Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [41]
Routed and destroyed by an unseen foe….
Creatures of iron….
Death crawls….
“I’m going out there to see for myself,” Prince Garald said abruptly.
Clouds darkened the sky, massing thicker and blacker. A sudden gust of wind flattened the tall grass and set the limbs of the trees creaking. Heralded by a forked tongue of lightning and a sharp thunder crack, the storm broke around them. Driving rain soaked clothes through in an instant, hail stung their skin painfully. The release of the storm released the tensions within each man as well. Chaos erupted, as panic swept among the entourage like the wind over the grass.
Some tried to dissuade their Prince from going, pleading that he return to Sharakan. Others insisted that he go and take them with him. One faction decided it was a clever ploy of Merilon and were arguing that they should hurl everything they had against Xavier’s forces. Several pointed accusing fingers at the blacksmith.
“Creatures of iron!” cried one. “It’s the accursed work of these Sorcerers!”
Suddenly all fears had a focus.
“The Dark Arts?” cried several. “The Sorcerers are taking over the world?”
“Emperor Xavier said this would happen,” came an angry shout.
“My lord, I swear!” The agonized voice of the Sorcerer blacksmith boomed over the cracking thunder. “It isn’t us! You know we would never betray you—!”
Creatures of iron…
Ignoring the pleas and the arguments and the clutching hands as he ignored the rain in his face and the hail that was pelting him, Garald shoved his commanders aside. Cardinal Radisovik had just drawn his own cloak over the body of the Ariel and was rising to his feet as the Prince approached him.
“Open a Corridor to me, Radisovik,” Garald demanded, glaring at the catalyst sternly, expecting further opposition.
To Garald’s surprise, the Cardinal nodded in acquiescence. “I will do so, Your Grace, in a moment.” Laying his hand upon Garald’s arm, Radisovik looked intently at his Prince. “What are your orders in your absence?” the Cardinal reminded him gently.
Garald’s first impatient impulse was to rebuff the catalyst, to shove him aside as he had the others. But the Cardinal’s touch on his arm was firm and reassuring, his minister’s voice calm and steady. Although there was fear on the face of the older man, it was being held in check by wisdom. Garald saw his own face reflected in Radisovik’s eyes, he saw his own eyes, wild and staring, he saw the beginnings of panic.
The Prince made himself relax. Rational thought returned.
“My orders,” he repeated, running his hand through his wet hair, noticing as he did so that though the rain was falling around him, it was no longer falling on him. Someone—he supposed it was a Duuk-tsarith—had cast a magical shield over the group and the Gameboard, protecting them from the elements. Garald cast a shield over his mind in much the same way, creating a tiny calm in the center of the mental turmoil. Slowly, he turned back to the Gameboard.
“Pull all the warlocks and their catalysts back from areas near that front immediately,” he said, indicating the eastern flanks that were not yet under attack. There were no signs of fighting there yet, no one was fleeing or dying in those sectors. Whatever was happening was spreading westward from the north. “Bring them down south, near where we stand now. Cover their retreat with centaurs, the giants, the dragons.” He indicated other areas on the Board. “These creatures appear to be having some effect in stopping”—he paused—“whatever is out there….”
“There is also a pocket of strong resistance here, Your Grace,” said one of the commanders, calling everyone’s attention to an area on the far northwestern corner of the Board.
“Yes,” said Garald, recognizing it as did