The Sorcerer's Skull (Cenotaph Road Series Book 2)

by Robert E. Vardeman

  The roar of passion rose from the five hundred — or more — gathered in the audience chamber. She barely heard the child’s voice over the groans and gasps.

  “Can I go now, Mama? Will there by anything else?”

  “No, Kyle, run along.”

  The child licked his lips, smiled, and vanished like a ghost. Nashira smoothed her skirts, closed her eyes, let her hand roam her lush body, and lost herself once again to her own sexual needs.

  *

  “You look disconsolate this fine morning, Krek. Is there anything I can do?” asked Nashira. She turned to face the giant spider, her skirts floating out from around her slender legs like a pale green nimbus. Sparks darted throughout the fabric, giving the dress the look of a sea caught on fire.

  “Nothing,” said Krek, munching on an especially large grasshopper he’d caught invading the premises.

  “Surely, you cannot be wanting for food?”

  “No.”

  “Come, now,” said Nashira, her hands stroking over the coppery bristle of the spider’s nearest leg. “Tell me. I want only to help.”

  “Very well.” The spider twitched his body around and started off. Nashira kept her hand on the spider’s leg as they went into the lavish quarters the Suzerain had given Lan. “Listen” was all Krek said.

  Nashira’s lips turned upward in a wicked smile. The unmistakable sounds of Ria and Lan together echoed throughout the building. She felt herself becoming excited as she eavesdropped. While not so potent a stimulus for her as using the magic eye, this nevertheless provided her imagination with vistas hitherto untapped. Her hand tightened on Krek’s furry leg, and she began stroking up and down more vigorously.

  “It has been like that all night long. He and that red-headed servant have been performing your silly human mating rituals. No, he cannot find the energy to leave this morning for our trip to Mount Tartanius. He is too tired to leave bed — and so is she, one would think.”

  “What’s one more day in our fair city?” asked Nashira, moving closer to the spider. Her legs parted slightly, and she thrust herself against the thick, furry appendage. “Aren’t we treating you right?”

  “Quite so, Nashira. For that I thank you. But you are treating that weak human friend of mine too well. We might never leave.”

  “Would that be so odious? Melitarsus is a place where all things can happen, all good things.” Krek looked at her, as if for the first time. He twitched his leg and pulled it from her grasp.

  “I feel dampness on my leg. You sweat, perhaps.”

  “Let’s go exploring in the city and see if we can’t find something to keep you amused.” Nashira pulled away from Krek with some reluctance and smoothed her skirts.

  “If I enjoy myself one-half as much as he,” Krek said, bobbing his head toward the archway leading to Lan’s sleeping quarters, “I might not want to leave, either.”

  “I’d like that,” said Nashira earnestly. “In fact, this very day is an occurrence you will be sure to enjoy.”

  “I am your humble servant.” Krek performed an awkward bow that made Nashira smile even more broadly. She held out her hand and Krek placed one chitinous claw lightly in it. Together, spider and Suzerain left, the passionate sounds soon behind them.

  *

  “There are certainly enough people gathered about,” observed Krek. “But why? We seem to be the center of attention.” The spider stood in the center of a sand-covered arena, walls rising up all around before the banks of seats curved back. Not an empty chair was to be seen.

  “They have come to see your fighting prowess.”

  “Fight? Me? I do not fight.”

  “Not even for me, O Mighty Krek?” asked Nashira, her hand softly rustling the copper-colored bristles on his leg.

  “Why fight? There is no need. Such things are peculiarly and tediously human. We spiders might seem bloodthirsty, but such is not the case. In fact, we …”

  The three men entering the arena were naked to the waist, their bare, muscular bodies gleaming with lubricants. They parted as they came from a single gateway on the far side of the pit, then drew long swords. The silvery sheen reflected back to the spider.

  “What is this?” he demanded of Nashira.

  “If you do not defend me, they will have their way with me.”

  “So?”

  “They will then kill me. And you.” The woman’s voice became husky, passionate. “You must fight, Krek. You must kill them. Do it!"

