Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [136]
The warlock made a dive for the sword, but Joram was quicker. Catching hold of it, he leaped at the Executioner, but the warlock, with the coolness and quick thinking of that highly disciplined class, resorted to his magic. Using what Life remained to him, he soared into the air, flying with windlike speed to the jumble of boulders that stood near the edge of the mountain and vanishing among them.
Grabbing hold of Saryon, Joram hurried the catalyst to the opposite side of the altar stone, forcing him to he flat upon the broken pavement.
“Stay down!” he ordered.
“You’re hurt!”
“The man’s a better shot than I gave him credit for,” Joram said grimly. Dropping the sword, he clasped his hand over the wound. Dark red blood welled up through his fingers. “The bastard must have been up practicing all night! The bullet’s lodged in my arm!” Groaning, he swore softly. “I can’t move my hand.”
“Let me look at it—” Saryon started to sit up.
“Damn it, Father? Keep your head down?” Joram ordered furiously. “Hold still?” He glanced back around the rock, looking toward the direction in which their foe had disappeared “We’re safe enough for now, but we can’t stay here. He’ll circle around, using those boulders for cover, and try to pick us off from another angle.”
Joram nodded toward the Temple. “We’d be safer in there.”
“And Gwen’s inside!” Saryon said suddenly, realizing remorsefully that in the confusion and danger he had forgotten all about her.
“Gwen!” Joram glared at the catalyst. “You brought my wife here? You let Simkin bring her?”
“What would you have had me do, Joram?” Saryon asked. “He was you! He was you ten years ago! Bitter, arrogant, determined to have your own way.”
“And you forgot that I have changed—”
“Forgive me, Joram,” Saryon faltered, “but I have seen you changing back. I’ve seen the darkness growing on you every day.”
Leaning back against the blue-glowing altar stone, Joram sighed. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his face paled, and his jaw muscles clenched. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he glanced at Saryon, the bitter half-smile on his lips. “You are right, Father. It wasn’t your fault. I brought it on myself. After all, Simkin was only imitating what he knew best. And I am changing … for the worst, perhaps.” His face darkened, the forge fire flickered to life within his eyes. “But it seems I must become what I was—to save this wretched world.”
His voice died, and he sank back against the stone.
“Joram!” Saryon shook him, fearing he had fainted. The catalyst felt eyes watching them. Any moment he expected to hear that terrible crack. “Joram!” he said urgently. “We can’t stay here! We must reach shelter!”
Dazedly, Joram lifted his head and nodded wearily. “You’ll have to carry the sword, Father.”
If we left it here, perhaps the Executioner would take it and go away, was Saryon’s first, unspoken thought. The words were on his lips, but he swallowed them. No, the sword is my responsibility. I gave it Life.
Saryon picked up the weapon.
Slowly, Joram rose to his feet, propping himself up against the stone. “I will go first and draw his fire. Don’t argue, Father. You’ll be burdened with the sword.” The dark and pain-filled eyes turned intently upon the catalyst. “If I fall, you must promise me you’ll go on, without stopping. No, listen, my old friend. If anything happens to me, it will be left up to you. You must destroy the Darksword.”
“Destroy it? How?” Saryon asked involuntarily.
“How should I know?” Joram flashed impatiently. Pain made him catch his breath. He closed his eyes, pressing back against the rock. “I don’t know,” he said more calmly through ashen lips. “Cast it from the mountain, melt it down.” He smiled the dark and twisted half-smile again. “It’s what you’ve wanted to do since I first made it anyway. If I fall, go on. Do you swear? By the Almin?”
“I swear by the Almin,” Saryon mumbled. Making a show of gathering his robes about him so that he could run more easily, he did not have to look at