Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [140]
“No, it isn’t!” Ecstatic, Saryon lifted his hands to heaven. “My God! My Creator! Can You forgive me? Joram, there is a way—”
A crack, a whine. Fragments of stone burst around them.
Joram knocked Saryon to the floor. Menju flattened himself against a column.
“Gwen!” Joram cried, trying to reach his wife. Bewildered by the noise, she stood in the open, staring around in confusion. Before Joram could reach her, however, unseen hands snatched her back out of danger and whisked her away, hurrying her to the rear of the Temple.
“It’s all right, Joram! The dead will protect her!” Saryon cried.
Another crack ricocheted through the Temple, smashing into a wall behind them.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Reaching into the pocket of his robes, Menju drew his phaser, adjusted it, and fired a burst of light at a glimpse of movement he caught near the altar stone. A puff of smoke and rock dust erupted from the stone, leaving behind a charred streak.
Taking advantage of the covering fire, Joram grabbed hold of the Darksword, and ducked behind a column beside the Sorcerer.
“Over here, Father! Keep down!”
Wriggling across the chill stone floor on his stomach, Saryon reached the columns. Leaning against one, Joram peered out into the Garden. Their enemy was nowhere to be seen. Menju fired again, missing again.
“Open a Corridor, Father!” he snarled.
“I can’t!” Saryon gasped.
Another crack split the air. Menju flung himself back against his column. Saryon shrank down, huddling near the floor. Joram appeared too weak to move, perhaps even to care. He held the Darksword in a limp grasp. His wound was bleeding again, the stain on his sleeve was growing larger.
Worriedly, the catalyst looked from Joram back to Gwen. He could barely see her. Somehow the dead had managed to persuade her to find shelter behind the crumbling altar. A dusty beam of sunlight pouring through a crack in the ceiling shone upon her golden hair and lit her bright blue eyes.
Menju followed his gaze. “Take us out of here, Catalyst, or by the gods I’ll use this on her!” He pointed the weapon at Gwendolyn. “Unless you can move faster than the speed of light, Joram, don’t try anything.”
“Joram, stop!” Laying a restraining hand on his friends arm, Saryon turned to face the magician. “I cannot open a Corridor in here because there is none to open!”
“You’re lying?” The Sorcerer kept the phaser aimed at Gwen.
“I would to the Almin I were!” Saryon said fervently. “There is no Corridor within the Temple of the Necromancer! This was sanctified ground, a holy place, the Necromancers alone were permitted to enter it. They never allowed a Corridor to be opened here. The only one is out there”—Saryon nodded—“near the altar stone.”
“And the Executioner knows it!” Joram said grimly. Sweat covered his forehead, his damp hair curled around his pale face. “That’s why he’s taken up his position there.”
Glancing at Saryon, Menju studied the catalyst’s face intently, then—with a curse—lowered his weapon. “So we are trapped in here!”
Another sharp crack blasted into the stone column near the Sorcerer, a chip of rock grazing his face. Cursing, he wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and started to fire again. Then he stopped, staring thoughtfully out across the plains. “We are trapped,” he repeated, reaching into the pocket of his robes, “but not for long.”
Bringing out a second small metal device, he pressed his thumb against it. A light blinked on and a scratching noise came from within it, sounding to Saryon like an animal with long claws struggling to escape.
Lifting the device to his mouth, the Sorcerer spoke to it.
“Major Boris! Major Boris!”
A voice came back, but it was accompanied by so much scratching that it was difficult to understand the words. The Sorcerer, scowling, shook the metal device slightly. “Major Boris!” he called again angrily.
Saryon stared at the device in horror.
“Blessed Almin!” he whispered to Joram. “Does he have this Major Boris