  The men attacked in a precision movement. The one on the left flank drew Krek’s attention while the one on the right moved in for the kill. The one in the center poised on the balls of his feet to jump in either direction to aid whichever of his comrades required it.

  A powerful overhead slash would have ended Krek’s life if the spider hadn’t gathered all eight legs under him and jumped straight up. The sword buried itself in the ground — and Krek’s descending body weight buried his would-be killer. Hard claws pinned the man down.

  “Get him!” cried Nashira. The remaining two swordsmen were already on the attack. They circled and came at Krek from opposite sides. The spider shivered as if he had a palsy. As the men attacked, two of Krek’s long legs shot out, catching them both in the midriff. They stumbled backward, swords and attack forgotten. One landed heavily, the wind knocked out of him. The other turned and ran.

  “Why do they wish to harm me?” asked Krek in a small voice. “I have done nothing to them.”

  “Fight, damn you!” screamed Nashira. “Don’t let that one get away.”

  “You wish me to stop him? Oh.”

  The spider made a coughing sound, then a gurgling came from deep inside. A spinneret opened on his abdomen and a long, silken strand rocketed forth. The strand arched across the arena and dropped on the fleeing man’s back. A long, agonized scream sounded as Krek reeled him in. He fought in vain against the silk rope now encircling his body.

  “Here, Nashira,” said Krek.

  “Look. Three more!” cried the Suzerain. She backed away until she felt the firmness of wooden wall behind her. The woman picked up a fallen sword and thrust it into the sand in front of her. “Kill them, Krek. Defend me! Defend yourself!”

  “I do not understand why they attack,” said the spider, bemused. A humming noise filled the arena as more and more of the sticky strands of web-stuff shot forth to entangle his opponents’ legs. But the number of men entering the pit soon exceeded Krek’s ability to produce web.

  A quick slash of his mandibles cut one man in half. Fountains of blood gushed onto the dry sand, to be quickly sucked up. The crowd went beserk, cheering and screaming.

  “Yes, Krek, that’s it! Do it! Kill them! Kill them all!” Nashira stepped forward, lifting her skirts. The pommel of the buried sword rested cool and round between her thighs, but her eyes never left the carnage in front of her. Krek bounced from side to side, appearing awkward in his movement but giving death to any who came within his range. One mighty snap of his pincers broke a finely tempered steel sword flailing too close to his head. Again the crowd left out a frantic cheer.

  Nashira bobbed up and down, moaning, sobbing, urging on the spider in his battle against a full dozen armed and armored men.

  Krek glanced at the woman, saw the look of stark ecstasy on her face, and didn’t understand. Even less he understood the reason for these men trying to slay him. They fought with single-minded determination, yet he had never before seen them. They weren’t his enemies. They weren’t the grey-clad soldiers who had invaded his world and many others along the Cenotaph Road. Most of all, they weren’t being sent by Claybore to permanently remove him.

  The spider considered the question, then decided to be vexed.

  He fought without hesitation now, his potent death scythes snapping and clacking, closing on human arms and legs and torsos. One quick nip severed a man’s head from his body. A geyser of blood ten feet high shot aloft. The crowd went berserk.

  “Nashira, what is happening
?” demanded Krek during a brief respite from the battle. Fourteen lay dead and mutilated in front of him while another seven limped back to the gateway at the far side of the arena. The Suzerain of Melitarsus let out a tiny gasp, then shook all over like a leaf in a high wind.

  When she stepped away, the sword was still buried in the sand, the pommel damp and shiny with her juices.

  “Krek, you fight like a juggernaut. You are superb! Can you fight any more?”

  “Why? Why are they attacking me? I have done nothing to them.”

  “For a gourmet feast of insects. Succulent bugs, the finest in all of Melitarsus. Will you kill again for that, Krek?” she cried.

  “I have worked up a hunger,” admitted the spider, “but why must I slay these poor, fragile humans?”

  “There. They come again!” Nashira cried. She pointed. A wedge of ten soldiers armed with pikes advanced on the spider.

