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

by Robert E. Vardeman

  *

  Bright shafts of sunlight broke the sky apart. Lan yawned and stretched, still cold and stiff from the night spent sleeping on the plain. He hadn’t dreamed, of Claybore, of Inyx, of anything. That worried him. He’d hoped for a clue from Claybore as to the key for gaining entry. He knew the sorcerer neared; his path up the mountain had been slower. But the mage held himself back, probably to deny Lan the slightest of hints concerning the spells guarding the shrine.

  Krek still gazed at the building, Abasi-Abi still gazed inward, Morto fixed still another meal, and Lan still felt the need for action.

  “Krek, I’m going to try a spell.”

  “What? What spell is this?”

  “I only know a few. Some healing spells and a pyromancy spell. In spite of what Claybore and Abasi-Abi say, I don’t know any others.”

  “You can’t control the others,” corrected the arachnid.

  “Very well. I have no conscious control. But over these, I do. I see no way of using the healing chants, so it has to be the fire-starting spell.”

  “How will you use it?”

  “It might disperse the reflections. A bright light in front of a mirror washes out less intense images.”

  “I have an idea of my own.”

  “Good for you. I’m going to get as close as I can, up to the point where my image appears, then try the fire spell.”

  “I believe we can walk up without any problem.”

  “What?” Lan finally heard what the spider was saying.

  “Just walk past the reflection.”

  “The years swinging in your web have finally addled your brains. You’ve seen what happened when I tried. No, I’m going to see if I can’t overwhelm the reflection and get through. Stay here.”

  “Your way won’t work.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Feeling challenged, Lan walked quickly across the slick glass plain. His reflection appeared at the same place it had before. He kept his sword sheathed; so did the reflection.

  Lan held up his left hand, fingers spread. Tiny blue sparks jumped from fingertip to fingertip. He concentrated on the spell, building it, making it more and more potent. His mind felt as if it slipped slightly, accepting the spell, yet rejecting it at the same time. Lan glanced up once to the image; it duplicated his actions. Fat blue sparks jumped from one finger to the other.

  He thought the sparks less potent, though. He returned to his own pyromancy.

  His control slipped as the heat mounted and the sparks leaped forth. Heavy garlic odor filled the air as the sizzling gouts jumped further and further from his hands. Lan felt as if his brain burned along with his hand. Never had he tried to consciously control so strong a force. He settled himself and felt renewed power possess him.

  He’d doubted before he was a mage of any ranking. Now he knew differently. The confrontations with Claybore, the journey through the whiteness between worlds, the continual use of his magics and the growing scope of them, all fed his confidence and strength.

  “Burn!” he cried. Flames exploded from his hand and blasted thirty feet into the air.

  For a moment he was so taken by the accomplishment he forgot that it had been intended only to overwhelm the reflection-warrior. Lan turned his gaze downward from the top of the fiery column to his image, expecting it to have vanished.

  It hadn’t.

  The reflection hurled a column of its own skyward. Lan chanced a step closer. The heat from both his and the image’s pyromancy almost melted him. He felt blisters popping out on his face. His lips chapped and began to char. His eyebrows and hair singed.

  Again, he retreated, vanquished by a reflection. He allowed the fire to die down into guttering min. Dropping to hands and knees, he felt like crying, but the intense heat had dried skin and eyes to the point where nothing came.

  “I failed. I failed!” he moaned over and over.

  “May I try, now that you’ve had your fun?”

  “Fun, damn you, Krek, how can you say this is fun?” Lan held up his fire-blackened hands.

  “You humans engage in totally pointless ventures. No amount of playing with fire strikes me as worthwhile.” The arachnid shuddered at the thought of fire running up and down his furry legs, then turned and walked off across the plain, his taloned claws making click-click-click sounds as he walked.

  Lan got to his feet. The pain he felt was minimal; he’d get some small measure of pleasure seeing the spider fail. The arachnid simply didn’t understand what he faced. When he came to his own reflection, that would be it. And Lan would laugh.

