Triumph of the Darksword (43 page)

Well, that had been a promise sworn to the Almin. A hollow vow, as far as Saryon was concerned, keeping his eyes on the white-robed figure stumbling over the uneven ground ahead of him.

The distance from the altar stone located in the center of the wheel to the Temple, which stood on the southern edge of the wheel’s rim, had seemed minute to the catalyst—until he knew his life depended on covering that distance as swiftly as possible. Suddenly the Temple and its sheltering walls appeared to have taken a gigantic leap backward.

Saryon ran as fast as he could, but that wasn’t very fast. He had never fully recovered his strength following his illness. Encumbered by the heavy sword and the long robes flapping around his ankles, he took only a few steps before he heard his breath wheeze in his lungs. The pavement was broken, uneven, and made running that much more difficult. More than once, Saryon felt a paving stone twist beneath his feet, causing him to slow for fear of losing his balance and falling. All the while, he kept his eyes upon his friend.

And then Joram
did
fall. Tripping over a slab of broken marble, he instinctively reached out his injured arm to catch himself. It collapsed beneath his weight and he tumbled to the ground, writhing in pain.

Grasping Joram, ignoring his snarled commands to leave him be, Saryon dragged him to his feet with a strength the catalyst couldn’t believe was left in his old, tired body. Together they kept running, reaching the nine stairs.

A high, whining sound like the buzz of an angry hornet passed so close to Saryon’s ear that he almost swore he could feel its wings. A fraction of a second later, a part of a Temple column exploded, sending fragments of rock flying everywhere. The catalyst, in his dazed and exhausted state didn’t comprehend what it was.

Struggling up the stairs, the two dove thankfully into the cool, shadowy confines of the Temple walls. Joram fell to the floor like one dead. Rolling over on his back, he lay with his eyes closed, his breathing quick and shallow. His right sleeve was soaked with blood. Saryon, dropping the heavy sword, sank down next to him. Only then did it occur to the catalyst that the buzzing sound had been one of the deadly projectiles. Saryon was past caring. His blood pounded in his ears. He was so dizzy he could barely see.

Gasping for breath, he glanced around the Temple confines.

“Gwen?” Saryon called softly.

There was no answer, but the catalyst soon found her. Barely visible in the shifting shadows, she was sitting calmly on a broken altar at the back of the Temple, watching them with—for her—unusual interest.

Seeing that she was apparently unharmed and thinking Joram had fainted, Saryon bent over him to examine the wound. At his touch, Joram flinched.

“I’m all right!” Shoving Saryon’s hand away, he managed to sit up.

“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” Saryon said hesitantly.

“The cloth’s stuck to the wound. Don’t touch it! Where’s Gwen? Is she all right?”

Saryon started to reply, but another voice—a strange one—answered instead.

“Your charming wife is safe, Joram. Looney as ever, but safe. And you are safe yourself, at least for the time being.

“Really, Joram,” the strange voice continued, speaking the language of Thimhallan, “I am impressed. Once again you have returned from the dead. Have you ever considered anything in the Messiah line?”

A
tall man in black robes stepped out of the shadows of the Temple. He was handsome, Saryon saw, with gray hair and a prepossessing smile. That smile, however, was false, the work of a well-trained illusionist. Tense and strained, the lips and facial muscles were being hard pressed to hold it in place. And though the tone of the man’s voice was glib, an undercurrent of awe and fear marred the smooth surface.

“I truly believed you were killed, my friend,” the man said, coming to stand beside Joram, staring down at him intently. “I can see the theater billing now:
Back from the Dead by Popular Demand!”

Joram did not even look at the man, much less bother to reply. The man smiled.

“Come, come, old friend. You survived four bullet wounds, any one of which could have proved fatal. I would appreciate knowing how you performed that trick. Was it done with a bullet-proof vest? Or perhaps….”

He glanced at Saryon as he spoke, and the catalyst was aware of being intently studied, identified, and stored away for future use all by one quick look of the intelligent eyes.