  Krek leaped into the air, all eight legs acting like coiled springs. But the soldiers reacted swiftly, their pikes planted in the sand, deadly barbed points aimed aloft. A collective gasp came from the throats of everyone in the audience. The spider now met his fate.

  Krek saw the ten pikeheads turn upward. In the same instant, he spit forth a long strand of web-stuff. It arrowed upward and clung tenaciously to a thick beam overhead supporting part of the arena bleachers. The spider swung, his body passing just inches above the pikes. His clawed feet raked across the massed men, killing six. As he swung back, he shortened the strand and avoided the thrusting pikes of the remaining men who had thought to skewer him.

  Krek cut loose from the strand of web and dropped. The soldiers fought, but with so many of their friends dead, they fought in disarray. Krek backed them against a wall, then attacked. His mandibles closed on metal; he fought mechanicals now. One long, hard slash ripped the artificial skin from the face of one, exposed the metallic legs of another. These soldiers did not bleed and die, but they proved easier to disable. They fought because they’d been ordered to, but lacked the human reserve to keep fighting, no matter the odds.

  Krek disabled the mechanicals one piece at a time, until only twitching, thrashing parts remained.

  The crowd cheered wildly and began throwing flowers. Krek bent and sampled one of the tastier-looking ones. It had only bland appeal, nothing like a juicy grub or worm. He returned to find Nashira propped against the wooden wall.

  “Nashira, are you injured?” asked the spider, concern in his voice. “The front of your dress shows —”

  “I am fine, Krek. You are magnificent!” She ran to him and hugged a gory leg. “They love you. I love you.”

  “Why, thank you. But this killing. I don’t understand it. Humans do peculiar things, but this is totally senseless. I do not like being set upon by those mechanical servants, either. Their parts nick my mandibles.” He tentatively clacked his pincers together, listening to the sound they made.

  “Smell the blood, Krek. Doesn’t it heighten your senses, all your senses?” she cooed.

  “Smell? I have argued this point with Lan Martak. His claims for this purported sense are too wild to believe. Taste is adequate.”

  “Ah, you want insects. Insects you shall have!” Nashira clapped her hands and servants came forth bearing silver serving trays laden with insects of every description, small ones, large ones, prepared in a dozen different fashions. “Enjoy yourself, Krek. You’ve earned it.”

  The spider looked around the arena. Men with litters removed the dead and dying. A funny tremor rose inside. He felt awful about the killing, but before he could put voice to it, Nashira’s soft voice reached him. The chant was lyrical, enticing. He became engrossed in the intricate patterns of sound. When the Suzerain of Nashira had finished her geas, Krek found himself totally unable to say a single word about the slaughter.

  He shrugged, a rippling, sinuous motion, then began his feast. He disliked the killing, but the bugs were definitely to his taste.

  Nashira watched, smiled, anticipated even more to come.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lan Martak rolled over, stretched, yawned, then stretched some more until all his muscles felt taut and ready for action. But that was the problem. There wasn’t any action. Everything in his life was perfect. He lived in the most sumptuous of mansions, a dwelling beyond his wildest dreamings. He had the richest, tastiest of foods to eat and the finest of clothes to wear. There were no demands placed upon him. The Suzerain of Melitarsus saw him but seldom, requested his presence even less. The only real demand was of a pleasurable kind.

  Ria was sexually insatiable. She knew tricks that Lan had never even heard of, much less tried, and she was wantonly willing to demonstrate anything and everything for him.

  “Dammit!” he cried out. “I’m bored!” He felt like he’d gotten trapped in a cage. Guilt worked on him, too, knowing that Inyx wandered the Cenotaph Road alone. The only consolation Lan found lay in the fact that Inyx was independent and able to take care of herself. Yet he blamed himself for not making a more determined effort to leave Melitarsus and all the creature comforts, to brave the deadly grasshopper infestation, to climb the precipitously tall Mount Tartanius and find the cenotaph and possibly Inyx.

  He heaved a deep sigh, then scratched himself.

