Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [145]
I am next! Saryon thought, watching the green flames flow up the steps toward him. Then Joram, wielding the Darksword, leaped in front of Saryon, standing between him and the fire.
As soon as Joram raised the sword the fire jumped from the rock straight for the blade and Saryon had a sudden vision of Joram engulfed in the magical blaze. But the sword greedily drank up the flame. The fire diminished, the blue flame of the Darksword burned brighter and brighter as the green flame died, and Saryon saw, standing before them, the Executioner.
The warlock had discarded the projectile weapon, relying instead upon his magic. The Darksword was draining the Life from him very quickly. He had faced it before, however, and knew what to expect. Looking up at the top of the mountain above the Temple, the warlock made a gesture. At his command, a chunk of the mountain wrenched itself free. The gigantic boulder bounded down the mountainside, hurtling straight for Joram.
His attention focused upon the Executioner, Joram could not see his danger. There was no time to warn him. Flinging himself forward, Saryon knocked Joram off his feet. The two tumbled down the stairs; the Darksword flying as Joram lost his grip on it.
Saryon had a confused impression of the boulder smashing into the stairs, of rock striking his body, of pain bursting in his head. Then he was slipping away into a vast darkness…
But I can’t die Joram! I can’t leave Joram. Struggling against the darkness and the pain, Saryon opened his eyes. The Temple crawled and writhed in his vision. Shaking his head to clear it, he winced in sudden agony and was very nearly sick.
“Joram!” he repeated groggily, submerging his pain in his fear for his friend. Lifting his head to look around, he discovered he was lying at the foot of the stairs, amidst the rubble of the shattered boulder. Joram lay near him, his eyes closed, his face white, smooth, calm … at peace at last.
“Farewell, my son!” Saryon murmured. He could feel no grief. It was better this way, so much better. Reaching out to touch the tousled black hair, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.
The Executioner appeared, standing over them. From somewhere above, Saryon heard an explosion. Debris fell from the skies. He paid no attention to it. After a brief glance at the Executioner, he paid no attention to his enemy either. The catalyst’s hand closed over Joram’s. Kill me, Saryon thought. Kill me now. End it swiftly.
But the Executioner, after studying Joram intently, turned away. Saryon glanced after him without much interest. The warlock was leaving, his task finished. Then the catalyst froze, a cold wind of fear blowing away the fog of pain. The warlock hadn’t completed his task! Not yet. Leaning down, the Executioner picked up the sword that lay dark and lifeless upon the steps.
If anything happens to me, it will be left up to you. You must destroy the Darksword.
There was only one thing Saryon could do. Barely able to recall the words of the prayer through the throbbing pain in his head, the catalyst began to drain Life from the warlock.
It was an attempt born of desperation. Draining Life is a slow process. Saryon hoped the Darksword had already drawn off most of the warlock’s magic. If so, the catalyst could cripple him immediately.
The warlock instantly felt the catalyst’s attack. Dropping the sword on the broken steps, the Executioner turned to face Saryon. The catalyst could not see the Executioners face, hidden as it was by the hood of his gray robe. But he could almost sense the man smiling, and Saryon knew he had failed. The warlock was still strong in Life. Raising his hand, the Executioner prepared to cast a spell that would destroy the catalyst.
At least, Saryon prayed, bowing his head, the end