Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [55]
Garald had no answer. Of all the strange things he had seen, this seemed the strangest. It was inexplicable, it made no sense. Yet, what did make sense? Creatures of iron, destroying everything in their path, killing for no reason. Killing everything except catalysts.
“I therefore must insist, milord,” continued Radisovik coldly and formally, “that—as a high-ranking member of the Church—I be allowed to stay and do what I can to resolve this mystery and find out what has become of my brethren.”
“Very well,” Garald said confusedly, trying to grasp the tail-end of his thoughts that had hurried on ahead of him. He turned to the Duuk-tsarith. “You … explain to Vanya. Merilon needs to be fortified. Send messengers, the Ariels, to the farm settlements and begin transporting the people into the safety of the city’s dome. Contact members of your Order in other cities and find out if they are being attacked.”
The Duuk-tsarith nodded silently, his hands clasped in front of him as was proper, disciplined and under control once more. Perhaps, like Garald, the warlock felt better now that he had something to do.
“The War Masters are to remain until the last possible moment. I’m going to try to convince Xavier to withdraw, to retreat to our lines. You must get word to my father. Tell him what is happening and that Sharakan must be prepared to withstand an assault as well. Although how they will defend themselves against these things …” His voice broke. Garald coughed, clearing his throat, angrily shaking his head.
“You have your orders? You understand?” he said gruffly.
“Yes, milord.”
“Then go. But first, instruct your companion to lose the giant.”
“Yes, milord.”
Was it Garald’s imagination, or did he actually see the flicker of a smile on the pale face that was barely visible within the depths of the hood. “That should buy me the time I need,” the Prince muttered, watching the warlock fly up to his comrade, who was holding the giant in thrall. He saw the black hood nod. “You’d better open a Corridor, Radisovik. When the spell over the giant is broken, we’ll need to get out of here quickly.”
A Corridor gaped open. The first Duuk-tsarith had already disappeared, carrying out the Prince’s orders. The second, with a word, released his hold on the giant. Shrieking a deafening cry of rage, the giant stomped around in uncontrolled, undirected fury, his thudding, kicking feet felling trees and shaking the ground. Ducking into the Corridor, the Prince and the Cardinal waited only for the Duuk-tsarith to join them before closing the magical gate and beginning their journey.
“It may take some time, but the creatures of iron will kill the wretched thing. You know that, of course, Garald,” Radisovik said gently.
“Yes,” said Garald, thinking of the boulder he had seen literally disintegrate before his eyes. The thought hurt him and made him angry, and he didn’t quite know why. Though he had never hunted giants for sport, as did some of the nobility, he had never—before now—cared whether they lived or died.
Now he cared, he cared a great deal. He cared for the giant, for the mother, and her dead baby. He cared for the Sif-Hanar, lying beneath the Gameboard, he cared for the uprooted trees and the burned grass. He cared for Xavier, for his enemy, standing in the path of these things.
Unbidden, unwillingly, he recalled the words of the Prophecy.
There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world—
The giant’s world, that small baby’s world.
His world.
15
No Escape
Sharper than the thorns of the murderous Kij vine, the witch’s fingernails dug into Mosiah’s flesh. Thrusting him out of the Corridor, she followed