  “Claybore,” he muttered to himself. “The grey-clad soldiers will swarm over this world. Claybore will rule along the entire Cenotaph Road unless I warn people about him, try to stop him before the conquest proceeds too far.” Lan worried over this. Many times he’d tried to broach the subject with Nashira, and had found the words jumbling in his throat. It was as if he couldn’t tell her anything that might alarm her. Yet he had to keep trying. Nashira, indeed, all in Melitarsus, had to be warned of the danger posed by the decapitated sorcerer.

  He didn’t know the true extent of Claybore’s territorial expansion. One world? A hundred? He had hints that the sorcerer had just begun when he encountered Waldron on the bleak world, but those remained hints, not facts. Nashira seemed to know of the grey-clads but felt no anxiety about their presence. The little scouting beyond the confines of his gossamer prison Lan had done showed no evidence of Claybore’s men, but the adventurer would be the first to acknowledge he had not made any comprehensive check.

  The entire city-state of Melitarsus might be overrun with them and he wouldn’t know it.

  “Hello, friend Lan Martak,” came the doleful greeting from the direction of the doorway. Lan looked up but saw no one.

  “Come on in, Krek.”

  “It is all right? You and that red-furred serving woman are not mating?”

  “She doesn’t have red fur. That’s hair. And no, we’re not mating.”

  The spider bounced into view, filling the arched doorway. On either side of the arachnid, buried as decoration in the walls, gleamed jewels Lan took for diamonds. The spider appeared to wear them as a necklace as he bent to enter.

  “You perform such feats constantly.”

  “Hardly feats,” said Lan, then he laughed. “Maybe they are, with Ria. She’s an agile one.”

  “Almost as agile as a spider.”

  Lan looked more carefully at his friend. While the spider’s grooming had never been more immaculate or his belly more filled with tasty bugs, Krek’s attitude struck a discordant note. Seeing him despondent was nothing new; having their moods match so closely worried Lan.

  “What’s wrong, old spider?” he asked. “You’re mighty morose.”

  “I …” the spider began, then stopped, making a choking noise. Lan sat up, concerned. Not only had he never heard Krek cough like this before, he felt the gentle winds of magic wafting through the chamber. Lan tried to put some name to the spell and failed. His abilities in casting spells were limited to a few healing chants and a pyromancy lore for starting fires. At detecting spells he had more facility, but this one eluded him. It almost fit into a pattern, almost became describable, then it faded away and left him, like the miasma of a subtle perfume.

 
; “They’re grooming you well enough. I don’t remember ever seeing your fur shine like it does now.”

  “My legs are rather well tended, are they not? And my abdomen has never been more nicely polished.”

  “Food? They’re giving you all the right kinds of insects?”

  “Oh, superb insects!” cried the spider, showing some signs of enthusiasm on the subject. “Even my quarters are everything one of my persuasion might require. Mechanicals clean it properly, doing my exact bidding. I have spun a new and more intricate web every day this week. It is only that …”

  “That you think we should be moving on, working to find Inyx?” Lan rushed the words out to make sure he actually voiced them. He felt a strange reluctance to speak of such matters, just as he did of telling Nashira about the menace posed by Claybore.

  “Yes!”

  Krek’s vehemence startled him.

  “Nashira promised an escort.”

  “She has not provided it.”

  “Her troops are all occupied fighting the ’hoppers. We can’t ask her to free up some of them just to escort us on our way. Saving the lives of her people in outlying areas is more important.”

  “What outlying areas?”

  “The ones outside the walls. She said her men are on constant guard outside.”

  “The entire of Melitarsus is within the walls,” said the spider.

  “What are you trying to say, Krek? That Nashira lied to me?”

  “I … I must go, friend Lan Martak.”

  “Krek, wait a minute. This is serious.” But the spider bobbed about, turned, and ducked through the doorway before Lan could stop him. The man got to his feet and started to follow. He ran into Ria before he got outside the building.

  “Lan,” she said in a husky, suggestive voice. “You come looking for me.”

  “No, I wanted Krek. He —”

  “This isn’t for me?” she whispered, her hand working down over his naked belly, then slipping even lower. Even though he began to physically respond, Lan’s mind remained apart. Apart and worried. Something was wrong.