[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue

by Robert E. Vardeman - (ebook by Undead)

  “Noratumi, get the team a’pulling. I’ve bound a demon to the back wheels to give you a boost up the hills. Be careful going downhill. The creature is likely to keep twisting.” Lan glanced under the wagon and saw that the demon had intended doing just such mischief. Thwarted, it had to think up other misdeeds. Capturing a demon was relatively simple; binding it to exactly his will was another matter.

  As soon as Noratumi began the wagon on its trip back to Wurnna, Lan summoned another and still another demon. The last one appeared different. The first two had been purple with distinct red tints in the piglike eyes. Not so this one. Bright green, its eyes glowed a baleful amber that reminded Lan of the mechanicals he had encountered on other worlds. This creature was totally supernatural—but its nature troubled him. Not only did the beast not complain at its imprisonment, it willingly began working, doing twice the work of the other captive demons.

  “Inyx,” Lan said in a low voice, “be especially watchful of the last wagon. The demon works too hard.”

  “Without urging? That is something to worry over.” She remembered her own brief encounters with motive power demons. All had complained bitterly, begging for release from cruel masters, and all were more than anxious to be slackers at their work.

  Lan Martak trudged along with Inyx and Krek, scouting ahead and guarding the flanks as the caravan of wagons lumbered through the mountain passes. The spiders watched them leave their valley without so much as a wave of a hairy leg. Lan fancied that he recognized Webmaster Murrk high in the webs, but Krek informed him he was mistaken.

  All day they rattled and rolled along a rocky path scarcely the width of the wagons. Only at the end of the second day did Lan begin to think there might be a chance for success. The secret passageway Iron Tongue had promised turned out to be a tunnel drilled directly through the mountain to the west of Wurnna. Lan sent his energy mote ahead scouting for any sign of Claybore or his troopers. The route remained clear of both physical and magical impediments.

  The third wagon rattled into the narrow passage, following the other two. Lan and Inyx brought up the rear.

  “We’re so close. I have a premonition of disaster.”

  “Precognition?” the woman asked.

  “Nothing so firm. Just an uneasy feeling. The trip from the mine has been too easy.”

  “Too easy?” Inyx flared. “We fought for every inch. Even with your demons, getting those tons of power stone ore up the mountains was anything but easy.”

  “I meant that Claybore hasn’t bothered us. With Bron obliterated, he has troops to spare. He can comb these mountains. If he wants. Why hasn’t there even been a small magical probe?”

  “The battle might have drained him more than we thought.”

  Lan Martak didn’t believe that for an instant. With his newfound energies, he also gained insight into Claybore’s powers. The sorcerer did not share mortals’ weaknesses. He had different flaws; tiring easily was not one of them. Like Lan, he drew on powers transcending the ordinary.

  “The gap opens!” came the echoing cry from the far end of the tunnel. “We’re almost there. Wurnna is in sight!”

  “Now comes the hard part,” Lan said. Barely had the words left his mouth when the green demon on the last wagon let out a grunt of supreme exertion.

  “Lan?” Inyx wasn’t sure what was happening. The mage knew instantly and began strengthening his binding spells. But the damage had been done. The demon had exerted its full power to send its wagon rocketing ahead. The heavy ore wagon ran over its lead horses, crushing them with wild whinnies of pain, then picked up speed on a slight downhill stretch and smashed full-bore into the second wagon.

  The tunnel filled with power stone and choking clouds of dust. All within the tunnel would suffocate before reaching the safety of Wurnna.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “A full frontal assault. That will do it,” the woman said with finality. Alberto Silvain looked at his companion and started to speak, then thought better of it. Kiska k’Adesina had changed during the course of the siege of Wurnna. The half-crazed glare in her eyes had intensified to become that of a person totally insane. Silvain had tried to reason with her on finer points of military tactics, to no avail. She had Martak and his spider trapped within the city—all she cared about was her revenge.

