Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [151]
The Duuk-tsarith prisoners were hustled rapidly out of the Gate, the waiting people of Merilon barely glancing at them as they passed by. Wrapped up in their own misery, the people of Merilon had little sympathy for the misery of others.
This same lack of interest applied to a person being carried out of the broken Gates on a stretcher. A heavy, rotund man, he was borne by six stout catalysts who sweated and staggered beneath their burden. Although gravely ill and unable to walk, the man was regally attired in his rich red robes of office, his miter carefully balanced on his head. He even managed to weakly raise his right hand, extending his blessing over the crowd as he passed. A few people bowed their heads or removed their hats, but for the most part they watched their Bishop leaving their city in mute despair.
A few university students, standing near the Gate, peered out into the plains, attempting to see what was happening; rumors having spread among the students that the warlocks were going to be exterminated. The captive, black-robed Duuk-tsarith were, however, loaded into the body of one of the silver creatures along with Bishop Vanya’s pathetic entourage. Seeing that the prisoners hadn’t been lined up and set on fire, the students—somewhat disappointed—lounged back against the crumbling, charred walls, muttering imprecations at the guards and whispering plans for rebellion that would never come to fruition.
The rest of the people of Merilon avoided looking out onto the wind-swept plains. It had become an all-too familiar sight in the past week—the gigantic silver-bodied creatures that the strange humans called “air ships” opening their maws, swallowing up thousands of people, then rising into the sky and disappearing into the heavens. It would be their turn to enter one of the creature’s bellies soon enough.
The people had been reassured, time and again, that they were not being taken to their deaths. They were being relocated, removed from a world that was now unsafe. They had even been able to talk—through some demonic means of the Dark Arts—with friends and relatives who had been carried off to this other. “brave, new world.” Still, they remained huddled inside their shattered city to the bitter end. Though few could bear looking on the wreckage of Merilon without tears blurring their vision, they sought desperately to cling to its memory as long as possible.
The street was empty following the Bishop’s departure, and the crowd began to stir around in anticipation of its being their turn to go; people gathering up their bundles or hunting about for children. There was some comment, particularly among the watching students, when a figure was seen emerging from the silver creature and walking across the plains toward Merilon. The figure drew nearer, and the students—seeing that it was only a catalyst, a stooped, middle-aged man whose brown robes were too short for his height, showing his bony ankles—lost interest.
A strange silver-skinned human stopped the catalyst as he entered the Gate. The catalyst pointed to a man under heavy guard, a man being kept apart from the rest of the people. Like the Duuk-tsarith, this man’s hands were manacled. He was not dressed in black robes, however. He wore velvet and silk. But the clothes that had once been elegant and rich were now torn, dirty, and stained with blood.
The guard nodded and the catalyst entered the Gate, walking up to the man, who did not notice him. The prisoner’s head was bowed, he stared at the ground in despair so dark and bitter that the people standing in line looked at him with pity and respect, finding comfort