Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [142]
Following the magician’s gaze, Saryon could still see nothing and was just wondering if the creature was invisible when a flaring glint caught his eye. He gasped, having been unprepared for the tremendous swiftness with which the thing traveled. At one instant it was very small, a brightly shining star that had gotten mixed up and burst out during the day instead of night. The next instant, the thing was larger than the sun, then larger than ten suns. He could see it clearly now, and he stared in shock.
The catalyst had not been present at the battle at the Field of Glory. He had only heard descriptions of the great creatures of iron, the strange humans with silver skin and metal heads. This was the first time he had seen one of these creations of the Dark Arts, and his soul trembled with fear and awe.
The monster was made of silver, its body glistening in the sun. It had wings, but they were stiff and unmoving, and Saryon was at a loss to understand how it flew so rapidly.
The monster had no head or neck. Blinking, multicolored eyes sprouted on the top of its body. The only sound it made was the humming noise, now so loud that it practically drowned out Menju’s voice.
Saryon felt Joram’s hand, warm and reassuring, on his arm.
“Steady, Father,” Joram said softly. Drawing him near, he added in a low voice, “Make it appear as though you are tending my wound.”
Glancing at the magician, who was absorbed in his monster summoning, Saryon leaned closer to Joram.
“We can’t allow him to take us on board that ship. When he moves us out there, watch for my signal.” Joram paused, then said softly, “When it comes, get Gwen out of the way.”
Saryon was silent for a moment, unable to reply. When he did, it was in a husky voice. “My son, even with the Darksword you can’t fight them all! Do you know what you are saying?” He kept his head lowered, pretending to concern himself with the wound. Joram’s hand, touching his face, made him look lip and he saw the answer in Joram’s clear, brown eyes.
“It will be better this way, Father,” he said simply.
“What about your wife?” Saryon asked, when he could speak for the burning ache in his chest.
Joram looked toward the back of the Temple, where Gwendolyn sat amid the shadows, the single bright ray of light glistening in her hair. “She fell in love with a Dead man, who brought her nothing but grief.” The dark, ironic smile twisted his lips. “It seems I can be of more use to her dead than alive. And at least”—he breathed a sigh, half-bitter, half-wistful—“perhaps she will talk to me then.” His hand tightened around Saryon’s arm. “I leave her in your care, Father.”
My son, I will not live through this! were the words in Saryon’s heart and they very nearly burst out. But he checked them, swallowing them with his tears. No, it was better that Joram find peace in his last moments.
I will hold him in my arms as I held him when he was a baby. And when the brown eyes close forever and he is at rest, when the struggle that has been his life is finally ended, then I will rise up and, in my clumsy, fumbling way, I will strike out at the cold and uncaring Presence until I, too, fall.
A blinding flash followed by an explosion jolted Saryon from his bleak imaginings. A beam of light from the monster struck the ground near the altar stone, blowing a gigantic hole in the dirt not far from where Simkin’s body lay. Wisps of smoke curled into the air. The metal creature, hovering overhead, was slowly sinking down toward the ground. Menju shouted into the device, his voice questioning.
“What is he saying?” Saryon whispered.
“He’s asking if they destroyed the warlock.” Joram paused, listening, then he looked up at the catalyst with grim amusement. “They say they did. At least, no life registers on their screens.”
“No life! Fools,” Saryon muttered,