Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [47]
Angrily, having still to complete his rite, the catalyst shook off the Dead man’s grip. The Dead glanced at another of the strange humans, as if for instructions.
This man, whom Mosiah was beginning to realize must be the leader, spoke in the unintelligible language of the Dead and made a motion with his hand. The metal-skinned human backed off slightly, allowing the catalyst to complete his rite in peace.
A mistake, Mosiah counseled them silently from his hiding place. Of course, being Dead, they could not sense the heightening tension in the air, the magic that was beginning to build and boil around them. They couldn’t know that the witch was still near.
“…quidquid deliqústi. Amen.” The catalyst came to the end of the rite. Reaching out, he closed the warlock’s staring eyes and began, slowly, to rise to his feet.
Mosiah heard one of the Dead cry out—a shout of fear and terror that echoed weirdly from the metal head. Pointing at the corpse of the warlock, the metal-skinned human began to scream in terror. The corpse was changing into a gigantic snake. The warlock’s eyes that had just been closed in death now opened wide, burning with a red, unnatural life. The warlock’s body elongated and grew, becoming a reptilian body bigger around than an oak. Rearing up out of the wet grass, its flat oscillating head swaying slightly, the dead warlock—now a huge hooded cobra—towered over the metal-skinned humans, its forked tongue flicking in and out of its venomous mouth.
The leader of the Dead fell back in terror. He aimed the deadly beam at the snake, but his arm shook visibly and the beam missed its target, striking a tree branch and setting it aflame. Lunging swiftly, the giant snake sank its fangs into the Dead man’s shoulder, easily piercing the metal skin. The Dead man’s cry of pain and terror echoed through the forest, causing Mosiah to grit his teeth until it ended in a high-pitched wail of death.
Wrenching its fangs loose from its victim, the snake reared back to focus on its other enemies. The Dead were fleeing in panic, however, crashing blindly through the woods. Standing near the snake, the catalyst watched them run away. When they were gone from sight and when the sound of their screams could no longer be heard, the snake shimmered in the air and collapsed to the ground. Bereft of its magical Life, the cobra was once more the corpse of the warlock.
Mosiah, realizing he had quit breathing, drew in a shivering breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, he was shaking violently and uncontrollably. The sudden appearance of the black-robed witch hovering beside him made his heart lurch wildly in his breast. He very nearly ran away himself, but her strong hand reached out and grabbed hold of him.
“I told you I’d find him!” said an aggrieved voice coming from a bit of orange silk the witch wore tied around her wrist. “I brought you straight to him!”
“You are Mosiah?” said the witch, her eyes glittering from the depths of the black hood, staring at him intently. “Yes,” she answered her own question. “I recognize you.”
Mosiah recognized her as well, and the recognition robbed him of his ability to speak, for this was the witch who had captured him and nearly sent him to his death.
The orange silk disappeared from the witch’s wrist, coalescing in the air to become the tall, thin body of Simkin. But it was a changed Simkin—a pale, distraught Simkin, a Simkin whose normally elegant, fashionable attire appeared to have been flung on without care or thought. He wore breeches of coarse cotton, such as might have been worn by the meanest Field Magus. A slovenly tunic of leather covered a drab silk shirt with a torn sleeve. The bit of orange silk still fluttered bravely in his hand, but the next instant he stuck a corner of it into his mouth and began chewing on it distractedly.
“What’s going on?” Mosiah managed to