This time the only attraction Lan felt was purely physical. Rugga used no spell on him.
“A few hours seems less important to me than it once did,” he said. She rose like a hunting panther and slipped down beside him. Her arms crushed him even as her lips worked feverishly against his. Lan felt a spell being cast, but this one he did not fight. It enhanced his physical prowess, made every nuance of their touch more vital, more exciting. He even learned the spell and returned it to Rugga, to the woman’s obvious delight.
It was almost sunset before they started on the trail for Wurnna.
“I feel it,” Lan Martak said softly. “The very air quivers with magic.”
“So it has been since Claybore found this planet. Iron Tongue refuses to do more than counter the spells, but he holds the grey-clad soldiers at bay.”
“How does he do that?”
Rugga stared at the man in disbelief.
“He is Iron Tongue. When he speaks, all others obey.” A sly smile crept over her thin, lightly rouged lips. “But you will learn more about this soon. Now be quiet. We approach the fringes of Claybore’s troop encampment.”
They walked in silence for ten minutes, signs of soldiers all around. Rugga held up a finger to caution Lan to even greater care, but he did not need the warning. He saw the camp stretching around the bend in the rocky canyon. Fully a thousand soldiers plugged the escape from Wurnna.
Rugga walked onward confidently, not even glancing toward the soldiers marching their posts. Lan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Whatever spell Rugga cast caused the sentries to turn and glance in the opposite direction whenever the pair passed nearby. Rounding the canyon elbow, Lan caught sight of Wurnna in the distance. The entire city glowed a dull blue.
“Yes,” said Rugga in hushed tones. “Claybore’s magic. The soldiers remain hidden but the magic is impervious to Iron Tongue’s persuasiveness. However, Claybore’s mages cannot get close enough to apply the spells fully.”
“A standoff?”
“One that Iron Tongue permits to exist.”
“Why? Why doesn’t he do something? Why send out hunting parties for food, when they could act as guerrilla bands? Why…”
“Iron Tongue’s motives are his own. He turns this siege into a reason for his continued power. If anything, his authority has grown since Claybore’s coming.”
“They work together?”
A harsh, curt laugh was his answer. Lan Martak considered the woman’s words. He knew nothing of Wurnna and Iron Tongue, but he did know something of human nature. Iron Tongue had built himself into supreme authority through the use of the tongue and now maintained his position because of the dangers posed by Claybore’s army. No one lightly relinquished such power; as long as the threat persisted, Iron Tongue’s position was secure. It was a dangerous balancing act, magic against magic, lives hanging in the balance, but one probably worth it when considered from the ruler’s standpoint.
“The challenge,” Rugga said. Lan felt intense heat beneath his feet. Rugga’s hands moved swiftly and she muttered the counterspell. The rocks cooled suddenly and she motioned him toward a solid stone wall. “Our entrance.”
Lan hesitated, then felt the stone changing. Once it had been solid. Now it turned into mist. He walked forward through the stone. Even as he passed, the wall stiffened into impervious rock once again.
“An effective spell, but one which must drive your architects to desperation.”
“True, they don’t get to use their decorative skills on the external walls, but they are given free rein inside Wurnna. Witness!”
Lan stopped and drank in the beauty of this sequestered city. Towers of feathery grace soared upward, impossibly fragile. Crystals of phosphorescent green and red and orange embedded in the streets glowed with enough intensity to permit travel at night. Everywhere he looked he saw delicate beauty.
“The architects outdo themselves,” he admitted. But Lan also noted the populace. Amidst such splendor none smiled. No one joked along the gorgeous thoroughfares. Children shuffled along, heads down, as if being punished for some crime. Adults moved with suspicious glances at all around.
“The people do not appreciate all Iron Tongue has done for them,” Rugga said, her words tinged with sarcasm.
“Is he so powerful?”
“Come. I shall take you to him and allow you to see for yourself.” Rugga smiled, as if at some small joke she did not choose to share. “You will understand. Oh, yes, dear Lan, you will soon understand.”
They walked swiftly, Lan setting the pace. He felt the chill of fear knifing through the people. The beauty became that of a tomb imprisoning spirit and the obvious wealth, a thing to be despised.
