[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue

by Robert E. Vardeman - (ebook by Undead)

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  “Look at the death they caused. The grey-clads will never return. Not ever.” Iron Tongue stood and gloated. The others uneasily stared out at the canyon stretching away from the city. While Claybore’s physical army may have been destroyed by the spiders, who now had returned to their valley, his magical senses were untouched. What worried Lan and the others the most was the lack of aggression shown by the dismembered mage.

  “He plots something more diabolical than ever before,” said Rugga. “I feel the air thickening about us.”

  Lan sensed this also, but discounted it as nervous foreboding. Whatever magics Claybore unleashed on them wouldn’t carry advanced warning.

  “Are you all right?” asked Inyx, putting her hands on his shoulders and pressing her body to his back. She rested her cheek on his broad shoulder. “Ever since you came back from the valley of spiders you’ve been distant.”

  “I conjured an elemental,” he said, knowing it meant little to her. “That’s one of the most potent of all sorceries and I did it, almost without thinking. I dipped down and drew power from within—and from the power stone—and countered Claybore’s water elemental with a fire elemental.”

  “Heavy magic,” she said, obviously unaware of the tinkering with nature such a conjuration required.

  “I did it so easily. Such power—and I don’t want it!” He held his hands before him and simply stared at them. These weren’t the hands he remembered. The work-thickenings were gone. These hands had turned soft and seemed incapable of properly wielding a sword, yet Lan Martak saw more on, within, around his fingers and palms. A radiance welled up from inside, pale and golden and more potent than even the strongest of sinews. He had lost a minor physical talent while gaining a major magical and psychic one.

  “The Fates have chosen you to carry the fight to Claybore, to stop him,” Inyx said softly. “Destiny, luck, call it what you will. You are the only one capable of doing it.”

  “But I’m not a mage,” he protested.

  “You weren’t,” she corrected. “You are now. Your talents were hidden, but the many transitions between worlds have brought forth your true power.”

  “Am I still human?” he asked in a voice barely loud enough to hear. “Is any sorcerer human?”

  Inyx answered by gently turning him around and kissing him.

  “You’re human,” she pronounced. “And I love you.”

  He returned the kiss and held her, feeling the world could stop now and he’d be happy for all eternity. But the mood shattered when he sensed a stirring of magic.

  “Claybore!” he cried. Rugga and the few remaining mages were already on their feet, staring out into the emptiness, wondering what devilment Claybore produced.

  They didn’t wait long to find out.

  A warrior dressed in flame strode out. No human this, he towered a hundred feet above the walls of Wurnna. Mighty hands clutched a sword that no score of men might lift. Muscles rippling and sending out dancing tongues of fire, the giant swung the sword.

  Lan and the others tried to ward off the blow. The sword grated and screeched and cut through stone, sending vast clouds of dust into the air. Wherever the sword touched stone, it turned molten and burned with insane intensity. None of Wurnna approached closer than a bowshot; none could endure the searing flame.

  The giant bellowed out his hatred for all within the city and took a mighty overhead swing. The blade sundered the wall with a deafening crash.

  “Lan,” gasped Rugga, the sweat of fear popping out on her forehead and gathering the dust, “how do we stop it? No weakness is to be found. Our spells have no effect.”

  The young mage studied, probed, lightly tested Claybore’s monster for some clue. In its way this was a simpler magical construct than an elemental; it was also more difficult to counter. Lan knew an elemental would be a useless conjuration. Claybore wanted him to waste his efforts in ways producing little effect.

  Lan clapped his hands and sent his dancing mote of light straight down into the ground at the giant’s feet. The mote spun in ever-widening circles, boring, chewing up the very earth. Lan’s mind probed downward into the ground, summoning darkness to counter the flame. The pit widened and the burning giant was forced to retreat out of sword range of the city.

  “Lan,” said Inyx, tugging at his sleeve. “The giant. There’s something about him that’s familiar.”

  “I know. It’s Alberto Silvain.”

  Inyx recoiled in shock, thinking Lan’s exertions had somehow caused his mind to snap. Then she looked more carefully at the giant’s features. Bloated, vastly out of proportion, hidden by curtains of fire, but still she saw the resemblance.

