Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [96]
“Yes!” said Garald decisively. “We’ll strike them swiftly, take them by surprise!”
Walking to the desk, Joram bent over a map “Here’s where the enemy is located.” He pointed, tracing a route with his fingers. “We’ll bring in War Masters from Zith-el here Centaurs and giants from the Outland. We can attack from these positions—” Impatiently, he glanced about. “I can’t see. We need light.
Globes of flame burst into life, the Duuk-tsarith casting them into the air to dispel the shadows.
“The Field Magi will fight!” Mosiah said eagerly, hurrying over to the table to join Joram and the Prince.
“We’ll present this plan to the nobles at the meeting tonight.” The Prince hurriedly began rolling up the map. “Speaking of that, it’s time we were going.”
“How soon can we be ready?”
“Tomorrow night. Our people will be rested by then. We can strike tomorrow night.”
“And we kill them all, every one! No survivors!”
“I say, how jolly!” Simkin woke up. “I have just the ensemble. I call it Blood and Guts!”
“May the Almin have mercy on their souls!” Prince Garald said coolly, motioning for the Duuk-tsarith to bring his sword and his cloak.
“Almin have mercy!” Saryon’s hoarse cry startled them all Joram and Mosiah turned, Prince Garald looked around.
“I beg your pardon, Father,” the Prince said apologetically, “I meant no sacrilege.”
“Sacrilege? Don’t you fools see? How can you be so blind? There is no Almin! There will be no mercy! I couldn’t admit it to myself until now.” Saryon spoke feverishly his gaze not on them but abstracted, staring far away. “But I’ve known for a long, long time.
“I knew it as I watched Vanya carry that tiny baby to its death. I knew it as I watched Joram step into Beyond. I knew it as I watched the endless mist day after day while they chopped at my flesh with their tools and broke my fingers, trying to take the weapon forged of darkness! I knew it as I watched the creatures of iron rumble across our world.”
Saryon clasped his deformed hands together as if he would pray, but his twisted fingers turned the gesture into a pitiful mockery. “And now I hear you talk of more killing, of more slaughter. The Almin doesn’t exist! He doesn’t care! We have been left here alone to play this senseless game!”
“Father!” Mosiah, appalled, hurried over to lay his hand remonstratingly on Saryon’s arm. “Don’t say such things!”
Angrily Saryon shook himself free. “No Almin! No mercy!” he cried bitterly.
A crash, sounding from another room, interrupted the catalyst’s tirade. A shout from the servants caused everyone—including the Duuk-tsarith—to run from the study to the dining room. Everyone, that is, except Simkin, who took advantage of the confusion to quickly and quietly disappear.
“Gwendolyn!” Joram caught hold of his wife. “Are you all right? Father, come quickly! She’s hurt herself!”
The china cabinet was in ruins, its wood shattered; the fragile porcelain and glass it contained were nothing but splintered fragments scattered about the floor. In the midst of the wreckage knelt Gwendolyn, holding a fragment of broken glass in her hand. Blood dripped from her fingers.
“He’s sorry, he truly is,” Gwen said, looking around at them with her bright blue eyes. “But you’ve changed things so much, he doesn’t recognize his own home anymore.”
5
The Emperor’s Son
The muttering of the crowd outside could be heard within the walls of Crystal Cathedral, an ocean of sound surging up from the street and breaking in rolling waves upon their transparent surface.
Standing beside his chair, staring out at the hundreds of people who hovered in the rain-soaked twilight outside, Bishop Vanya’s right hand clenched in impotent fury. His left hand would have clenched as well, except that it hung limp at his side. Moodily Vanya reached over to massage the limb that refused to obey his commands, his eyes glaring at the crowd below with increasing frustration.
“What do they want of me?” he demanded, turning his glare upon the Cardinal,