“Here. Iron Tongue.” Rugga pointed at a simple building a hundred paces distant. “I must leave you now. He will see you.”
“You’re not coming with me?” Lan felt a sudden surge of irrational panic.
“He doesn’t desire my presence now any more than he has in the past. I go to my quarters. After he finishes with you, come by. Anyone can direct you.” The long, slender fingers brushed his cheek. Again he felt the heat of her light touch. A smile curled her lips, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. Rugga silently turned and strode off, head high, shoulders back, feathers and bangles whipped backward by the force of her departure. Lan had the feeling she had just left him with his executioner.
Magic permeated the atmosphere, just as fog dampens the skin and sometimes condenses to run in tiny rivulets. Lan Martak walked slowly toward the simple arched doorway; as he walked, the pressure of varying spells worked against him. He cast some aside. Others he recognized and neutralized. He had a native ability to sense magic, but only recently had found power to cast his own spells.
He entered the building and found cool darkness. Light vanished totally in front of him and only a dim outline of the archway was cast. He closed his eyes and trusted other senses. Tiny rustlings of silk and silver came from his left. He moved in that direction. Tiny hints of perfume dilated his nostrils, even as someone coughed genteelly. Lan imagined the cough captured by a lacy handkerchief.
“Iron Tongue?” he asked, stopping when he felt a presence nearby. “I come to enlist your aid against Claybore.”
“Lan Martak,” came the deeply resonant voice. “I am happy to see you. You bring joy to this house. My city welcomes you as a potent enemy of my enemy.”
Lan opened his eyes. Lights had blossomed and shone down on the man seated upon an ornately carved wooden throne. Tucked into one of the man’s sleeves was a handkerchief identical to the one Lan had imagined—or had it been more than imagination in this magic-infested place?
“I fight Claybore across many worlds.”
“And with great success,” Iron Tongue broke in. Lan felt prickles of magic tugging at the fringes of his mind, elusive and distant, but potent nevertheless. “I choose to sit and allow him to batter himself against Wurnna’s defenses. He cannot enter. The mages of Wurnna are allied against him.”
The words carried no real meaning. The undercurrents soothed Lan, fed his ego, made him believe only Iron Tongue could aid him in his battle with Claybore. The man moved closer and watched as Iron Tongue stiffened defensively. Lips parted slightly allowed a ray of light to shine against a dark round tongue in his mouth.
Iron. And magically endowed.
Lan began weaving counterspells both against what he felt and what he suspected. Iron Tongue talked more earnestly; pressures mounted. The battle of wizards turned out to be at an almost subconscious level, but all too real for Lan.
One misstep and he fell under this man’s verbal domination.
“Rugga says you escaped from the valley of spiders. A feat of courage second to none in the annals of Wurnna.” Again meaningless words but carrying a shock-charge of magic intended to reduce Lan’s will and subjugate him.
“What is it you mine in their valley?” Lan asked. His question carried an attack of his own, weaving in and o
ut of Iron Tongue’s own offensive thrusts.
“The power stone, of course. We use it to give life to Wurnna. The streets glow from it. The towers soar because of it. The very defenses that hold Claybore at bay depend on it.”
Lan began hardening his own attack. He delighted in the play of magics and the feeling that he held his own with such a potent mage. It was this confidence that emboldened him to risk more daring spells, ones he had only considered and never given life to.
“The power stone is mined by slaves captured from Bron,” Iron Tongue went on. Sweat beaded his forehead now. “Workers, rather. Willing workers.”
“Slaves,” said Lan.
“Slaves.” The word came from between clenched lips. “I require the threat of the spiders to justify the slaves.” Iron Tongue stiffened visibly and sweat poured down his face. Lan’s spell tightened like a noose about him.
“You can sue both Bron and the spiders for peace. Forge an alliance against a common enemy.”
“NO!” roared Iron Tongue. The blast issuing from his mouth staggered Lan. Madness and magic mixed with rationality. For the briefest of instants, he lessened his spells. This was all Iron Tongue required to recover his composure. “You will make a worthy ally,” the ruler said, with some sincerity this time. Lan felt nothing of the verbal pressures that had accompanied the other statements.
