Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [56]
“Use it to gag yourself, traitor!” Mosiah snarled.
Gazing at him with wounded eyes, Simkin started to reply, choked, and coughed. Spitting out the orange silk, he gazed ruefully at the sodden mass, then consigned it to the air.
“I say, that hurts,” he remarked moodily. “State of national emergency, that sort of thing. What could I do?” he asked with a helpless glance at the witch. “She appealed to my better nature.”
“This way?” said the witch, shoving Mosiah forward.
The Corridor had brought them to a large fortress. Made of stone, the fortress had obviously been hastily formed from a natural rock formation standing in the center of the Field of Glory. About ten feet high, the walls straggled over the irregular landscape in a roughly circular shape. It was crowded with people—warlocks, witches, healers, and catalysts. “Windows” shaped into the rock allowed the warlocks to cast spells at their enermy, or they could float up into the air and drop back down, using the wails to shield them instead of wasting their own magic. The walls also protected them from being overrun by centaurs. During the “battle,” this fortress would have served the same purpose that a child’s sand castle serves in games on the beach. Whichever side held the fortress against the enemy won this particular area of the Gameboard.
Looking at the pale faces, the tight lips, and the clenched jaws of the magi crowded into the fortress, Mosiah knew that now the stakes were much greater: life itself.
There was no need to tell Mosiah what enemy the people waited so grimly to face. He could see curls of smoke rising up into the air. The ground trembled beneath his feet, he could hear in the distance the low humming sound.
“They’re coming, aren’t they?” he said, the image of the sand castle lingering in his mind washed away beneath relentless waves. “The creatures. What are you going to do?” he demanded of the witch. “Just stay here and die?”
For the first time since she had taken him into the Corridor, the witch looked directly at him. “Stay here and die, go somewhere else and die. What does it matter?” she asked softly, turning from Mosiah to address a warlock in crimson robes who stood with his back toward them. “Your Highness,” she said crisply, “I have found the young man, Mosiah.”
The warlock was speaking to several other War Masters. At the witch’s call, however, he wheeled instantly, his crimson robes with their golden emblems flashing in the bright sun.
At the sight of the man’s face, Mosiah felt a swift stab of painful recognition. It was not that the man resembled Joram, for he did not. The face was thinner, older, sharper. But he had the black, glistening hair, the clear, brown eyes, the proud and elegant grace; the same arrogant tilt to the head.
Joram—the Emperor’s son?
If Mosiah had not believed Simkin before, he believed him now. The family resemblance was too strong to deny. Mosiah was looking at the former Prince Xavier, now Emperor of Merilon. Joram’s uncle.
Xavier smiled, or rather the thin lips expanded into the mockery of a smile.
“I see you recognize me, young man,” he said. “You recognize me because of him, don’t you?”
Mosiah could not answer.
“He’s returned! I know it!” Xavier nodded wisely, the cold eyes probing Mosiah. “He has come back and brought with him the end of the world! Where is he?” the Emperor demanded suddenly. Stretching out his hand, his clawlike fingers clutched at Mosiah’s neck. “Where is he! Answer me or by the gods I’ll tear the words out of your heart!”
Shocked, Mosiah could not move. If Simkin had not accidentally blundered into the Emperor, nearly knocking him over, Xavier might well have succeeded in his threat.
“Egad! Is that you, Highness? Allow me to assist…. I say! What a beastly expression! Your face will freeze like that someday,