  “It is Silvain,” she said, awe tingeing her voice. “But how does he do it?”

  Lan ignored her now, concentrating on the pit. He worked it so that it stretched from one side of the canyon to the other, preventing the giant from crossing to again menace the city. But this was only a temporary measure; both he and Claybore knew it. The first round finished a draw.

  “Prepare to launch a bolt of pure energy directly at the giant’s chest,” he ordered Rugga and the pathetic few huddling nearby. Sorcerers tended to be arrogant. The spirit of the Wurnna mages had been broken long ago. All he hoped for was some small additional backing. The brunt of this battle was his and his alone.

  “Iron Tongue,” whispered Inyx, “tell the giant to stand still. Don’t let him move. You did it before. With the grey soldiers. Do it again.” She was heartened to see the demented ruler puff up and look out onto the battlefield. His understanding of reality had fled, but some tasks still pleasured him.

  “Die!” cried the mage. The word exploded from his mouth, backed by the full power of the tongue. Lan stumbled and had to support himself under the onslaught of that command. Iron Tongue might be insane, but the power of his tongue remained.

  The effect on the giant convinced Lan that the battle might be winnable. He hadn’t counted on the potent effects of the tongue Claybore so ardently sought to recover. The giant that was Alberto Silvain stumbled and lurched as if drunk on some heady wine. While still countering the force of Iron Tongue’s command, the giant was vulnerable.

  Lan Martak took full advantage to send the deadly bolt of energy the others had forged directly into Silvain’s chest. The bolt appeared to be the largest lightning strike seen by humanity; to Lan it was a spear with a razor-sharp point driving straight for Silvain’s heart. Not content with this, Lan diverted a bit of his power to further widen the vast cavity in the ground.

  When the spear struck dead-center in his chest, Silvain let out a roar rivaling an erupting volcano. And, as in a volcano, torrents of hot lava exploded outward from him. This lava was the giant’s lifeblood. Larger-than-life hands clutching vainly at the energy bolt piercing his flesh, Silvain sank to his knees.

  “Martak,” boomed the single name from his lips. It combined admiration, accusation, and condemnation all in that instant.

  Lan widened the hole until the dirt began crumbling under Silvain’s knees. The giant fought to stay upright on his knees, to avoid falling into the limitless pit in front of him.

  Iron Tongue let go another command to die that caused the flames leaping and cavorting along Silvain’s limbs to extinguish like candles in a hurricane.

  “Martak,” Silvain repeated, then convulsively heaved the immense sword at Wurnna’s battlements. Lan took the opportunity to enlarge the bottomless hole a few inches further. The flaming giant fell forward into it, twisting and struggling, then grew smaller and smaller, cooler and cooler, then vanished from sight.

  Lan let out a gasp of relief that was replaced by stark terror when he blinked and saw the thrown sword inexorably moving toward him. The weapon moved as if dipped in honey, but it moved. Spells bounced off it. The dancing light mote couldn’t touch it. Nothing deflected it.

  “Out of the way,” he commanded, knowing this might be Wurnna’s doom. Claybore had counted on him
attacking the wrong weapon. He had sacrificed Silvain in order to deliver this weapon. Silvain was a pawn now discarded; the sword carried magics Lan couldn’t even guess at.

  “I shall stop it,” declared Iron Tongue. The ruler stood proudly on the battlement, chest bared as if daring Claybore to make the attempt. The sword moved smoothly, slowly, an unstoppable evil force.

  Iron Tongue sucked in a lungful of air, then wove the command for the sword to vanish. It never wavered in its painstakingly slow journey toward Iron Tongue and Wurnna.

  “Stop; I say. I command you. I am Iron Tongue. You can’t ignore my command. Stop, stop!”

  The huge sword point pierced Iron Tongue’s chest. Like a branding iron through snow it came on, his flesh not even retarding the magical weapon’s progress. Iron Tongue twitched and weakly fought, a new command on his lips. Mouth falling open in death, the sorcerer’s tongue obscenely dangled out.

