But Inyx thought not of Ducasien. Her mind rattled with memories of Lan Martak.
“They have gathered just for us,” gloated Ducasien. “One swift thrust and they are ours. The power of the grey-clads on this world will be broken.”
Inyx wasn’t so sure. She looked down at the fort. They had successfully raided it before. Nowless’s poison had killed more than half the soldiers, but this victory was short-lived. The commander had called in troops from distant posts to recoup the lost position here.
“Nowless has everything in readiness,” said Ducasien. He smiled wickedly as he pointed out the traps and said, “The boulders will smash through the side of the fort and leave them vulnerable to the archers and slingers.”
“There’s no question that the boulders will do the trick?” asked Inyx. She spoke only to keep her mind off her true worries. Ducasien had had little contact with Claybore’s sorcerers and the power of magic. The woman had no desire to face the kinds of spells that might be thrown against their forces.
“The explosive Nowless uses in the pebble-slingers has been mined and planted in appropriate amounts. Fear naught. All will go well.” Ducasien put his arm around her in an attempt to be comforting. Inyx refused to allow herself to relax.
“They have gathered,” she said. A last company of grey-clads rode into the fort. “Their meeting begins.”
“Their death begins now,” said Ducasien. He lifted his arm and gave Nowless the signal. Bass rumblings shattered the still air and caused huge clouds of white smoke and dust to rise. Through the veiling curtain came ponderous boulders, rolling slowly at first, then with greater speed. Nowless had aimed well. Two boulders missed the fort entirely; six more crashed into the wood wall and broke it to splinters.
The legionnaires in the fort boiled forth, swords in hand. Ducasien gave another signal. Clouds of arrows arched up and landed among the soldiers, killing many. A second signal. The slings whirred and hissed and sent forth their tiny pellets of explosive. Against the massive wooden fort walls, these pellets were useless; against humans they took a deadly toll.
“They’ve taken cover,” said Inyx. “We must go down and engage them if we are to wipe them out entirely.”
“Another round of boulders,” said Ducasien. Explosions, another pair of huge rocks crushing their way through the interior of the fort, disarray among the grey-clads within.
Inyx gave the command for their band to charge down the hill and engage the soldiers. All the distance down the hill she saw arrows arcing overhead to keep the greys in confusion. But Inyx still worried, even though their plan had worked perfectly to this point.
The mage. Where was he?
Inyx saw Patriccan just as she and fifty sword-waving guerrillas reached the breached wall of the fort. The sorcerer walked out, hands hidden in thick folds of his long brown robe. A slight smile danced on his lips. He felt the battle had been won.
“I have expected you,” he said. His voice carried strangely over the distance. Inyx heard him as clearly as if he whispered in her ear.
“Surrender!” Inyx yelled to the mage. “Your time on this world is past.”
“Oh?”
A flight of arrows buried itself in the ground around the mage. He deflected the vicious broadheads from his own body but apparently cared little for saving the soldiers. Another dozen of them died near him. But the mage’s hands continued working their spells. Inyx saw the air turning hazy in front of Patriccan. And behind, up on the hill where Nowless commanded, came deafening explosions.
“Never use the mystical exploding rock against a mage,” Patriccan said, as if lecturing a class of dimwits. “It is too easily turned against you.”
“Inyx,” gasped Ducasien. “All the slingers are dead.”
“Yes, all died. They foolishly carried their projectiles in pouches around their waists. I daresay most were blown in half.” Patriccan smiled malevolently and continued, “Now it is your time to die.”
He raised his hand to cast the spell. Inyx stood stolidly, awaiting death. She had come far and had wished for a better end than this. The least she could do was meet her fate with courage.
Patriccan finished the spell but nothing happened. Confused, he tried another. And another and still another.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Ducasien. “Forget your chants?”
Patriccan shook his head and stared at his hands, as if accusing them of high crimes.
Inyx clapped hands over her ears to protect them from the shrill whistle of an air elemental. She twisted about and saw the lightning-laced haze surging through the darkening sky, plummeting down directly for Patriccan.
The mage saw the danger and began defensive spells. Only great skill prevented the elemental from ripping him limb from limb. As it was, Patriccan fought for his very life. The tide of battle had turned in a split second.
“Kill them. Kill the greys!” shouted Inyx. “Do it while we can!”
The soldiers fell easy prey to their naked swords. But Inyx kept one eye on Patriccan and his battle with the elemental. He struggled to escape and couldn’t. And there was no way an ordinary mage could hope to either summon or disrupt an elemental.
“Who sent it?” asked Ducasien, coming to stand beside Inyx.
She shook her head. It had to be Lan Martak, but she found it difficult to believe.
The air elemental winked out of existence. Replacing it was the figure she had grown to hate.
“Claybore!”