“…perhaps it was you who brought our friend back to life, Father Saryon. Yes, I know you. Joram has told me a great deal about you and I imagine that he has, in turn, told you a great deal about me. I am Menju the Sorcerer—a rather dramatic appellation, I admit, but it looks well on a theater marquee. And if it
was
you who resurrected Joram, Father, I will buy you a tent and all the folding chairs your evangelistic heart desires!”

“If you mean did I heal Joram, I am a catalyst, not a druid.” Saryon saw the chasm of his dream yawn dark and deadly before him. He must walk carefully, cautiously. “If what you told Joram is true, you lived in this world long enough to know that catalysts have very limited powers of healing and that even druids cannot raise people from the—”

“Don’t let him badger you, Father,” Joram interrupted coldly. “He knows well enough you didn’t heal me.”

Menju made a graceful gesture of supplication. “Take pity on me. Satisfy my curiosity. I swear I was truly grieved to see you die. It was quite a shock.”

“I’ll bet it was,” Joram said dryly. “Help me stand,” he instructed the catalyst. Ignoring Saryon’s remonstrations, he struggled to his feet. Leaning back against a broken column, he regarded Menju wanly. “That wasn’t I who died out there. You saw me arrive through the Corridor.”

“Perhaps I did,” Menju remarked casually, his gaze fixed on Joram, “Uncanny resemblance. Who—”

“Simkin.” Joram’s breathing was too fast, too shallow. Saryon moved nearer.

Menju nodded “Ah, I begin to understand. The teapot. I underestimated you, my friend. Quite a clever ploy, sending this fellow up here, masquerading as yourself. Did you guess it was a trap? Or did he tell you? I thought him an untrustworthy bastard, just like that fat priest, Vanya, who sent his assassin to try to snatch the prize from me. But the Bishop will pay for his treachery.” The magician shrugged. “They all will pay.”

Joram staggered, nearly falling. Catching himself, he refused Saryon’s proffered assistance with an angry shake of his head.

“You need medical attention, Joram,” Menju said, appraising him coolly. “Fortunately, it is near at hand, thanks to the Corridors. A word from the Father will return us to my headquarters. Catalyst, open a Corridor.”

“I can’t—” Saryon began when he was interrupted by a glad cry.

“Come inside! Don’t be afraid!” Springing up from the broken altar where she had been sitting, Gwendolyn ran toward the portico, her bright eyes glittering with their eerie light even in the shadowy confines of the Temple.

“Gwen, no!” Joram caught hold of her. “You can’t go out there—”

Gwendolyn easily broke free of her husband’s weak grasp, but it was not to run outdoors. Stopping just inside the portico, she held out her hands. “Come in! Come in!” she repeated, a hostess welcoming long-awaited guests.

“Don’t be frightened,” she continued, her voice tinged now with sadness. “Are you in pain, still? It will pass in time. It is only a phantom pain, remembered by the part of you that clings to your life. Let it go. It will be easier. For you, the battle has ended.”

“Battle? What battle is she talking about?” Joram demanded, turning to the Sorcerer.

“Gettysburg?” The Sorcerer shrugged. “Waterloo? Perhaps she fancies she’s Napoleon today.”

“You know better than that!” Joram replied. His eyes gleamed feverishly, sweat trickling down his pale face. “You know her power. She’s talking to dead who are…. My god!” he whispered in sudden realization. “You’ve attacked Merilon!”

“Don’t be hard on Major Boris, Joram. He is a soldier, after all, and you couldn’t expect him to stay penned up like a steer in the slaughterhouse.”

“It won’t do any good. You can’t penetrate the city’s magical shield.”

“Ah, that’s where you are wrong, my friend. The thickheaded Major actually came up with an ingenious idea. He converted the flying troop carriers into assault ships. He plans to use their laser fire to destroy the magical dome. It may not pierce the magic, but it will drain the Life of those who keep that magic in place. The shield will soon disintegrate.
The Crystal Palace will fall out of the skies, taking with it those huge marble slabs—what do they call them, the Three Sisters? Poor ladies. They, too, will crash to the ground.”

