Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [42]
“I’m going with you, Garald,” interrupted the Cardinal, coming to stand beside his Prince.
“Thank you, Radisovik,” Garald said in a low undertone, “but I think it would be better if you stayed here.” He looked about at his commanders, noting their nervous, darting glances at the Board and at each other. “Let me take one of the other catalysts. Your wisdom and cool thinking—”
“—will be needed by my hot-headed Prince,” finished Radisovik with a slight smile. Leaning near Garald so that the Prince alone could hear, Radisovik added softly, “Remember what we heard about the Borderlands?”
Puzzled, Prince Garald stared intently at Radisovik, wondering what he meant, silently interrogating the catalyst with his eyes. But the Cardinal—casting a meaningful look around at the others—said no more. Radisovik’s face appeared to age visibly beneath the Prince’s gaze, however, answering Garald more eloquently than words.
The Prince suddenly understood The Prophecy.
“Very well, Radisovik,” Garald said, keeping his voice under control though he felt that his heart might have turned to iron, so heavy was it with this new burden of fear.
Radisovik caused a Corridor to open, a void of quiet nothingness set against a background of storm-tossed trees and slashing rain. The Prince, his Cardinal, and two Duuk-tsarith prepared to step inside.
“I will send Ariels back to report,” Garald said, turning to his commanders who were gathered around him. “Sorcerer, I leave you in command in my absence,” he added, silencing protesting murmurs with a glance. This was one decision of which he felt secure. He had already considered that this might be a plot by the Sorcerers to take over the world and he had discounted it. He knew these people, he trusted in their loyalty. More important, he knew their capabilities and their limitations.
Creatures of iron.
Garald brought forth a mental image of the blacksmith, summoning demons from the forge fire.
No. It made no sense. He had seen them, working day and night, fashioning spear tips and crude daggers…
Creatures of iron. It was almost laughable.
“What is your destination, Your Grace?” asked Radisovik as Prince Garald entered the Corridor.
“Take me to Emperor Xavier.”
12
Creatures Of Iron
Life is magic. Magic is life. Magic poured from the heart of Thimhallan, flowing from the Well of Life within the mountain fortress of the Font to every object in the world. Each pebble, each blade of grass, each drop of water was imbued with magic. Every person in the world—even those declared Dead—was gifted with magic. There had been only one truly Dead man on Thimhallan, and he had been driven beyond its borders.
But now, it was as if the well of magic had been poisoned, the magic laced with a fear that sprang from a source so deep and dark that it had—for centuries—been forgotten. As the Watchers screamed their unheard warnings from the border, so now the rocks of Thimhallan cried out in terror, the trees swayed their limbs in frenzy, the very ground shook.
Mosiah could not move. A Nullmagic spell could not have robbed him of life more thoroughly than did his fear, its chill fingers stealing reason, breath, and energy, leaving him unable to think, to react when the clouds of fog parted and he saw the horror that had come to Thimhallan it was a creature of iron; Mosiah, who had worked for months in the forge, recognized the shining scales of metal as would few other magi in Thimhallan. The creature’s squat, toadlike body was as big as that of a griffin, but it had no wings, it could not fly. It had no legs either, and was forced to crawl along the ground on its belly. The head swiveled like the head of an owl, and Mosiah thought it must be blind, for it appeared to blunder