Part 5 (1/2)

At that moment, the sound of a gong rang out, booming, angry.

”The Scianc!” Andon cried, grief contorting his face.

Nine times the gong dinned, its vibrations jarring body and mind. Saryon felt the shock come up from through his feet, and wondered if the earth itself s.h.i.+vered in rage.

”It's war,” Joram said grimly. ”Which way, Simkin?”

”This way, down the alley,” Simkin said, pointing, his usually flighty manner disappearing into the air with the orange silk. He was off at a run.

”C'mon! We better keep up!” Joram urged. ”We'll lose sight of him.”

”Only if we're lucky,” Mosiah growled. Hurriedly, he shook hands with the old man. ”Good-bye, Andon. Thank you for everything.”

”Yes, thank you,” Joram said briefly, his dark-eyed gaze going toward the forge. The sounds of battle were louder, coming closer. After a last look Joram started down the alley with Mosiah. The figure of Simkin could bearly be seen in the twilight, the feather in his cap fluttering in the air like a banner. He half-turned. ”Hurry up, Saryon!”

”Yes, go along. I'll catch up,” the catalyst said, reluctant to leave, afraid to stay. Andon seemed to know something of what he was feeling.

The old man smiled wanly. ”I know why you are leaving, and I suppose I should be grateful that you are taking the darkstone away from us. At least we will be spared that temptation.” He sighed. ”But I am sorry to see you go. The Almin walk with you, Father,” he said softly.

Saryon attempted to return the blessing, but the words would not come to his lips. It was said that in the ancient world, those who had sold their souls to the powers of darkness were physically unable to speak the name of G.o.d.

”Catalyst!” came Joram's irritated shout.

Saryon turned and left the old man without a word. Looking back from the shadows of the alley as twilight closed over them, he saw Andon standing in the street beside the bodies of the dead henchmen, his head bowed, shoulders slumped. The old Sorcerer's hands covered his eyes, and the catalyst knew that he wept.

7.

The Outland Leaving the Sorcerers' village, Simkin led his charges north through a ravine filled with thick brush, canopied by broad-leafed trees. Twilight deepened to night swiftly among the trees and it was ”as dark as the inside of a demon's eyelids,” as Simkin put it. Walking through the dense tangle of vegetation became difficult, and, on occasion, almost impossible. Though Joram argued against it, the others insisted upon light.

”Blachloch's men have other things to worry about, from the sounds of it,” Mosiah said grimly, pulling thorns from his legs where he'd crashed headlong into a gorse bush in the darkness. ”One of us could break an ankle or maybe even tumble into a hole and vanish completely in this G.o.dforsaken place! I'd rather take my chances on torchlight.”

”Torchlight!” Simkin snorted. ”How primitive you think, dear boy!”

Huge moths with green-glowing wings appeared in the air. Fluttering above them, the gleaming moths shed a warm, soft light that extended outward in a surprisingly wide radius.

Unfortunately, after one look into the wild- and forbidding-looking forest through which they traveled, Saryon was considerably more frightened than he had been stumbling about it in the dark.

They continued walking down the gully until its sharp-thorned bushes opened out suddenly into a swamp. Giant trees rose from the mists of a thick fog; their roots - exposed by the water - looked like claws in the eerie light cast by the glowing moths. At the sight of this, Simkin called a halt.

”Keep to the high ground on your left,” he said, from his position in the lead. He waved a hand vaguely. ”Don't fall in. Nasty sort of mud in that beastly pool. Grabs hold and won't let go.”

”We better not try that 'til daylight,” Joram said wearily, and it suddenly occurred to Saryon that the young man must be near dropping over from exhaustion. The catalyst was bone tired, but at least he'd been able to rest some during the day.

”Certainly,” said Simkin with a shrug. ”I don't think think anything's liable to munch on us during the night,” he added ominously. anything's liable to munch on us during the night,” he added ominously.

”I'm too tired to care one way or the other,” Joram muttered.

They made their way back down into the gully and found a relatively dry place to spend the night. Taking off the Darksword, Joram laid it on the frozen ground, then made his bed beside it. Lying down, sighing in weariness, he rested his hand upon his sword and closed his eyes.

”Simkin, where are we headed, anyway?” Mosiah asked in a whisper.