  Krek continued walking forward when his image appeared. The image grew in size as Krek got closer and closer. Lan found himself holding his breath. He let out a shriek of pure joy when he saw what happened.

  “You’re through, Krek, you walked right on through the image!”

  The spider stood at the doorway leading into the stone building.

  “Of course,” he said, as if he’d been certain of success from the start. Lan hesitated. Maybe the spider had been sure.

  “But how? What did you do? Some spell?”

  “I reasoned it through. The builder of this shrine wanted people kept out. But not all people. Why construct a shrine no one can enter? Therefore, there has to be some criterion for entry. The builder obviously does not like those bearing arms. I composed my thoughts and did not think warlike thoughts. I simply walked in.”

  “Let’s see if it really works.” Lan cast aside his sword and knife. He took a second to settle his turbulent mind and cast off intentions of fighting to gain entry. Emotions still high, he advanced.

  Fear, uncertainty, panic all assailed him when his image appeared. He had done battle with himself and lost.

  This time there would be no battle. He came to enter the shrine, not to fight to gain entry. His mind turned from warlike thoughts to more tranquil ones. He desired entry into the shrine. He meant no harm. His intentions were peaceful.

  He walked forward. The reflection advanced until they were nose to nose. Lan calmed himself still more and took still another step — past the image.

  “I made it, too!”

  “Naturally,” said the spider, sniffing haughtily. “I told you it would work.”

  Lan hurried forward, then stopped at the door. His magic sensing ability burned like a star in the night. He “felt” and “saw” the Kinetic Sphere within. “It’s here, Krek. We beat Claybore to it.”

  He straightened, pulled back his shoulders, and went in to reclaim the magical device that would solve all their problems.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He waited for lightning to strike him dead. Lan paused just inside the doorway, straining his every sense for some hint of what to expect. The odor from the inside of the stone building was at odds with those normally found. Instead of a closed, musty odor, he detected only a faint hint of pine, of things growing, of freshness and springtime and warmth. The air lightly blowing across his blistered face healed, both physically and psychically. It put him at ease, made him believe the world could be better, was better. The quiet of the large, dimly lit room also soothed him. He felt no surge of claustrophobia, nor of vertigo. This was a room imbued with serenity. It was as if the builder had intended this shrine to be one for relaxation, for a spot to get away from the deadly rush of the exterior world.

  Lan had never felt more at peace.

  He took another step into the room, this time sure of himself. The room would not lash out at him with lightning bolts. He’d passed the test out on the mirrored plain. He had proven himself worthy of being allowed to savor the tranquillity of this spot.

  The simple stone walls dripped water constantly, yet the temperature remained comfortable. The floor was covered with a soft, velvet-like material that made walking a joy, gave a spring to his step and a surge of energy for his legs. The only other entryway into the building was a doorway on the left adjacent wall, a door leading to the precipice looking down over the edge of the mountain an
d two miles of emptiness.

  “There,” said Krek, his voice low.

  The arachnid indicated the dais in the center of the room. Lan didn’t need any special ability to sense magic. Setting atop the altar was a small wooden box, one foot by two by one deep. Radiating outward from this box came a flood of energies, the powers needed to open worlds without recourse to the cenotaphs.

  Inside that box lay the Kinetic Sphere.

  “Yes,” said Lan, his heart feeling as if it would leap from his chest. He hurried across the room and, hands shaking, touched the lid hiding the contents of the box. Fingers stroking over rough wood, he finally lifted.

  Blazing like a pink jewel, the Kinetic Sphere lay in the middle of the box. A soft grey powder surrounded it, cradled it, held it in a loving embrace.

  “Now we can rescue Inyx.” Lan reached for the Sphere.

  “Powers of the earth, harken!” came the abrupt command. Lan turned and saw Ehznoll not five feet away. He’d not realized the man had followed him inside. He thought the pilgrim had remained outside, at the verge of Mount Tartanius, praying to his dirt.

  “He wants the Sphere, too,” said Krek.

