Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [40]
Two Ariels—one flying on either side of their comrade, holding him gently by the arms—returned to the Prince while the others continued on to carry out their orders. The Ariels flew slowly, bearing their burden between them. Waiting impatiently below, trying to remain calm, Garald was acutely aware of the sudden silence falling among the crowd of spectators, then the slow murmur of voices as they caught sight of what was transpiring. As the Ariels neared, Garald saw the man they carried and he caught his breath in horror, hearing similar reactions from those gathered around him.
The Ariel’s body was burned, the feathers of the giant wings singed and blackened. His head slumped, he hung limply in the gentle grasp of his comrades.
“My lord, we caught him falling from the air,” one of the Ariels reported as they alighted on the ground before their Prince, easing the wounded man down on the grass.
“Send for the Theldara!” Garald ordered, his heart wrenched with pity for the wounded man and the thought of the courage it had taken to fly in that terrible condition.
Someone hastened away in search of a healer, but Garald, kneeling by the winged man’s side, saw that it was too late. The man was unconscious, obviously dying. The Prince gritted his teeth. He had to find out what was happening! At a word, he caused water to appear in the palm of his hand. Moistening the Ariel’s burned lips, he sprinkled the cooling substance on the cracked and blackened flesh of the face.
“Can you hear me, my friend?” Garald asked in a low voice Cardinal Radisovik, kneeling by his side, began to quietly perform the ritual rites granted to the dying.
“Per istam Sanctam…”
The Ariel’s eyes fluttered open. He did not seem to know where he was, but gazed around wildly and cried out in terror.
“You are safe, my friend,” Garald said softly, touching the lips with water. “Tell me, what happened?”
The Ariel’s eyes focused on the Prince. Reaching out a bloodied hand, the winged man grasped hold of Garald’s arm. “Monstrous creatures … of iron!” The man gasped for breath, clutching Garald tightly, painfully. “Death… crawls…. No escape!” The Ariel’s eyes rolled back in his head, the lips parted in a scream that was never heard, the voice died in the throat with a rattle.
“…Untíonem indúlgeat tibí Dominus quidquid deliqústi.…”
The hand on Garald’s sleeve slid from its convulsive grasp. The Prince remained kneeling, staring unseeing at the stains upon his robes, the blood a dark black against the crimson red of the velvet.
“Creatures of iron?” he repeated.
“The poor man was delirious, Your Grace,” said Cardinal Radisovik firmly, closing the vacant, staring eyes of the corpse. “I would pay little attention to his ravings.”
“Those weren’t the ravings of a delirious man,” Garald said thoughtfully, when he felt the Cardinal’s hand close tightly over his arm. Glancing up, he saw Radisovik shake his head ever so slightly, with a warning look in the direction of the commanders, who were watching them intently, faces pale, eyes wide.
“Perhaps you are right, Holiness,” the Prince amended lamely, licking his dry lips.
Above them, the bright blue sky was darkening rapidly as storm clouds materialized, surging and boiling like the confused thoughts in Garald’s mind. Though not consciously aware of it, he heard the voices of the spectators—shrill with irritation or deep with anger—demanding to know what was going on. He heard the stern voices of the Ariels in answer, urging the spectators to return to their homes before the full fury of the storm broke.
The full fury…. Creatures of iron…. Death … crawls. What an odd expression. Death crawls….
Voices clamored. Everyone was talking at once, demanding his attention.
“Shut up! Leave me alone! Let me think!” The words swelled in his throat, but—with an effort of will—he swallowed them. They would reveal to everyone that he was losing control of the situation. Losing control? Garald smiled bitterly.