Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [146]
Light flared, blinding him. He heard a sizzling sound and braced himself, waiting for the firestorm, the last terrible agony.
A hoarse cry of pain and anger sounded near him.
Startled, Saryon opened his eyes. The Executioner stood before him, but he was not looking at the catalyst. He had whirled to face a new enemy.
Menju lay upon the flame-swept stairs of the Temple. His body badly burned, the magician lifted a bloody and blackened hand. Aiming his weapon, he fired at the Executioner again.
At the same instant, the warlock shrieked out words. Knives of ice, flashing in the sunlight, flew from the Executioner’s fingers. Speeding through the air, the blades thudded into Menju’s body, impaling it upon the stairs. The Sorcerer fell without a cry. He might well have been dead already.
Saryon was aware, suddenly, of warm liquid trickling down his neck. The throbbing pain in his head increased, as did his dizziness. A red-tinged mist clouded his vision, and he could barely see the Executioner’s hooded head, turning in his direction once more.
Saryon could do nothing. He could not even continue draining the man’s Life, for he himself was teetering on the edge of consciousness. He watched the warlock turn and saw the gaping hole blown through the Executioner’s chest. The warlock made a spasmodic motion with his hand, then pitched forward on his face, dead. Saryon felt nothing, not elation, not relief. Nothing except bitter pain and despair.
He sank down upon the pavement, the stone cool beneath his cheek. Saryon closed his eyes. He was lost in a thick mist, stumbling blindly along the edge of a cliff, knowing that a single misstep must plunge him into the chasm. He had a vague impression that the Hand was there, wanting to help him.
Around him, beyond him, above him, he could hear the world dying.
“I can never forgive You for what You have done,” Saryon whispered. Spurning the Hand, he stepped over the edge.
The Hand caught and gently held him.
12
The Triumph
Of The Darksword
Father?” A sense of danger beat at Joram, pounding like the hammers of the forge, making sleep impossible. He was back in the smith’s shop, creating the Darksword. Saryon was giving it Life. Then, suddenly, everything went wrong. Before his eyes, the catalyst was turning to stone….
“Father!” Joram cried.
He woke up, his body drenched in sweat. The sound of hammering ceased.
All was silent around him, a terrible, unnatural silence; the world holding its breath like a drowning man, knowing that it would not be able to draw another.
Looking into the sunlit, blue sky above him, Joram remembered where he was, but he couldn’t, for a moment, recall what had happened. He saw in his mind a blazing magical fire, felt its intense heat, and he remembered raising the Darksword against it, stopping it. He heard Gwen scream, Saryon cry out. A weight struck him from behind. The sword flew from his grasp … and … nothing.
“Saryon,” he mumbled thickly, trying to sit up. “Saryon, I—”
Turning, he saw the catalyst.
Saryon lay in the midst of a pile of shattered stone. Dust and blood from a jagged gash on the side of his head covered his face. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. He might have been asleep.
“Father?” Joram said, touching him gently.
Saryon’s skin was cold, his pulse weak and irregular. Concussion, shock. He needed treatment. Joram started to look around for something to cover the injured catalyst, but he stopped, staring, immobilized by the terrible sight.
The body of the Executioner lay on the pavement near the altar stone, a hole burned through the warlock’s back. Menju’s blackened body was sprawled on the Temple stairs. Rivulets of blood ran from it, twining together, breaking apart, merging again to form small pools on the sidewalk below.
“Gwen?” he called fearfully, looking up the stairs toward the Temple. Her name died on his lips. The portico of the Temple was smashed, the mangled fragments of the silver strike ship gleamed from among the broken stones. The body of the ship’s pilot hung at a grotesque