  “That will not do it,” came Claybore’s emotionless voice. The officers turned to see mechanical legs scissoring back and forth to bring the torso and head into their map room. The eye sockets in the fleshless skull glowed a cherry red. Silvain straightened, anticipating a sudden lance of death. None came.

  He relaxed slightly. This battle did not go as he anticipated and he did not want Claybore blaming him. To shift the accusations of culpability he needed a lever. His opportunity might come soon with Kiska less and less able to reason rationally.

  “Master, your will is all,” cried a now docile k’Adesina. The wildness remained in her eyes but it was tempered with… what? Silvain tried to understand what went on in the woman’s mind. That brain was a capable one. He had firsthand evidence of it in her planning for the conquest of Bron, but other things fluttered and distracted her, things not reasonable or even sensible.

  “Of course it is,” snapped the skull, jaws clacking in a mockery of human speech. “I have just annihilated one of their parties as they tried to sneak into Wurnna.” The words came slower, more carefully chosen. Silvain’s attention perked up. The dismembered sorcerer did not tell all. Who had been destroyed? Martak? The spider? Would Claybore be openly boastful if he had eliminated those two major impediments to his regaining his body?

  Silvain decided that, had Claybore been victorious over the young mage, he would never mention it in front of Kiska k’Adesina. He knew of her psychopathic need for personally killing the man and monster who had slain her husband. To blunt such a valuable instrument as k’Adesina was out of the question.

  Alberto Silvain relaxed even more. If this truly meant Martak and Krek were dead, that made the defeat of Wurnna all the more certain. Martak had been far too lucky in their brief encounters; whom the gods favored with such luck, they tended to be enamored of. Silvain played it as safe as possible in dealings of this magnitude. Crossing the gods was as unthinkable as spitting on the skull grotesquely propped up on the armless and legless torso.

  “No frontal assault,” declared Claybore. “Now. Give me the plan that will succeed.”

  Silvain started to speak, to cover for his companion, but the woman raced into a full battle plan that had to be contrived on the spot. And for all its hurried and incomplete qualities, Silvain again marveled at k’Adesina’s genius.

  “The flanks are weak. We gain the heights of the mountains and fire down upon them. A few troops will be enough. The canyon leading to the front gates of Wurnna is protected by Iron Tongue’s magics. Down that corridor must go an attack based on sorcery.”

  “Yes, I quite agree,” said Claybore. “Since that devil Martak used the ebon dragons and fire vultures, I have been reconsidering my own role.”

  “Can you conjure creatures to rival those?”

  “Of course I can,” Claybore said irritably. The depths of those limitless eye sockets began to pulsate with ruby light. “There are spells to counter such minor illusions. I plan something more. Yes, something vastly more imaginative and deadly.”

  “Patriccan and his minions can add their feeble powers to yours, master,” said Kiska. “Every spell, no matter how tiny, can aid us in this great endeavor.”

  Silvain felt a momentary giddiness. How alike k’Adesina and Claybore were. Both improvised on the spot and both were geniuses, twisted and lacking totally in conscience. His position in such company became more precarious by the instant, but he had no other choice but to remain to the end. His world devastated by Claybore’s power, he had to cast his lot with the sorcerer or die. It had been rewarding enough, as long as he didn’t think about the death and destruction he ordered. In a way, it was only retributio
n.

  His world had been killed. Why not kill others?

  “Silvain,” came Claybore’s cold words. “What do you contribute to this scheme?”

  “Master, you have summed up the finer points so well, only small details remain to be worked out.”

  “Such as?”

  “The troops commanding the mountain slopes and looking down into Wurnna must be equipped with some weapon capable of diverting attention. Something magical, perhaps? On my last world, we used fire elementals to power aerial machines. When they fought, they opened ducts, allowing the elemental’s flame to flare forth. Such a minor application might even bring about Wurnna’s capitulation.”

  “You want the troops to command fire elementals?”

  “Command? No, master, but something as potent will be required if they are to be taken seriously.” Silvain sensed the sorcerer’s instant antagonism toward such magics being used by common troops—or even by Kiska’s captive mage, Patriccan.