  “Is that true, Ehznoll?”

  “It is the heart of the earth. Our creed is such that it must be returned to the center of the planet before all can be right again. The world festers and decays because it lacks its heart.” Ehznoll began a chant, a chant that made Lan uneasy.

  He’d heard those words before, the cadence, the soul-searing rhythm. Just before they’d shifted worlds, Claybore had uttered this exact chant and sent them all into the whiteness between worlds.

  Lan saw pink pulsating light against the ceiling, the walls, his hand. The Kinetic Sphere had come alive. No longer crystalline in appearance, it developed arteries and veins, throbbed with life, became a living organ. Ehznoll’s chant had transformed it into a large four-chambered human heart.

  Repulsed and fascinated at the same time, Lan found he couldn’t look away. The mitral valves opened and closed, pumping no blood, but functional just the same. Arteries twitched with pseudo-life. Veins attempted to return blood from a nonexistent body.

  Coldness clutched at the man as those thoughts raced through his mind. He gripped the wooden box as awful suspicion struck him.

  “Be silent, Ehznoll. Don’t say another word!” he screamed. The world spun about him and the chant continued. The Kinetic Sphere’s outlines altered; it quaked with anticipation. The grey dust cradling it shifted as the crystal heart vainly pumped. Lan leaned forward, his eyes screwed shut, his world crumbling again. The winds of magic blew constantly around him now. This room, once so peaceful, now assumed the aspect of deadly horror. He wanted to scream, to shout out his fear; no words came. His throat constricted with fear.

  Cold sweat popped out on his forehead, stung the blisters, and dripped from lips and chin. His fingers tightened on the wood box. All he could hear were Ehznoll’s chant and machinery clanking. He opened his eyes and saw Claybore.

  The sorcerer had entered the same doorway they had. The fleshless skull rested on the body of a mechanical like those Nashira had used as menials. The parody of a human sickened Lan Martak. His hand reached for his sword, only to find nothing. His weapons rested outside, away from this shrine.

  Claybore laughed and Lan quaked inside. The robot creature walked with irregular stride across the room. Krek appeared frozen. Ehznoll stayed on his knees before the altar. Only Lan could meet this threat. And his muscles refused to obey.

  “You like my mode of transportation?” asked Claybore. “I rather enjoyed its tirelessness, although it doesn’t travel very fast. It also has a tendency to break down on the steeper grades. Still, not having to feed it like I would a more human assistant had benefits.”

  “The craftsmen in Melitarsus made it for you?”

  “Unwillingly, but my soldiers can be very persuasive. Commander k’Adesina in particular. You’ve met her, I believe. A shame she cannot be here now; she patrols the base of the mountain. A charming woman, totally dedicated. But then, while there are only a few troops on this world, they are all dedicated. Yes, this artificial body has served me well.” Claybore turned, holding long, spindly metallic arms away from his body to better show off.

  Lan felt the sorcerer’s attention slip for an instant. His body reacted long before his mind realized he moved. He launched himself in a shallow dive that locked his arms around Claybore’s mechanical legs. The robot failed to move quickly enough to avoid crashing forward. Lan swarmed up it, then stopped, sick to his stomach.

  The skull bounced away and landed against the far wall. He fought a headless body.

  The slight hesitation was all the mechanical required to twist free. It scurried on hands and knees to the sorcerer’s skull and hoisted it back into place. Lan tried to rise; again came the leaden feeling in his limbs.

  “The builder of the shrine foolishly devoted his energies to peace,” said Claybore. “You fight against his spells, as well as mine.”

  “I can at least fight,” muttered Lan.

  “Yes, that surprises me greatly. For a bumpkin with no formal training, you have mastered many complex and ancient spells. I have thought long on how you avoid my death gaze, and have come up with no satisfactory solution. You instinctively protect yourself. I wonder if even you know how it is done.”

  “You won’t get the Kinetic Sphere, Claybore. We’ll stop you. We will!”