  “It’s aimed for me,” Lan said, pushing Inyx away. “Go join Jacy and the others. I don’t want you close by.”

  “No, Lan, we’re in this together.”

  He didn’t argue. With a wave of his hand he conjured a shock wave that lifted her from her feet and tossed her off the battlements. She landed below in a pile of rubble. He couldn’t even take the time to see if the fall had injured her. Even if it had, the fall was less likely to kill than the magical device he now faced.

  The sword passed entirely through Iron Tongue, finally allowing the dead mage to slump to the stone walkway. As if guided by an unseen hand, the point turned and directed itself for Lan’s midsection. Spell after spell he tried, all fruitlessly. His mind worked at top speed, trying to understand what Claybore had done. Then he had it. The spells fell into their proper place; his hands moved in the proper orbits; the chants sounded right.

  The sword struck.

  Lan screamed, his concentration gone as excruciating pain lashed his senses. He jerked away as it pinked just under his eye and felt the sword dig deeper into his flesh, his bone. He futilely grabbed at the sword blade with his hands, knowing even as he did so that no physical force would move the magical from its course. The sword point dug deeper into cheek, burrowing into the jawbone, driving for the back of his head where the point might sever the spinal column.

  Lan couldn’t stop the deadly advance; the joined forces of the remaining mages of Wurnna did. Rugga built on what Lan had started, forging a parrying force that turned the blade at the last possible instant.

  “Destroy it!” shrieked Rugga. “Destroy Claybore’s evil sword!”

  Her anger and hatred flowered and added supplemental power to the spell she had guided. While weakened, the sorcerers of Wurnna found enough strength to shatter the blade. As it had sailed, so did it explode. Ruptured pieces turned slow cartwheels, barely moving, still deadly. Only when the last had embedded harmlessly in stone or deep in the earth did Rugga and Inyx rush forward to tend to Lan.

  “Oh, no, by all the Fates, no,” Inyx said over and over. She stood in shock at the sight. The lower right portion of Lan’s jaw had been sheared away; his mouth was a bloody ruin. Thick spurts of his life juices blossomed and washed down his neck and chest.

  “Claybore’s revenge must be sweet,” said Rugga, the bitterness there for all to hear. “He’s cut out the tongue of his most powerful adversary. Lan Martak will never again utter a spell.”

  Inyx bent to staunch the bleeding. If Lan would never speak again, at least she could save his life. His eyelids fluttered up and glassy eyes softened at the sight of her, then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Do something,” pleaded Inyx. “He’s dying.” The woman’s crude and usually effective first aid hadn’t staunched the geysering flow of blood from Lan’s jaw, where arteries had been clipped by the sword. He no longer made bubbling noises of pain. His body refused to believe such agony was possible and rejected any further misery.

  But Inyx felt it fully for him. He’d been a handsome man, young, vital, quick of wit and quicker with his friendship and love. Now he lay with the lower right half of his jaw cut away. His tongue had vanished along with bone and teeth and palate, making only deep-throated sounds possible now. Lan Martak had lapsed into a state closer to coma than consciousness; he didn’t need to talk.

  “He is dying,” came the mocking words. “I can save him. Give me the tongue and I will save your lover.” The image of Claybore’s skull and torso floated a few feet away. Inyx knew this was only illusion, that the sorcerer remained safely hidden away where none might physically reach him.

  The offer tempted her sorely. Lan’s life for the worthless tongue in a dead mage’s mouth. Then she heard soft rustlings of silk. She turned and saw Krek mounting the perpendicular stone wall as if it had stairs cut into it. The soft sounds came from the fur on his legs brushing as he walked.

  “Friend Inyx,” the spider said simply. He had taken in all that had occurred with one swift glance. “I feel as you do for our fallen friend, but what was his mission?”

  “To stop Claybore,” she said, her voice choked. Then, firmer with resolve, she glared at Claybore’s fleshless skull and defiantly said, “Burn in all the Lower Places. You won’t get the tongue!”

  “He is dying. I can save him.”

  “He dies thwarting you. What more can any warrior ask? He died honorably, nobly, for a cause that means something.”

