Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [137]
“Good!” Joram sighed. “And now,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “we run. Keep low. Ready?”
Joram looked questioningly at Saryon. The catalyst nodded once, reluctantly, and Joram broke into a staggering run.
Despite his agreement to let Joram go first, Saryon was not far behind him. He had only a dim notion of what was meant by “drawing fire” and it felt more natural to stay near his friend.
As for not stopping to help Joram if he fell?
Well, that had been a promise sworn to the Almin. A hollow vow, as far as Saryon was concerned, keeping his eyes on the white-robed figure stumbling over the uneven ground ahead of him.
The distance from the altar stone located in the center of the wheel to the Temple, which stood on the southern edge of the wheel’s rim, had seemed minute to the catalyst—until he knew his life depended on covering that distance as swiftly as possible. Suddenly the Temple and its sheltering walls appeared to have taken a gigantic leap backward.
Saryon ran as fast as he could, but that wasn’t very fast. He had never fully recovered his strength following his illness. Encumbered by the heavy sword and the long robes flapping around his ankles, he took only a few steps before he heard his breath wheeze in his lungs. The pavement was broken, uneven, and made running that much more difficult. More than once, Saryon felt a paving stone twist beneath his feet, causing him to slow for fear of losing his balance and falling. All the while, he kept his eyes upon his friend.
And then Joram did fall. Tripping over a slab of broken marble, he instinctively reached out his injured arm to catch himself. It collapsed beneath his weight and he tumbled to the ground, writhing in pain.
Grasping Joram, ignoring his snarled commands to leave him be, Saryon dragged him to his feet with a strength the catalyst couldn’t believe was left in his old, tired body. Together they kept running, reaching the nine stairs.
A high, whining sound like the buzz of an angry hornet passed so close to Saryon’s ear that he almost swore he could feel its wings. A fraction of a second later, a part of a Temple column exploded, sending fragments of rock flying everywhere. The catalyst, in his dazed and exhausted state didn’t comprehend what it was.
Struggling up the stairs, the two dove thankfully into the cool, shadowy confines of the Temple walls. Joram fell to the floor like one dead. Rolling over on his back, he lay with his eyes closed, his breathing quick and shallow. His right sleeve was soaked with blood. Saryon, dropping the heavy sword, sank down next to him. Only then did it occur to the catalyst that the buzzing sound had been one of the deadly projectiles. Saryon was past caring. His blood pounded in his ears. He was so dizzy he could barely see.
Gasping for breath, he glanced around the Temple confines.
“Gwen?” Saryon called softly.
There was no answer, but the catalyst soon found her. Barely visible in the shifting shadows, she was sitting calmly on a broken altar at the back of the Temple, watching them with—for her—unusual interest.
Seeing that she was apparently unharmed and thinking Joram had fainted, Saryon bent over him to examine the wound. At his touch, Joram flinched.
“I’m all right!” Shoving Saryon’s hand away, he managed to sit up.
“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” Saryon said hesitantly.
“The cloth’s stuck to the wound. Don’t touch it! Where’s Gwen? Is she all right?”
Saryon started to reply, but another voice—a strange one—answered instead.
“Your charming wife is safe, Joram. Looney as ever, but safe. And you are safe yourself, at least for the time being.
“Really, Joram,” the strange voice continued, speaking the language of Thimhallan, “I am impressed. Once again you have returned from the dead. Have you ever considered anything in the Messiah line?”
10
And In His Hand
He Holds
A tall man in black robes stepped out of the shadows of the Temple. He was handsome, Saryon saw, with gray hair and a prepossessing smile. That smile, however, was false, the work of a