Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [44]
Were there more of its kind around? Mosiah wondered, leaning weakly against a tree. He was starting to shake, a reaction to his terror. Unwillingly, his gaze went to the body of the warlock, lying some distance from him. What monstrous being was this that Xavier had created? Mosiah quickly averted his gaze from the pale, astonished face of the corpse, the tiny curls of smoke rising from the charred fabric of the robes….
The robes.
Mosiah looked back at the body, his eyes widening. The warlock wore the robes of Merilon?
“Blessed Almin?” Mosiah whispered, his eyes going back to the creature, which was just vanishing out of sight beyond a small hill. “Is that … ours? Is that why it didn’t attack me?”
The Sorcerers! was his next thought. He put a trembling hand to his lips, wiping away chill sweat. Hastily, he glanced about, hoping to see other members of his unit. Many of them were true Sorcerers, people who had been born and raised in the hidden Coven of those who practiced the Dark Arts of Technology. They would know. Perhaps they had been building this thing secretly, intent on taking over the world. He had heard them talk of that often enough.
Closing his eyes, Mosiah pictured the creature—its metal scales, its breath reminding him of the fumes that rose from the forge.
Yes, he thought with swift anger and hatred. Yes? They must have done it. I never trusted them, never….
But even as he reached this decision, some cold part of him that was thinking rather than panicking said no. Mosiah looked down at the crossbow he held clutched in his hand. (He had completely forgotten in his terrified state that he even held a weapon.) He saw its crudeness, its misshapen lines. He thought of the time it had taken to fashion this tool, of the men hammering and sweating in the forge hours upon hours. He recalled the creature of iron—the shining metal scales, the way it crawled smoothly over the uneven ground. Even in days of their power and glory the Sorcerers had not been able to construct anything like that. How could they now? They could barely build a working crossbow….
Drops of rain struck Mosiah’s cheek, rising wind blew cold against his already shivering body. A magical storm was brewing; the sky was darkening with thunderclouds. Jagged lightning tore through the air, thunder rumbled around him, making his heart stand still, reminding him of the creature. He looked again at the body of the wizard…. Suddenly, Mosiah started to run.
Panic drove him from his hiding place. He admitted that to himself as he stumbled over the uneven ground, dragging the heavy crossbow with him, his gaze constantly darting fearfully around him. Panic and a desperate need to find other people, someone, anyone who could tell him what was going on. His need for information—his need to know—was greater than his fear of the creature. This horrible panicked feeling would leave as soon as he knew for certain what was happening!
The storm lashed out at him, driving him forward with whips of wind and rain and stinging hail. Water streamed into his eyes; he could see nothing, yet still he ran, caroming off trees like some crazed gamepiece, slipping in the wet grass, entangling himself in clutching weeds.
Finally, bruised and battered, he stopped, huddling in a small grove of trees. Slumping back against a tree trunk, gasping for breath, he thought suddenly, “Simkin!”
In his terror, he had forgotten all about his erstwhile companion. “Simkin would know what’s happening. Simkin always knows,” Mosiah muttered bitterly. “But where the devil did he get to?” Unslinging the quiver of arrows, Mosiah dumped it on the ground and kicked at it with his foot. “Simkin?” he yelled above the storm, feeling incredibly stupid, yet hoping against hope to hear that insipid “I say, old chap!” in reply.
There