  “It means nothing!” blared the skull. “Nothing, do you hear!”

  A wicked smile crossed Inyx’s lips.

  “You won’t get the tongue. He stopped you. Dar-elLan-Martak stopped Silvain and now he’s stopped you.”

  Claybore’s response chilled her. She’d hoped for a moment of rage from the sorcerer. It didn’t come. He laughed without humor.

  “The tongue will be mine. You can’t stop me now. Those few pitiful mages remaining cannot conjure a fraction as well as I do. Silvain died for me. Do you think there are others any less willing? Are you ready to face still another giant?”

  “While it might be true that your conjuration powers exceed those shown by the Wurnna sorcerers,” said Krek, “it is within their power to destroy the tongue before you can recover it. You shall lose its use, even if you do conquer this entire world. Of what use is such a Pyrrhic victory?”

  Again Claybore surprised them with his reaction.

  He laughed louder, harder than ever before.

  “The tongue is important, but I have won. Oh, yes, worms, I have won. He is dead.” Ruby beams flashed from empty sockets to lightly brush across Lan’s body. The man twitched but could not cry out in pain. “More important, my agents on other worlds have been active. While you tried your pitiful efforts against me on this world, they have been successful elsewhere. Soon enough, arms and legs will be mine.”

  “You won’t have a tongue or a face!” taunted Inyx, but deep inside she felt sickness mounting. Their triumphs seemed pathetic in the face of Claybore’s victories. Destroying the flesh from his skull and holding the tongue did not prevent him from becoming more powerful through the regaining of other bodily parts. Even if he lied, Lan’s life slowly slipped away.

  “I will come for the tongue.” The image vanished.

  For long minutes none moved, then Rugga motioned for the other mages to join her.

  “He must be healed,” she said, indicating Lan’s limp form. “Bringing the dead back to life is beyond our power, in spite of what those of Bron have claimed for so long, but saving a life might not be.”

  The mages chanted, hummed, made magical signs in the air that burned with fiery intensity and left the odor of brimstone, but Lan got no better. While Inyx thought the slow consumption by death had been halted, they did him no favors preserving him at this level. He had been a vital man, a vibrant one full of life. To leave him like this was a travesty. Better she drive a dagger through his noble heart.

  “Stay your hand, friend Inyx,” said the spider. “There is one course of action you have not
taken.”

  “What? What is it?” she demanded, eyes wide and imploring.

  “I do not know if it will work, but it seems most logical. You see, there is a symmetry to the universe that we arachnids often ponder. Perhaps it comes from our love of geometrically symmetrical webs. We spin and weave and—”

  “Krek!”

  “Oh, yes. I shall try it and see.” The spider lumbered over to Iron Tongue’s body and used his front legs to roll the corpse onto its back. The dead mage’s head lolled grotesquely to one side, the tongue so eagerly sought by Claybore thrusting from between bloated lips. Krek used his front talons to separate the lips and open the mouth. Bending down until the serrated tips of his mandibles were deep inside, he snipped.

  The spider jumped back, a shrill screech piercing the air. The contact with the magical tongue had caused fat blue sparks to erupt forth, burning both dead lips and living spider. But Krek held the organ between his powerful mandibles. Spinning in place, he pushed through the mages led by Rugga and placed the tongue into the sundered oral cavity of his friend.

  “It is yours by right,” Krek said softly. “Yours is the destiny we must all follow and aid. Use the magic to heal yourself. Do it, friend Lan Martak. We need you!”

  A tear formed at the corner of his saucer-sized eye. Inyx gently wiped it away as she hugged one of his thick middle legs and watched.

  For minutes nothing happened; then Rugga jerked back, a look of surprise on her face.

  “Our magics are blocked. We can no longer aid him. He… he is healing himself.”

  Inyx dared to hope then. More minutes passed and a startling transformation began. What had been bone once in Lan’s face became bone again. Whitely exposed, it gleamed in the pale light of the setting sun. Then it was no longer visible. Skin flowed and covered it, recreating Lan’s normal visage. But the young mage lay as still as death.

  “Help him now,” urged Inyx. “Give him your strength.”