Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [141]
“No,” Joram answered wearily, almost smiling. He remained standing, but only, it seemed, by sheer force of will. “The Major is in Merilon. He carries a device like that one. Through it, the two men can communicate with each other. No, hush! Let me hear!” He motioned Saryon to silence.
Saryon could not understand what Menju was saying; the man was speaking in his own language. He watched Joram’s face for a clue as to what was happening.
Seeing his friend’s lips press together in a straight, grim line, Saryon asked softly, “What is it?”
“He’s called for an air strike. They’re diverting one of the assault ships from the attack on Merilon and sending it here.”
“Yes, a simple way out, really,” said the Sorcerer complacently, shutting off the device and returning it to his robes. “The ship’s lasers will sweep the entire Garden, effectively incinerating our friend with the gun. Then the ship will land and transport us away from here. There will be a medic on board, Joram. He will give you a stimulant to keep you going so that you can assist me in winning the battle of Merilon with the Darksword. Always keeping in mind, of course, that I’ll have your lovely wife close at hand, not to mention the catalyst, both of whom will suffer if you should attempt to—how shall I put it?—upstage me.”
Thrusting back the sleeve of his robe, Menju glanced at a device he wore on his wrist. “It will arrive in a matter of minutes.”
If Saryon didn’t understand the unfamiliar words, he understood their import. He looked at Joram. His face was expressionless, his eyes closed. Was he so despairing, so defeated, so hurt that he would give in? Was it, as he said, senseless to keep fighting?
Saryon tried to pray to the Almin, tried to summon that Presence, tried desperately to grab hold of the Hand held out to him. But fear caught hold of the catalyst instead. Clutching his throat with fingers of stone, it choked off Saryon’s faith. The Hand wavered, then disappeared, and the catalyst realized bitterly that it had all been just a delusion.
11
The Destruction
Of The World
A low humming sound grew gradually louder and louder. Saryon, starting, saw a look of satisfaction on Menju’s face. The magician’s gaze was fixed expectantly on the sky and Saryon risked peeping out past the column. It occurred to him, as he did so, that there had been no more projectiles hurled at them in the last few minutes. Perhaps the Executioner had given up.
“A fool’s dream!” Saryon muttered to himself bitterly. He scanned the clear blue sky, seeing nothing, although the humming sound was becoming increasingly loud. The Executioner would never give up, never admit he had failed in his assigned task. His Order considered death the only excuse for failure, and the Executioner would not be an easy man to kill. Although Joram had drained him of some of his magical Life, he was still a threat, still a danger. He was, after all, one of the most powerful warlocks in Thimhallan.
Does this Sorcerer from another world realize what he’s up against? Saryon wondered, glancing at Menju speculatively. Noting the man’s calm demeanor, his smile of self-assurance, Saryon doubted it. After all, Menju had been young when he was cast out of this world—only twenty, so Joram had said. He probably knew little of the Duuk-tsarith, knew little about the many powers of their Order: the acute sense of hearing that allowed them to detect the approach of a butterfly by the fluttering of its wings, the keen powers of sight that let them see through a man’s skull into his thoughts.
Menju was pleased with his newly recovered abilities in magic, but he had forgotten its true power. He regarded it as a toy, an amusement, nothing more. When the crisis came, he preferred to trust in his Technology.
“There is the strike ship,” he said crisply. “It won’t be long now.” He flicked a glance at Joram. “Is our friend able to walk, Father? You’ll have to help him I’ve got to direct the ship’s fire.”
He spoke into the device again. This time the scratching sound was considerably lessened,