  “Equip those troops with catapults. I will prepare pots of stone burning fire. Will that occupy those in the city?”

  “Master, you will be invincible.”

  Silvain looked at Kiska and made a tiny motion with his head, showing displeasure with her ready acceptance. He cleared his throat, working to phrase his thoughts properly, so as not to offend Claybore.

  “Master, such would work, but the effort required getting such assault engines up the cliffs might take weeks. May I suggest that you authorize Patriccan to use magics to shove boulders off the mountaintops? This requires little effort after gaining the heights.”

  “I want Iron Tongue. I want what rests in his mouth. It is mine! All else is… is mere game. Get that tongue and your reward shall be immense. Fail and you shall rue the day. Do what is necessary.”

  “We will not fail!” cried Kiska k’Adesina.

  “The magics you have authorized will overwhelm the remnants of Wurnna, Master.” Silvain bowed low as the mechanical carried Claybore from the room. On the floor where the mech had stood pooled oil from a leaking joint.

  Silvain stared at the empty doorway for some time, then turned back to the charts, pointing out vantage points for k’Adesina’s approval. While part of his mind worked on the details of conquest, a larger portion worried over the irrational feeling that this battle would be his last.

  “The troops are ready. They will not fail us.” Kiska k’Adesina proudly surveyed the assembled rows of soldiers. Silvain eyed them with less than optimistic eyes. The troops appeared beaten, having spent too long in the field, been under fire too often. The dragons that had roared and devoured both officer and enlisted alike sapped courage sorely needed for a real offensive against Wurnna. Convincing even the field officers that victory would be theirs became increasingly difficult. The battle would have to be joined soon or the entire force would fall apart under its own fear.

  “You have done well,” Silvain lied. He idly wondered why he bothered with these games. There was little conviction in aiding Claybore in his goal. All Alberto Silvain could say was that Claybore still appeared the most likely to be victorious—and Silvain always bet on the side of the strong.

  “Thank you,” Kiska said, her eyes blazing with demonic light. She clutched at his sleeve and pulled him toward her. The needs she conveyed so primitively almost overwhelmed the man. A musky smell hinted at the woman’s level of desire. Silvain wondered if this came from imminent battle or something else.

  He smiled, his lips curling upward slightly. It was the power k’Adesina worshipped, the need for revenge driving her to it. But which was means and which was ends? They mingled in a heady brew for the mousy-haired woman.

  “Come, let our officers attend to the final preparations. We must confer. In my quarters.” Silvain pitched his voice low. Before battle it always relaxed him to find a willing woman. With Kiska k’Adesina, he had one more than willing. She was a panther springing on her prey.

  Barely had he entered the canvas flap to his tent when she swarmed over him, bearing him down, smothering him with her barbaric affections. Revulsion flared and died in a split second. Silvain needed this contact as badly as the woman. What matter that she was as crazy as a wobblebug? Top command in Claybore’s force offered few chances for pleasure.

  Silvain took his now, k’Adesina giving as she took.

  Passion locked them for a long time as their crotches met and ground together, their bodies strained and sweated, their pulses pounded like drums in their foreheads. Their desire abated slightly, then built to a fever pitch once more. Neither held back. Raw, naked lust boiled forth as they completed their coupling.

  “We will find Martak and I shall have his ears first. Then I will pluck out his eyes. No, no, those I save. Next I’ll flay him alive. Then out come his eyes.” The woman cackled, over the edge of insanity once more.

  Silvain pushed her away, sitting up and searching for his grey uniform. He wished she hadn’t spoken those words so closely on the climax to their sexual acrobatics. His agile mind now worked on what had been going through her head as they made love. He didn’t like the possible routes her fantasies might have taken as he drove himself deep within her yielding flesh.

  “Claybore will require our presence for last-minute details,” he said, his needs sated. Calmer now than he had been in some time, inner pressures resolved, Alberto Silvain became again the perfect soldier with no doubts or hesitation about what he must do in the hours to come.

