Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [144]
“That pile of ash?” Smiling, Menju indicated the hole in the ground near the altar stone, the few wisps of smoke rising from it. “I don’t think you have anything to fear from him anymore, Father. Now move!” He gestured with the weapon.
There was no choice, no hope. Bowing his head, Saryon drew Gwendolyn nearer him and stepped outside. After the shadowy confines of the Temple, the sunlight was blinding. Putting her hand to her eyes, unable to see, Gwen stumbled at the top of the nine stairs. Saryon held onto her, guiding her footsteps, noticing as he did so that Joram had descended the stairs ahead of them.
Joram moved slowly, weakly, his breathing labored as though merely drawing each breath was a struggle. But Saryon saw his hand clenched firmly over the hilt of the Darksword.
Despite his self-assured demeanor, Menju was clearly nervous. Occasionally he prodded Saryon and Gwen, impatiently ordering them to hurry up, and he kept a wary eye on Joram. But most of Menju’s attention was focused on the silver creature that—from what Saryon could make out of Menju’s mutterings—was apparently not landing fast enough to suit the magician. Irritably, the Sorcerer shouted into the speaking device.
Turning slightly, ostensibly to see what had become of his wife, Joram looked at Saryon intently and silently mouthed the words, “Keep back!”
The bitter pain in Saryon was so unbearable that he was almost thankful it would end soon. Following Joram’s orders, he slowed his steps—an easy matter since Gwendolyn was gazing around in vague curiosity, completely oblivious to everything. Menju was now a step or two ahead of them. Intent on staring at his winged monster, he had not noticed that they had stopped walking. The magician was lifting the device to his mouth to talk at it again when voices, coming out of the device, interrupted him. Startled, cursing beneath his breath, Menju turned, looking into the sky behind him.
A dark shadow swept over them, a shadow cast by gigantic green wings sprouting from a huge reptilian body. The Executioner appeared out of nowhere. Standing beside the altar stone, he coolly ordered the dragon to attack. The dragon dove straight down on the silver creature, screaming shrilly in hatred, its huge, taloned feet extending to strike.
Garbled cries came out of the speaking device in Menju’s hand. Immediately, the silver monster performed an evasive maneuver, veering sideways in a frantic attempt to avoid its enemy. The dragons claws clipped the edge of a silver wing, sending the monster rolling through the air. The dragon soared upward on the air currents and veered around for another attack. The silver creature nearly crashed into the side of the mountain, saving itself at the last instant. A burst of flame shot from its tail, and it pulled straight up out of the dive.
The dragon flew at it again, and this time the silver creature was ready for the attack, shooting a single beam of light at the glittering green and gold enemy. The tip of the dragons wing burst into flame. Screaming in pain and rage, the dragon unleashed its fiery breath. A ball of flame enveloped the silver creature. The cries emanating from the listening device grew shrill and panic-stricken and then Saryon heard no more, for suddenly his world burst into flame around him.
A wall of magical fire, created by the Executioner, sprang up out of solid rock. Burning green and gold, its intense heat blistered Saryon’s hands and face, the super-heated air seared his lungs. He pulled Gwendolyn close to him, trying to shield her with his body, but she was wrenched from his arms and he could not see what became of her for the blazing light and thick smoke.
A horrible cry burst out of the smoke and fire ahead of him. Trying to avoid the flames that licked the steps at his feet. Saryon peered frantically into the smoke through watering, stinging eyes. A figure emerged—a figure clothed in flame. It was Menju, his gray robes ablaze with the magical green