Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [54]
Did Xavier know that? Did he know the creatures were coming and intend to make a stand here? Or had he simply retreated to this place, unaware of the forces massing against him?
And what were these creatures of iron? These men of iron? Garald wondered, his gaze returning to them in terrible fascination. Where had they come from? Was it possible that another city-state in Thimhallan had somehow gained knowledge and power enough to create these things? No. Garald rejected the idea. Nothing like this could have been kept secret. Besides, the creation of these things must have been undertaken by Sorcerers whose knowledge and power were beyond anything even the ancients had dreamed.
Yet another question. Why hadn’t they shown up on the Gameboard? Why hadn’t he been able to see them…?
The answer was there, so obvious he realized he’d known all along, surmised it from the very beginning.
They were Dead. Every one of them—the creatures of iron, the strange humans with the metal skin. Dead.
The Duuk-tsarith was touching him again. “Milord, Cardinal Radisovik, the giant…. What are your orders?”
Garald tore his gaze from the monsters. Glancing one final time at the stone fortress of Emperor Xavier, he turned away. As he did so he saw one of the creatures pause before a gigantic boulder that blocked its path. A beam of light shot from its eye and the boulder shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
So much for the stone fortress.
Garald moved quickly now. His mind, no longer tormented by shadowy fears, was active.
“We’re going to warn Xavier,” he said, “and get him to pull back. He can’t face these things with that small contingent of people. And I’ll need messages carried back to our lines.”
Talking to himself, he sped through the air, returning to the giant, having forgotten about it, the Cardinal, and nearly everything else in his first paralyzing glimpse of the creatures.
Cardinal Radisovik waited for him on the ground, having been carried down by the Duuk-tsarith. The enraged giant was barely being held in check by the warlock, and Garald felt a twinge of remorse when he realized that Radisovik had undoubtedly been in some peril and that his Prince had left him—a weak catalyst—to fend for himself. The feeling passed quickly, however, trampled underfoot by the need for action.
“You saw?” Garald asked his Cardinal grimly as he neared the stretch of scorched grass on which he and the giant stood.
“I saw,” Radisovik replied, pale and shaken. “May the Almin have mercy on us!”
“May He indeed!” Garald muttered, his sarcastic tone drawing a look of concern from the Priest. But there was no time for worrying about faith or the lack of it. Gesturing to the Duuk-tsarith who had accompanied him—the other warlock was keeping the giant in hand—Garald began issuing his orders.
“You and Cardinal Radisovik enter the Corridors—”
“My lord? I believe I should stay—” interposed the Cardinal.
“—and return to my headquarters,” Garald continued coolly, overriding the Priests objections. “Use whatever means you must, but get the civilians out of the area Take them all.” He hesitated, then continued with a twisted smile, “even our people, to Merilon. It’s the closest city and the magical dome protects it best. I wonder who Xavier left in control?” he muttered. “Probably sent Bishop Vanya back. Well, it can’t be helped. Cardinal Radisovik, you must go to the Bishop. Explain what is happening and—”
“Garald!” Radisovik said sternly, his brows coming together in a manner that the Prince had not seen since he was a young boy caught in some misdeed. “I insist that you listen to me!”
“Cardinal, it is not for your own safety that I am sending you back! I need you to talk to His Holiness—” Garald began impatiently.
“My lord,” interrupted Radisovik, “there are no bodies of catalysts!”
Garald stared at the Priest, uncomprehending “What?”
“On the field near the Gameboard, on the Field of Glory we have passed over—” Radisovik waved his hand—“there are no bodies