  “Claybore. Yes, yes, you are right.” The naked woman leaped out of the rude bed and began drawing on her uniform. In other circumstances Silvain might have found the sight of the creamy flesh erotically enticing. Now he felt—nothing. It was as if all emotion had been drained from his body and mind. Step springy and soul dead, he sought out his master.

  Claybore twitched slightly. The mechanical carrying his torso and skull obediently bent forward at the hips in a completely inhuman display of flexibility. A wire-driven arm lifted and cogwheels ground together in a noisy clatter to move charts off a large wooden table. With care more appropriate for carrying a babe in arms, the metal fingers closed on a tiny clay tablet and moved it to the edge of the table.

  “Careful, fool,” snapped Claybore. The mechanical continued to move the tablet to the spot ordered by the master sorcerer. “There. There is where I desire it.” The metallic fingers opened and left the tablet propped up slightly so that the empty eye holes in the skull might peer down on the flat clay surface.

  Light churned and blazed in the pits of those eye sockets. Red, blue, then green light erupted to bathe the inanimate clay slate. For long minutes nothing happened, then the slate took on an eerie glow that radiated from deep within. It shook slightly with a vibrant power that manifested itself as deep humming sounds.

  A picture formed on the featureless tablet.

  “Ah, there it is. The product of my dealings with the demon. Lan Martak, you fool, to think you could oppose me. All you have done is delay me, irritate me, make me angry!” The last words rose in a crescendo of hatred. The full spectrum of the rainbow blazed in the mage’s eye sockets. Claybore calmed himself to study the scene.

  The tunnel opened near the walls of Wurnna. It was here that Martak had thought it possible to sneak back into the walled city with three loads of the power stone ore. Claybore chuckled to himself. Martak was such a fool. He had never learned that nothing went unobserved in the realm of magic. Every spell, no matter how minor, caused “ripples” to form on the fabric of the universe. Those sensitive enough to the “ripples” might trace them back to their source.

  Claybore had known from the start about the mission to the valley of spiders, of Noratumi’s miners and the three demons summoned to help power the heavy ore carts up the steep mountain roads. He had known all and sent one of his allies. The green demon had done well. While the dust from the power stone cloaked even this magical vision, Claybore saw the havoc wrought.

  Men and women lay crushed and ripped apart
like so many marionettes with their strings clipped. The two lead wagons had wrecked, and he was sure that the third one plugged the tunnel. In that tunnel would be the dead bodies of Martak and Inyx and the meddling spider, suffocated from the choking dust.

  “A fitting end. They thought to defeat me with that power stone. Instead, I turned it against them!” The sorcerer gloated for only a few more seconds. He had other uses for his all-seeing eye.

  The scene shifted rapidly to a vantage high above his own camp. Spiraling downward with gut-twisting speed, he focused just inside the roof of Silvain’s tent. There he witnessed his two top commanders passionately locked in the rictus of sex. If he had the power to so move his skull, the mage would have nodded. This worked better and better for him. Let their human frailties bind them more closely to one another—and to him.

  Silvain’s role would become clearer as the day wore on. Let him grab what frail pleasures he could.

  He had hesitated in telling k’Adesina of Martak’s death. Hatred drove her, made her a better officer, gave her the reckless abandon in the field he would require to regain his tongue from that usurper in Wurnna. She held sway over Patriccan, and that sorcerer would be needed for the final assault. Claybore needed k’Adesina’s allegiance. He would not inform her of Martak’s demise.

  While Claybore thought that Alberto Silvain guessed that Lan Martak and the others had perished, to him it meant little. Promise him nothing more than hydraulic release of his passion and he would remain quiet.

  For Claybore it was all so simple. Use one against the other. Toy with their emotions and bind them the closer.

  “Now,” he said aloud, the word ringing through the emptiness, “now is the time. We attack. And soon I will be able to speak—and to utter all the power spells now denied me!”

  The slate hardened, the picture vanished. As the mechanical bearing Claybore’s body turned to leave, the magically spent tablet crumbled into grey ash.