Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [69]
A silver-skinned human raised his hand, aimed his deadly beam at Joram and Garald, and fired.
The beam of light streaked from the human’s palm, but it did not strike its target. The light streamed into the metal of the Darksword, causing it to glow with a radiance so bright that Joram could not see for the blinding light. The sword vibrated in his hand, electric shocks jolted through his body. He had all he could do to hold onto the weapon, much less try to wield it. He couldn’t see a thing, and it was Garald who told him later that the strange humans, shielding their eyes, tried everything in their power to fire the light beams at their victims. It proved impossible.
The Darksword sucked up the energy from the weapons of the Dead as it sucked the Life from the world. The beams of light died and the Darksword lived, flaring fiercely and humming with an eerie sound. Throwing down their useless weapons, the strange humans turned and ran.
Those who witnessed that battle from a distance spread the report that the Angel of Death possessed the power to put out the sun if he chose.
When night—true night—came to Thimhallan at last, the battle was over. The magi had won, or at least it seemed so. The creatures of iron and the strange humans who came with them retreated, withdrawing to some place unknown—confused reports came in of having seen the iron monsters entering the bodies of still larger monsters and that these enormous creatures of iron had then flown straight up into the heavens and disappeared.
No one believed these fanciful rumors, however. No one except one man—Joram—who looked up grimly into the sky, and shook his head. He said nothing, however. Time enough for that later. Now there was much to be done.
The cost of victory had been grievous.
Mosiah, changed back from his form as a werewolf, was returning to the fortress when he came across the body of the witch. Her enemies lay scattered around her, but in the end there had been too many. Gently Mosiah covered the pale and beautiful face with the black hood. Lifting the body in his arms, he carried her back to the fortress.
Here the dead—and there were many—were buried beneath piles of stone, Cardinal Radisovik spoke the words over them in a voice that was choked with tears and anger. The bodies of those who had died upon the field of battle were left where they had fallen. The surviving magi protested against this, but Joram held firm. He knew—no one knew better, having lived in the Outland—what terrible desecration the centaurs and other beasts would commit upon the bodies, but he also knew that finding them, bringing them back, and burying them would take too much time.
The only ones allowed to return to the battlefield were the Duuk-tsarith. They had an interest in the dead. Not their own dead—the dead of the enemy. Working swiftly and silently under the cover of night, they stripped the bodies of everything from weapons to personal artifacts, never touching any of the objects but handling each with powerful spells of levitation, transporting them to their secret chambers for future study.
The warlocks carried out their task efficiently, then they, too, were ordered by Joram to leave the field and return to Merilon.
“What is there to fear?” Garald asked wearily, so tired he could barely stand. “We drove them away—”
“Perhaps,” Joram replied. “We have no way of knowing for certain until our spies return with their reports.”
“Bah! They’ve left the world.”
“I don’t think so. Their retreat was