Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [50]
Garald shook his head, attempting to bring order to his chaotic thoughts. He had to decide what to do. My god! Was there anything he could do? His unwilling gaze was drawn back by a horrid fascination to the body of the nobleman. Shuddering, he hastily averted his face. Then he stopped and, gritting his teeth, made himself stare fixedly at the gruesome sight. As he hoped, it kindled anger within him and he used the anger to warm his fear-chilled blood.
“Garald,” said Radisovik, kneeling at his side, “Emperor Xavier is not among the dead, nor are any of his War Masters. I believe your original intent was to seek him out. Do you still want to do so?”
“Yes,” said Garald, grateful to the catalyst for seeing his weakness and tactfully guiding him. Hearing his voice crack, he swallowed in an attempt to moisten his aching throat. “Yes,” he repeated more firmly. Putting his hand to his brow, he called up an image of his own Gameboard in his mind. Once again, he could see that small pocket of resistance. “Their location … is more to the east.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Radisovik. “To the east.”
The Cardinal’s tight, constrained manner of speaking caused Garald to glance up at him quickly. The Cardinal’s eyes were on the eastern horizon, where a column of smoke was just beginning to rise above the trees.
“Should we take the Corridor, milord!” Cardinal Radisovik asked, once more offering guidance without seeming to. “It could be dangerous….”
“Undoubtedly,” Garald answered, thinking swiftly, anger and the need for action lending him strength. Refusing assistance, he stood up and began to walk with firm, assured tread back to the broken Gameboard. “We were foolish to have used the Corridor the first time. We could have emerged right into the middle of … of this”—he faltered and grit his teeth—“unprepared, defenseless. But we have no other means—” He paused, forcing himself to consider the matter coldly and logically.
“I believe we should—” Garald began, but one of the Duuk-tsarith interrupted him, silencing him with a swift movement of the hand. His companion spoke one word and in an instant a magical shield surrounded the Prince and Cardinal; the black-robed warlocks rose immediately into the air, one guarding the front, one guarding behind.
Surrounded by the magical force, Garald strained to hear what had attracted the attention of his sharp-eared warlocks. Eventually he felt it more than heard it—a shivering of the ground as though a large, heavy object was moving nearby.
Creatures of iron.
Like most mortals, Garald had thought about dying. He had discussed death philosophically, speculating about the afterlife with his tutors and the Cardinal. When he heard of Joram’s death, Garald had wondered deep within himself if he possessed the courage needed to walk into those shifting mists. But, never, until now, had death been close to him. Never had it appeared to him in such a hideous, horrifying aspect.
He saw the terror on the faces of the corpses, he saw the pain that not even the peace of dying could erase from their features. Fear welled up from deep within him, cramping his stomach, weakening his legs.
Hearing the Cardinal whispering a prayer, Garald envied the man his faith. The Prince had supposed himself to be devout in his beliefs, but he realized now it had been lip service. Where was the Almin? Garald didn’t know, but he certainly doubted He was here.
The movement of the ground became more pronounced, and Garald could hear a thudding sound. His stomach wrenched, he thought he might be sick from fear. The vision came clearly to his mind—the Prince of Sharakan vomiting on the Field of Glory.
Garald could hear it passed down in legend and song and he laughed suddenly, shrill laughter that drew a look of concern from the Cardinal.