Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [48]
“Precisely the question we would ask you!” the witch hissed at him, reminding him forcibly of the snake. He glanced nervously at the warlock’s body and saw the catalyst hurrying in their direction.
“We cannot stay!” the catalyst called softly. “One of the creatures of iron is coming this way!”
“The Corridor!” the witch said, and the catalyst caused one to gape open instantly. Simkin leaped inside, almost before the Corridor was open, and the catalyst followed.
Mosiah hesitated. He could hear the low humming noise of the iron creature, he could feel the ground shake beneath his feet. Yet he would almost have chosen to take his chances with the blind monster than the witch, whose presence and touch brought back the pain of the binding vines and their flesh-piercing thorns.
“You fool!” The witch’s hand closed over his arm. “You will not survive in its path an instant. It has no eyes, but it is not blind. It kills with unerring accuracy. I will take you with me, whether you choose to go or not. But I would prefer that you came voluntarily. We need your help.”
The humming grew louder. Mosiah remembered the wizard, fleeing… The hole burned in the flesh … Yet still he hesitated—a man stranded on a sheer cliff face with a great boulder crashing down on him from above, his one hope a leap into a dark chasm below.
“Where?” he asked through lips so stiff they would barely form the word. The Corridor was already starting to close.
“Emperor Xavier’s,” said the witch, the hands holding Mosiah tightening with an ominous grip.
“Don’t,” he said softly, swallowing. “I’ll come.”
The Corridor opened, sucked him inside, and squeezed shut around him.
13
Death Crawls
It was all so quiet. Garald, stepping cautiously from the Corridor, wondered briefly if the Thon-li—who were in a pitiable state of confusion—had made a mistake and sent him to some distant, peaceful part of the world. But it took the Prince only a moment to realize that he had reached his destination, only a moment to realize that the quiet was not the quiet of peace.
It was the quiet of death.
The Corridor closed hastily behind Garald. He was dimly aware of Cardinal Radisovik covering his eyes with his hand, murmuring a prayer in a broken voice. Garald was also aware of his bodyguards—the Duuk-tsarith, trained from childhood to the discipline of silence—gasping aloud in shock and anger. Garald was aware of this, yet none of it touched him. It was as if he stood alone upon this world and, looking around, saw it for the first time.
The sun shone brilliantly, a startling contrast to the stormy weather they had just left. Flaming in the slate blue sky, the orb blazed with fierce energy, as though trying to burn away all evidence of the horrors it had witnessed Garald could see, looking southward, his storm clouds surging in this direction. By all the rules of warfare, this weather attack by Sharakan’s Sif-Hanar should have prompted Xavier to order his own Sif-Hanar to counterattack, leading to a rousing, thunder-clapping battle in the air. But this had not happened The sun was out, the day was fine. The reason was obvious.
Merilon’s Sif-Hanar lay dead beneath their Gameboard, their bodies among several sprawled on the scorched and blackened grass.
The Board itself had been destroyed, chopped completely in two. Made of massive stone, an exact copy of the one used by Prince Garald, half of it leaned at an unlikely angle, propped up by the bodies beneath it. The other half lay on the ground. Staring at it, Garald could not imagine the tremendous blow it must have taken to shatter the magical stone.
Slowly, looking around him cautiously, Garald walked over to the Board. Kneeling beside it, he touched its smooth surface, cool beneath his fingers. Like the stone, the Board’s magic was broken. No miniature dragons breathed their flame into the air from its surface, no small giants tromped across it, no tiny figures of warlocks and witches fought their enemies in enchanted battles. The Gameboard of Merilon was empty