Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [59]
“Go,” Xavier ordered his War Masters, accompanying the command with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Cast your worthless spells. Die in whatever manner amuses you.”
Stunned—he had caught most of them in midargument—the War Masters swallowed their words, staring at their Emperor in disbelief. Xavier gestured again, a frown of irritation creasing his brow.
The War Masters turned to gaze at each other in helpless confusion and growing fear when a clear baritone voice rang out, shouting over the wails of the dying, the cracking of rock, and the low hum of the approaching monsters.
“Emperor Xavier!”
The Emperor turned, so did Mosiah, so did everyone in the compound. Prince Garald, Cardinal Radisovik, and a warlock in black robes appeared, stepping out of a Corridor. The appearance of the Prince—their enemy—sent a ripple of confusion and interest through the crowd, momentarily quelling the panic. A tiny flicker of light glimmered through Mosiah’s dark despair and he hurried forward with the rest, anxious to hear. The Duuk-tsarith acted immediately to keep an area around the Emperor clear. Xavier and Garald faced each other, surrounded by an ever growing circle of tense, strained faces.
“So you have come crawling to me at last, Prince of Sorcerers!” Xavier said “Is this surrender?”
This unexpected question took Garald completely by surprise. He stared at the Emperor, perplexed. “Do you have any idea what is heading your way, Xavier?” the Prince asked in a low voice. Glancing at the crowd, he drew nearer to the Emperor. “We must speak privately.”
Xavier stepped back, haughtily drawing his robes out of the way of Garald’s touch. “Say what you have to say, Demon Prince, then be gone.”
Mosiah, pressing close with the rest of the crowd, saw Garald’s face flush in anger and the Cardinal lay a restraining hand on the Prince’s arm.
“Very well,” Garald said, his lips tightening grimly, and a hush fell over those standing near, a hush broken by blasts of exploding rock or the screams of the injured. “I asked to talk to you alone, Xavier, because I did not want to start a stampede.”
Glancing at those standing near, the Prince continued gravely, “But your people are too well trained for that. You’ve got to evacuate this position, Emperor, and you must do so now!”
Xavier shook his head. “This is your fault, you know,” he said softly. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at the Prince with flat, cold eyes. “You had him, and you let him go.”
“Let who go? What are you talking about?” Garald demanded in apparent confusion, though it was obvious to Mosiah that the Prince knew exactly what Xavier meant.
“Joram, of course. Now you pay the piper.”
“Joram! Have you gone mad? Joram is dead!”
Mosiah heard the slight tremor in Garald’s voice as he spoke those last words, and undoubtedly The DKarn-Duuk did too, for he smiled bitterly and, shrugging, turned away.
Exasperated by the man’s coolness, Garald glared at the warlock’s back in anger and frustration. The ground shook. Every few minutes, someone else died in the compound as the deadly eyes of the monsters pierced another victim. The Prince pointed toward the north.
“Xavier, listen! There are twenty or thirty of those monsters coming straight for this place! You don’t stand a chance! You’ve got to get your people out of here!”
The magi stared at each other. Mosiah sucked in his breath, trying to visualize thirty of the iron creatures.
“You can’t fight them!” Garald shouted, and his cry echoed among the crowd.
“We can’t fight them! We must flee!”
“Open the Corridors!”
The panic Garald had feared burst into flame, its fires fed by the flashing beams of killing light. Mosiah, like everyone around him, had one clear, coherent thought in his mind: “Escape!” When a Corridor opened near him, he dove for it, fighting anyone who stood in his way. The magi turned on each other, fear driving them mad as they struggled to reach the safety of the Corridors, which only a few could enter at one time.