“Thousands will die?” Saryon cried, aghast. Staring out across the plains, he saw a brilliant flaring of light, the glinting of the sun shining off the metal bodies of the creatures that were crawling, antlike, around the perimeter of the city. That was all he could see with his eyes, mentally he saw much, much more.

Prince Garald—if he were still alive—fighting courageously but bewildered and unnerved over this unexpected attack. Lord and Lady Samuels, their little children, and the countless other noble families whose homes were built upon those floating marble slabs dying horribly, crushed in the falling wreckage. The Crystal Palace, smashing to the ground, exploding into millions of shards of knife-sharp glass fragments…

“Let go of your life,” repeated Gwendolyn sadly.

“If only I could get there?” Joram cried in a low voice. “I could help—What am I saying?” He laughed bitterly. “I brought this on them!” Slumping back against the column, he covered his eyes with his bloodstained hand.

“The time of the Prophecy is accomplished, Joram,” the Sorcerer said “Leave them to their fate. How did that charming little quotation run? ‘And in his hand he holds the destruction of the world—’”

“—or its salvation,” said Gwendolyn.

Lost in his despair, Joram didn’t even appear to hear her. Saryon did, however. Turning, he stared at her intently. She, too, was gazing out at the beleaguered city, her eyes wide and unfocused, a sweet, sad smile on her lips. Moving slowly and quietly, so he would not startle her, the catalyst laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“What did you say, my dear?”

“She is raving!” the Sorcerer snapped impatiently. “Enough of this. In case you have forgotten, there is an assassin out there Catalyst, open a Corridor—”

A Hand was outstretched, trying to help Saryon back from the edge of the cliff. He had only to reach out, take hold of it….

“Continue, my dear,” he said urgently, his voice trembling, trying to contain his excitement so as not to frighten the woman.

Gwendolyn gazed about her with a dreamy expression.

“There is someone here—an old, old man—a Bishop. Where are you? Oh, yes. There, in the back.” She pointed vaguely. “He’s been waiting for centuries for someone to listen to him. It was all a mistake, he says, running away from our home like spoiled, angry children. Then came the Iron War and everything was falling apart. He prayed to find out how to change the world. The Almin granted his prayers, hoping that mankind would turn back from the dangerous path on which he trod. But the Bishop was too weak. He saw the future. He saw the terrible danger. He saw the promised redemption. Dazzled by his vision, he perished. The words of the Almin that were meant to be a warning remained unspoken, unfinished. And mankind, in his fear, made of that warning a prophecy.”

“Fear…. A warning….” murmured Saryon, light filling his soul. “Joram, don’t you understand?”

Joram did not even look up. His head lowered, his face was hidden by the mat of tangled black hair. “Drop it, Father,” he muttered harshly. “It is senseless to go on fighting!”

“No, it isn’t!” Ecstatic, Saryon lifted his hands to heaven. “My God! My Creator! Can You forgive me? Joram, there is a way—”

A crack, a whine. Fragments of stone burst around them.

Joram knocked Saryon to the floor. Menju flattened himself against a column.

“Gwen!” Joram cried, trying to reach his wife. Bewildered by the noise, she stood in the open, staring around in confusion. Before Joram could reach her, however, unseen hands snatched her back out of danger and whisked her away, hurrying her to the rear of the Temple.

“It’s all right, Joram! The dead will protect her!” Saryon cried.

Another crack ricocheted through the Temple, smashing into a wall behind them.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Reaching into the pocket of his robes, Menju drew his phaser, adjusted it, and fired a burst of light at a glimpse of movement he caught near the
altar stone. A puff of smoke and rock dust erupted from the stone, leaving behind a charred streak.

Taking advantage of the covering fire, Joram grabbed hold of the Darksword, and ducked behind a column beside the Sorcerer.

“Over here, Father! Keep down!”

Wriggling across the chill stone floor on his stomach, Saryon reached the columns. Leaning against one, Joram peered out into the Garden. Their enemy was nowhere to be seen. Menju fired again, missing again.