Rousing himself, Joram looked up at them. ”Merilon,” he said, and the next moment was fast asleep.

Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who shook his head.

”I feared as much. He must be persuaded from this course. Joram must not not go to Merilon!” The catalyst repeated this several times, his hands rubbing back and forth on the worn cloth of his robe. go to Merilon!” The catalyst repeated this several times, his hands rubbing back and forth on the worn cloth of his robe.

Mosiah s.h.i.+fted uneasily, but said nothing.

Saryon sighed. He could expect no help from this ally, he could see that now - and this was his only only ally. ally.

The catalyst knew that Mosiah agreed with him in his head, but it was the young man's heart that kept his tongue silent in the matter. Mosiah, too, longed to see Merilon the Beautiful - the fabled, enchanted city of dreams.

Saryon sighed again, and saw Mosiah's face grow tense; evidently fearing that the catalyst would take up the matter once more.

Saryon didn't bring up his arguments, however. He kept silent, glancing about nervously, all his fears and terrors of the wilderness returning to him.

”Goodnight, Father,” Mosiah said awkwardly, resting his hand on Saryon's shoulder. ”I'll help you argue with Joram in the morning, though I don't think it will do much good.”

He went over to lie down upon the cold ground, huddling near Joram for warmth. Within moments, he, too, was asleep - sleeping the sleep of youthful innocence. The catalyst stared at him in gloomy jealousy. Then Simkin sent the moths away, and the night returned. The darkness seemed to crawl out from the clawed trees, obliterating everything from sight. Saryon s.h.i.+vered in the chill air.

”I'll keep watch,” Simkin offered. ”I slept all day, and whacking that lout quite stirred up my blood. Put your bald head to bed, Father.”

Saryon was tired, so tired that he hoped sleep might overwhelm him, shutting down the waterwheel of thoughts that cranked over and over in his mind. But the terrors of the wilderness and the sound of Joram's voice saying ”Merilon” flowed through the catalysts brain and kept the wheels turning.

The bitter-cold winds of approaching evening rustled the few dead leaves still clinging stubbornly to the trees. Clutching his robes close about him, Saryon tried to shake off the growing feelings of gloom and despair. He told himself they were due to his fatigue and the horror over the death of the warlock that was only gradually beginning to fade from his mind.

But he wasn't succeeding, and now this announced decision of Joram's made matters worse.

Saryon s.h.i.+fted restlessly, s.h.i.+vering with cold and fear. The slightest noise made him cringe in terror. Were those eyes, staring at him from the shadows? He sat up in alarm, looking wildly around for Simkin. The young man was sitting peacefully on a tree stump. Saryon fancied he could see Simkin's eyes s.h.i.+ning in the darkness like an animal's, and they appeared to be watching him with amus.e.m.e.nt. The catalyst huddled back down in his robes, shut his own eyes against the night, and tried to take his mind off his fear and cold by going over and over what he intended to say to Joram tomorrow.

Eventually, the wheel bogged down and ceased to turn. The catalyst drifted into a dream-haunted, restless sleep. His hand went rea.s.suringly to the darkstone that hung around his neck, and he realized, sleepily, that the ore's power had apparently worked.

Bishop Vanya had not contacted him.

Saryon woke next morning, aching and stiff. Though he was not hungry, he forced himself to eat. ”Joram,” he said reluctantly, mechanically chewing and swallowing stale bread, ”we must talk.”

”Brace yourself, my friend,” said Simkin cheerfully, ”Father Spoilsport intends to talk you out of going to Merilon.”

Joram's face darkened, his expression grew stern, and Saryon cast an irritated glance at the mischievous Simkin, who simply grinned innocently and sat back upon his stump, legs crossed, to enjoy the fun.

”Bishop Vanya will expect you to go to Merilon, Joram!” Saryon argued. ”He knows about Anja and her promise that you would find fame and fortune there. He'll be waiting, and so will the Duuk-tsarith!” Duuk-tsarith!”

Joram listened in silence, then he shrugged. ”The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith are everywhere,” he said coolly. ”It seems that I am in danger no matter where I go. Isn't that true?” are everywhere,” he said coolly. ”It seems that I am in danger no matter where I go. Isn't that true?”