Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [36]
“Numskull!” he muttered. Sheathing his dagger, he shoved the clawed branch that had brushed across his neck out of his way. He glanced around hurriedly, hoping no one had seen him, then let out his breath in relief and sat back down on the hummock, nursing a cut on his hand; the branch having been able to gain some revenge upon its assailant by digging several small twigs into his flesh.
Had the battle started? Mosiah thought it likely, having convinced himself that he had been sitting here for several hours at least. Perhaps it was over? Maybe his unit had been called up and he hadn’t heard? The thought of this was so alarming that he picked up the heavy, metal crossbow and walked a few steps, peering into the fog, hoping to find somebody who knew what was going on.
Then he stopped, irresolute.
His orders had been specific. Remain silent and unmoving until the fog lifts. Prince Garald had emphasized the importance of obeying this command to the letter.
“It is you Sorcerers who hold the key to our victory,” he told them in the dark hours before the dawn when they had assembled near the Corridor preparatory to being transported to the Field of Glory. “Why? Because you do not rely upon magic! When our warlocks have drained Xavier’s warlocks of Life, when the enemy’s catalysts are so exhausted that they can no longer draw the magic from the world, you will come forth and the enemy will be at your mercy. Xavier will be placed in check, he will be forced to surrender the Field to us.”
Sighing, telling himself that he hadn’t been here five weeks but more probably five hours, Mosiah turned back to resume his seat on the grassy knoll, only to find that the grassy knoll had disappeared. Standing absolutely still, he tried to retrace his steps in his mind. He had risen from the knoll and turned to his left, he was certain. He had taken only four or five steps. Therefore, if he turned back to his right, he should locate his position easily.
Twenty steps later, he had not found it. Worse than that, he was thoroughly confused, having turned right, left, and every other conceivable direction in the fog.
“Now you’ve done it!” spoke a peeved voice right in his ear. “You’ve gotten us completely lost.”
Mosiah leaped straight into the air, his heart climbing in terror up his chest and into his throat. Dagger in his shaking hand, he whipped around to confront nothing.
“You’re not going to attack a tree again, are you?” queried the voice sternly. “I’ve never been so humiliated …”
“Simkin?” Mosiah hissed furiously, searching this way and that, trying to calm his heart, forcing it to return to some semblance of beating normally. “Where are you?”
“Here,” said the voice in aggrieved tones It came from somewhere near Mosiah’s ear. “And a more boring few hours I’ve never spent in my entire life, not even the time the former Emperor recounted his life’s story, from the womb up or out as the case may be.”
Unslinging the quiver of arrows that he wore on his back, Mosiah flung it on the ground.
“Ouch!” cried the voice. “I say, that was completely uncalled for! You’ve ruffled my feathers!”
“How about scaring me half to death?” Mosiah said in a seething whisper.
“Well, I will, if you insist,” remarked the arrow in puzzled tones, “though why you want me to scare you again is—”
“No, you fool!” cried Mosiah, kicking at the quiver in his rage. “I meant you already did scare me half to death.” He clutched at his chest, feeling his heart pounding. “I think I hurt something,” he muttered, sinking down—weak-kneed—on a nearby tree stump.
“Frightfully sorry,” said an arrow, slowly working its way out of the quiver. Mosiah, watching it grimly, saw that it was bright green with orange feathers—a remarkable contrast from the plain, metal arrows he carried. “You could help me, you know,” remarked the arrow, twisting and turning in its efforts to drag itself onto the grass.
Not only did Mosiah make no effort to assist the arrow, he told it in no uncertain terms what it might do with itself.