Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [46]
Mosiah kept watch with them, wondering what had drawn their attention. He still felt no fear, not even curiosity. He was numb, in shock. If the men had turned around and faced him, he could have done nothing but stand and stare at them. Once one did happen to glance behind him, but he did so quickly and nervously, obviously more worried about what was ahead Mosiah, well concealed by the brush and the cover of the heavy rain, remained hidden, unnoticed.
A warlock, a witch, and their catalysts emerged from another small grove of trees some distance from the one in which Mosiah and the strange humans were hiding. The magi moved cautiously and—from the wild-eyed, terrified expressions upon their pale faces, expressions that Mosiah knew must reflect his own—it was apparent that they had suffered similar, frightening experiences. Their black robes marked them Duuk-tsarith, and at the sight of the magi, the metal-skinned humans in the brush crouched down even further.
A lost child catching sight of his parents could know no greater joy and thankfulness than Mosiah experienced at the arrival of the Duuk-tsarith. Flattening himself against the tree trunk, he hoped fervently he was out of range of the spell he knew the warlock would cast on the strange humans and waited for the inevitable. The metal-skinned humans moved quietly, sinking down into the brush with a skill that indicated that they had been well trained in the art of concealment and ambush. But they did not move quietly enough. The Duuk-tsarith—it is said—can detect a rabbit’s presence by the sound of its breathing.
The warlock reacted instantly. His black robes swirling around him, he faced the grove. Pointing toward it, the warlock cast a spell, a Nullmagic spell that is the Duuk-tsarith’s first form of attack. The warlock was exceptionally powerful, in addition, he must have been suffused with Life by his catalyst, for Mosiah felt a slight draining effect of his own magic even though he stood some distance from the enemy. Expecting to see the metal-skinned humans fall writhing to the ground, helpless as the spell bereft them of Life, Mosiah started to leave his own hiding place, hoping to be able to question the Duuk-tsarith and find out what was going on.
But he halted, stunned. The strange humans were not affected by the Nullmagic. Seeing the warlock aware of their presence, realizing that concealment was no longer necessary, they rose to their feet. Mosiah, watching, saw in his mind another man who had not been affected by the Nullmagic—Joram.
These strange humans were Dead!
Raising his right arm, one of the Dead pointed at the warlock. A beam of blinding, intense light streaked out from his palm. The air hummed and sizzled, the warlock collapsed, dying without a cry, leaving his catalyst to stare at him in astonishment. A thin wisp of smoke rose up from the man’s black robes and Mosiah recalled with awful clarity the death he had witnessed earlier; the hole burned through the man’s flesh.
Mosiah glanced from the warlock to his fellow Duuk-tsarith, but the witch had vanished. Her disappearance appeared to disturb the Dead, who remained crouching in the trees, their metallic heads turning this way and that as had the great metallic head of the iron creature Mosiah had seen earlier. After a moment, the Dead man who stood in the center of the group shrugged his shoulders. Pointing to the warlock’s catalyst, who was kneeling over the body of his master, performing the Last Rites, the Dead man began to walk forward.
Pressed against the tree, Mosiah waited, cringing, for them to kill the helpless catalyst. The Dead man walked toward the Priest. The catalyst heard them coming, but he did not look up. With the steadfast courage of his faith, he anointed the head of the dead warlock with oil and spoke the ritual words, “Per istam sanctam unctíonem indúlgeat …” in a firm voice.
The Dead man kept his hand raised, the light-beaming object trained