanish into the shadows.
The catalyst sighed in relief, one care off his mind. And now, he repeated to himself stubbornly, I must get help for Joram, for all of us. He looked back at the man in his arms, and his heart sank within him, the cold, logical part of his mind telling him that, for Joram at least, there was no help.
“There must be a chance to save him!” Saryon shouted fiercely, defiantly at the heavens.
In mocking answer, the body in his arms shuddered, a groan of pain escaped the lips The catalyst clasped Joram tightly, trying to keep hold of the spirit that was seeping away with every drop of blood. “If only I knew what had happened to him!” he cried to the cold empty sky.
“Sink me!” came a weak voice. “That makes two of us!”
Startled, Saryon lowered his eyes from the heavens back to earth, to the man he held in his arms. Gone was the stern face with its high cheekbones and firm jaw Gone was the luxuriant black hair with its shock of white. Gone were the dark, lowering brows, the brown eyes, burning with a deep, inner flame. Instead he saw a face of indeterminate age with a pointed chin, a soft beard and mustache, the eyes regarding him with an almost comical expression of puzzled indignation.
“Simkin?” Saryon gasped.
“In the flesh,” remarked Simkin, struggling for breath.
“Though … that particular part of me … is … rather ventilated. I’m feeling … a distinct draft about the kidneys…
“But where … where’s Joram?” stammered Saryon, mystified.
“Here,” came the stern reply.
A figure in white robes, its head covered with a white hood, stood above them. In its hand was the Darksword. Joram knelt at Simkin’s side and, though his voice was stern, the hand that reached out to the injured young man was gentle. From Joram’s fingers fluttered a bit of orange silk that appeared to have been cut in two by a sharp blade.
“Ah, clever boy!” Simkin choked, a small stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You … escaped … my cunning knot.” His head lolled back, his eyes closed.
“What’s happened to him?” Saryon asked in a low voice.
Laying the