  “We?” mocked the sorcerer. The robot body strode around while hands reached up and repositioned the head. The bone-white skull rested at a slight angle now, giving a jaunty, inquisitive air to the being. “Who is this ‘we’ you refer to?”

  “Look, fool. A mountain arachnid. Krek. He is immobile, held firmly by my spells. His courage is a fragile thing. A few reminders of the time spent in Nashira’s arena and —”

  Krek emitted a shrill chittering noise that tore at Lan’s heart. The spider’s chocolate eyes widened and his body convulsed, folding in upon itself until it looked as if he might totally vanish.

  “See? Memories are such potent weapons. I had no idea the Suzerain of Melitarsus did those things to him. His mind, of course, conjures up far worse tortures than any outsider could produce. I simply release his imagination for … instruction.”

  Lan fought against the spell holding him pinned like a butterfly. He made slow progress back toward the wooden box on the altar containing the Kinetic Sphere. While he had no plan, could not expend the effort to make one, he realized the Sphere was the most potent weapon against — and for — Claybore.

  “Krek’s courage diminishes with every passing moment. If I allowed this mental fantasizing of danger to continue, he would die of fright. So, he cannot be part of this ‘we’ you refer to. Perhaps you mean this wretched creature. This pilgrim Ehznoll. Once a valued flyer on this world, but now a worthless parasite sucking up dirt and calling it religion.”

  The mechanical went to where Ehznoll still knelt and prayed, his bps working silently on new and more righteous chants. A metallic foot kicked out and sent the man sprawling. Ehznoll’s wrists remained crossed over his breast and his eyes never left the altar. He had achieved his paradise, the end of a long pilgrimage, and none robbed him of his moment of rapture.

  “He controls many spells you do not. You never realized this, did you, Lan Martak?” The skull turned and faced Lan. “Go on, struggle. Try to reach the altar. I enjoy watching your pitiful efforts.”

  Lan continued to fight. Claybore toyed with him, but the sorcerer did not kill him outright. That led Lan to believe, rightly or wrongly, that Claybore was still unable to muster sufficient strength. The spells holding Krek took a considerable amount of strength. Further energy went into immobilizing Ehznoll. And the more Lan fought, the weaker the spell holding him became. Claybore boasted of his ability, but the three of them together strained that ability to the limit.

  “In fact, allow me to give you a preview of what awaits you.” The robot
-creature turned so that the eye sockets of the skull pointed directly at Ehznoll. Twin beams of ruby light lashed forth, bathing the pilgrim in a wan, ruddy glow.

  Ehznoll screamed in agony.

  “You are not of the earth!” he shrieked. “You defile the heart of the earth. You are not the god I believed. You tricked me. You — aieee!” He clutched his sides and curled into a fetal position. Every line of his face, every contour of his body, reflected the pain inflicted by Claybore’s death gaze.

  Lan watched and felt compassion for Ehznoll. In that instant, Ehznoll lost much of his faith, had his tenets crumble around him. The death of a belief might be worse than physical death. Lan also felt the lessening of the immaterial bonds holding him. Claybore had gone beyond the limits of his ability when he provoked and tortured the pilgrim. He could hold, but the addition of the ruby gaze forced him to turn more attention to Ehznoll. While not entirely gone, Lan successfully fought the binding spell.

  He attacked.

  Again, his arms circled the mechanical’s legs. This time the tackle failed. The metallic creature turned and kicked. Lan tasted blood as his lip split against the sharp knee joint. He hung on and worked his way up the body, probing, hitting, butting, keeping Claybore’s robot off balance. Spindly arms crashed into his back. Legs sought to knee him in the groin. Twisting and turning in an attempt to fling him away, the mechanical succeeded only in losing its balance again. From the way it had tottered into the room, Lan guessed it had been damaged on the climb up the mountainside.

  Man, machine, and skull crashed down in a pile.

  Lan was as strong physically as the metallic creature; his reflexes were much faster. The man pinned his knees down firmly onto geared shoulders. He stared directly into the empty eye sockets of the skull still perched on that metal neck.