Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [63]
One person acted on Garald’s instructions. Having been the one who captured Joram in the Grove of Merlyn, the witch—head of the Order of Duuk-tsarith—recognized him immediately. When Joram put away the Darksword, the witch was able, by using the mind-searching skills of her kind, to probe the man’s mind. Though the witch understood little of what she saw there, she learned enough about the creatures in the brief span of time she shared Joram’s thoughts to comprehend his plan.
Moving through the crowd, speaking calmly and forcefully, the witch gathered around her the members of the Duuk-tsarith and any others who were standing nearby. All the magi obeyed her without question; some because they were accustomed to doing her bidding, most because she was authority, a focal point of reality in a horrifying nightdream.
The witch organized the catalysts and, mumbling their prayers, the Priests drew the Life from the world around them, sending it arcing into the bodies of the warlocks, the witches, the wizards, even those few sorcerers who, like Mosiah, had strayed here from their disbanded or destroyed units. Concentrating their thoughts upon a single spell, the magi caused a wall of ice to rise, shimmering, into the air, completely surrounding the fortress.
Almost instantly, the lethal beams of light ceased. The killing stopped.
The wizards stared in amazement. The frosty breath of the ice was visible in the warm air. Swirling about the feet of the magi, it cooled their fevered blood, bringing calm and order where there had been only moments before panic and chaos. Silence fell upon the crowd inside the fortress, as they blinked, half-blinded, at the ice wall gleaming in the sunlight.
A light beam shot through the ice, but it was aimless, directionless. The creatures had no targets now, apparently, and though they continued to fire the light at the ice, most of the beams passed harmlessly through empty air.
“It worked,” said Garald, mystified. “But … how? Why?”
“The tanks—the ‘creatures’ as you call them—kill by focusing their laser weapons—their eye?—on anything that moves or gives off heat,” the white-robed man replied. “Using that, they lock onto their targets. Now they can no longer sense the body heat of those in the fortress.”
Shading his eyes against the glare of the reflected sunlight, the Prince peered through the ice at the creatures.
“So we are safe.” He let out his breath in a sigh.
“Only for the moment,” the man said grimly. “This will not stop them, Your Grace. It will merely slow them down.”
“It will give us time enough to contact the Thon-li and force them to open the Corridors again,” Garald stated briskly. “You have saved us! We will begin the retreat—”
“No, Your Grace.” The man caught hold of Garald’s torn, bloodstained shirt as the Prince was starting to move away.
“You cannot retreat, not yet. You must fight. My uncle was right about one thing, there is no escape, nowhere to run. If you don’t stop them here, they will take over the world.”
“Fight them? How? It is impossible!”
Garald’s gaze returned to the creatures. Evidently at a loss for coping with this new and unexpected situation, several of the iron monsters had come together and were focusing their light beams on the ice, intent on melting it away. This had little effect—the magi simply used their magic to replace it. Other creatures kept up random firing, occasionally cutting down a victim but generally doing little harm. The shining bodies of the strange humans could be seen moving among the creatures now, keeping close to them as if for protection.
But Garald knew his people couldn’t maintain their defense for long. Already, the magi were growing weak, the Life needed to keep the huge wall of ice in existence was slowly being drained off. When their strength gave out, they would be at the mercy of the