“We are not enemies. I do not approve of your policies, but we are not foes. We both fight Claybore,”
“Rugga has gotten to you, I see,” said Iron Tongue, sighing. “She is most persuasive, in her own fashion.”
“There is nothing in—” Lan began. He cut the sentence off in the middle. The word-fight with Iron Tongue had been subtle, on deep levels. The sensation he experienced now was as subtle as a hammer-blow to the head. “Claybore attacks,” he whispered.
“To the battlements. I knew he planned an attack soon, but thought it would come after he took Bron.”
A flash of insight told Lan that Claybore had already been victorious over Jacy Noratumi’s city—and what of Inyx?
He raced after Wurnna’s ruler, found a circular staircase up, and took the steps three at a time. He emerged on the city’s defense wall, peering down the long canyon. Only a few of the grey-clad soldiers peeked out around the bend from their camp.
“Die!” bellowed Iron Tongue. And Lan watched the few curious souls perish at the command. But the magical pressure did not lessen—it mounted higher and higher every second.
“Claybore commands this attack,” he told Iron Tongue. “I know it.”
Iron Tongue paid him no attention. The ruler-mage turned and faced his city, crying, “To me! All mages to me!” The power of that command caused Lan to take three quick steps toward Iron Tongue. He backed off, awed at the power exerted. If that iron organ in the man’s mouth had once resided in Claybore’s mouth, Lan knew the power it had given. If Claybore regained it, he would be invincible. The simplest of words became an unstoppable command. Coupled with the potent spells Claybore knew, entire worlds could be toppled from their orbits, continents razed, kingdoms conquered.
“We meet again, dear Lan,” came soft words. Lan smiled as Rugga stood beside him. He noticed she kept her distance from Iron Tongue. Whatever existed between ruler and woman had to be stifled until the attack had been repulsed.
“Use the power stone,” commanded Iron Tongue. “Draw on the power to form a spear point aimed at Claybore’s throat!”
Lan almost fainted at the intensity of the surge rising from within Wurnna. The fifty-two assembled sorcerers coordinated their spells perfectly. Lan had little chance to examine this phenomenon—it had something to do with the tongue resting in their ruler’s mouth. He joined in, adding his power to the magical thrust at Claybore. While the spear was a magical construct, it took on physical reality. Lan studied and learned, even as he lent his own strength to hurling the weapon.
The thrust missed. A swift riposte was deflected by Iron Tongue’s powerful spell, but Lan felt the magics slithering away, not stopped, but merely redirected. In Wurnna hundreds died.
The air came alive with writhing creatures of the innermost imagination. They were dispelled. Returning went sharp jabs, subtle prods, anything Iron Tongue could launch against Claybore. But each parry and magical riposte carried a penalty. Lan felt Rugga weakening. He wondered at this and then saw fully half of Wurnna’s mages were dead or dying. Claybore took a frightful toll.
And Lan hadn’t even noticed!
Lan moved closer to Iron Tongue, keeping his arm around Rugga’s waist. She resisted weakly, then allowed him to drag her along. It soon became obvious she was unable to contribute significantly to the battle. She had been drained of all energy, even though tapping into the power stone surrounding them. With great reluctance, Lan allowed her to sink to her knees on the stone battlements.
The conflict intensified. How, he couldn’t say. Wurnna’s number diminished steadily, yet their lightning thrusts grew in power. Once, Iron Tongue looked at him, a quizzical expression on the man’s face. Lan ignored it. He became engrossed in finding new magics, producing different spells to hurl at Claybore.
Then came the words he dreaded to hear.
“Defense! Form a defensive barrier!”
Iron Tongue turned away from attack to simply protecting what remained of his Wurnna.
“You can’t,” Lan screamed. “Claybore will destroy us all.”
But he was alone. Iron Tongue and the handful remaining wove a solid wall of energy that crackled and shimmered. Nearby, they exerted more power and stopped Claybore’s attack. Lan reached down and gripped Rugga’s limp hand. She tried to squeeze his fingers, but the strength wasn’t in her.
Angered, Lan Martak bellowed, “You shall not win so easily, Claybore! Not this time!”
The anger boiled and surged and fed upon itself. Fleeting memory of what Iron Tongue had magically forged rose in his mind. Those were spells he had never seen before, but they were now his—and more than his. They took on a writhing, sensuous life of their own, horrible in its awareness, horrible in its stark hunger for human life.
Dragons of purest ebon space formed. Lan Martak unleashed his creatures to suck at Claybore’s troops. The canyon widened under their ravenous feeding, rock and earth and humans vanishing. Claybore exploded them, one by one. By then Lan had formed new spells, ones he did not comprehend.
All around him, space and time churned and boiled away. Eerie silence fell. Light faded and sensation died. All that remained was Lan Martak standing on a stony abutment and the fleshless skull with sunken eye sockets blazing forth ruby beams.
Lan and Claybore fought to the death in a magical realm beyond reality.
CHAPTER TEN
“You cannot win. You will die.” The words reverberated through Lan Martak’s skull to the point of pain. He blinked back tears of searing acid and stared straight into Claybore’s ruby-glowing eye holes. In past encounters, he had somehow managed to avert those deadly beams, forcing them away harmlessly. As curious as anything, he sought their deadly virulence and faced them fully.
And absorbed their death. And returned it tenfold to Claybore.
The dismembered mage twitched as the reflected beams struck his fleshless skull. The magics intensified. Spells became more complex, more intricate, more life-threatening. The land about the duel-locked pair quaked under the intensity of their battle. Lan Martak took all Claybore had to offer and gave it back with a power and an expertise he had never before possessed.
“The youngling has learned much, I see,” came Claybore’s words, words not formed by flesh-and-blood lips. They echoed through Lan’s entire body; he had learned. In some fashion those words were weapons. Instinctively, he robbed them of their edge.
“I have. Give up your quest, Claybore. Retire to a world. Stop enslaving those you encounter along the Road.”
“You have learned much magic but nothing of my nature. I will never stop until I am again whole. Terrill r
obbed me of my arms and legs, my flesh, my every organ.” The torso, supported on magically powered mechanical legs, twisted about, allowing Claybore to break eye contact with his adversary. “I am the aggrieved. I seek only that which was—is!—mine.”
Lan felt no need to debate the point. Claybore’s goal might have been acceptable. What intelligent being could exist as a mere skull in a box? Only his motives and methods were questionable. The young sorcerer began weaving new and more deadly spells, ones he barely understood, ones so potent none dare commit them to paper for the incautious to find. From somewhere beyond reality came the dancing mote that now gave information. Reading the surface of that twinkling speck allowed him to probe Claybore’s weaknesses.
And the dismembered mage had weaknesses. Lan’s surprise at learning this almost caused him to drop his guard. Claybore had seemed so powerful before, so dominant in all situations. Now, in a confrontation, his power seemed almost pathetically small.
Lan Martak reconsidered. It wasn’t Claybore’s power diminishing, it was his own prowess increasing. He had come a vast distance in ability from sensing magics and being able to work petty fire spells.
His ebon dragons sucked life out of the grey-clad soldiers, but did nothing against Claybore. Vultures with wings of fire formed above Wurnna, spat out their cries of rage, and launched themselves in fury at the renegade sorcerer. Only last-minute shiftings of his defenses allowed Claybore to disperse them and their beaks of the coldest steel.
“Materializations? Where did you find that conjuration?”
Lan had no answer.
“The mages in that pitiful little city cannot help you. You are alone, worm. Grovel before my might!”
The attack Claybore launched forced Lan to his knees. Needles of burning agony drove into his body from every direction. No nerve, no muscle escaped the mind-stunning misery. Focusing on the mote within allowed Lan to fight the pain scourging his body; he did not stop the anguish, but could ignore it. The surface of the luminous mote rippled and boiled, turning into itself and revealing texture and substance he’d never before noticed. And feeding its pseudo-life came power from the very bedrock of Wurnna.
[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue Page 11