“Ah, the cast in the little drama has gathered. Fine.” The dismembered mage turned to Patriccan and studied his bruised, broken body. “He is the worse for his encounter with Martak’s airborne ally. Where is Martak?”
“Here, Claybore.” Thunder sounded and shock waves rolled across the clearing. Emptiness had been replaced by two figures. Lan Martak strode up. “You brought me here, for whatever reason.”
“How melodramatic an entrance,” said the dismembered sorcerer. “And the capable Commander k’Adesina is with you,” continued Claybore, as if Lan had not even spoken. “How are you, my dear?”
Lan’s entire body began glowing green as he mustered his sorcerous powers. Claybore laughed and said, “This is the moment. I have the edge now, Martak. Before, you eluded me. Not now. You will cease to exist now!”
The wall of spells erected by the two lifted all the others and carelessly tossed them away. Inyx landed heavily, bruising her shoulder. Ducasien fell into a tree some yards distant. The others of their attack force hobbled and dragged themselves away.
Even Kiska k’Adesina had been discarded by the casual blast of magics.
Inyx got to her feet and drew her dagger. The brief excursion through the air had cost her the sword. Eyes narrowed, she stalked Kiska.
“Lan might not be able to deal with you, but I can!” Inyx drove the sharp point of the dagger down squarely for Kiska’s back, but the woman managed to sidestep the blow. They locked together and wrestled to the ground.
“He loves me,” taunted Kiska. “You have lost him forever.”
“Claybore’s spell forces him to love you,” Inyx spat out. She tried to bury her teeth in Kiska’s neck and failed. They rolled over, with Kiska coming out on top, knees pinning Inyx’s shoulders to the ground. Inyx winced in pain from her injury.
“Oh? And why does Lan sleep with the Lady Brinke? Is this more of Claybore’s magic?”
“Who?”
Kiska made a small gesture. A picture took form just in front of Inyx’s eyes. She saw a lovely, tall blonde woman slowly slipping out of a purple robe to stand naked before Lan Martak. A smile crossed Lan’s lips as he began pulling free the laces on his tunic.
“No! It’s a lie.” Even as she spoke, Inyx knew what she witnessed was a true rendering of a scene that had happened.
“More?” Kiska laughed as the scene played faster than normal, complete to its finish in less than a minute. “There were other times. He has abandoned you, slut. He has left you to die on this backwa
ter world. And die you will!”
Inyx’s mind raced. How had this scene been reconstructed? Magically. Did Kiska control any spells? No. Who did? Claybore!
“You try to weaken my will,” Inyx said. She twisted against her bad shoulder, then rocked in the other direction, unseating Kiska. They rolled over and over, struggling for dominance.
Both were sent tumbling once more by a wave of heat from where the real battle took place. Lan and Claybore were locked in a furious fight so intense it crossed worlds and returned to boil the very ground beneath their feet. Neither mage noticed. Both vied for supremacy by using every magical trick at their command.
Inyx saw Lan being forced back, yielding, slowly being crushed by the imponderable weight of magics on him.
“Fight, Lan!” she cried. “Stop him!”
She had no idea if her words cheered the mage or if he reached down and found some inner resource that he’d missed. His defense strengthened. He forced Claybore back. Inyx saw the disembodied sorcerer begin to waver. His arms flopped loosely now, as if they would spring from his torso. Even his bone-white skull began cracking.
“He’s losing,” she whispered in awe. For the first time since she and Lan had walked the Road together, she had the hope that Claybore would be decisively defeated.
Even Kiska k’Adesina watched, her face ashen with the realization that her master might lose.
As suddenly as the shift in power came, another replaced it. Inyx gasped and struggled for breath. Invisible fingers closed about her windpipe.
“She dies, Martak,” bragged Claybore. “I will kill the slut.”
Inyx fell to hands and knees, panting harshly when the invisible fingers left her throat. Lan had broken Claybore’s spell. She looked up in silent thanks. But the gratitude turned to anger when she realized that Claybore had only used her as a diversion for his real attack.
Kiska stood upright, caught between transparent planes crushing the life from her body. She visibly flattened as Claybore applied more and more magical pressure. Her face contorted with the pain of being smashed to bloody pulp. Her brown eyes looked beseechingly at Lan Martak. The young mage paled when he saw the woman’s predicament.
“I… I can’t fight him and save her. Not at the same time,” moaned out Lan Martak.
“Kill Claybore!” shrieked Inyx. “Stop him and you’ll stop his spells.”
“She dies,” cut in Claybore. “I will kill her before you can penetrate my barrier.”
Lan fought to drive his light mote through Claybore’s protective spells. He failed. And every moment he dallied, more and more life fled from Kiska’s body.
“Don’t save her, Lan. Kill Claybore!” Inyx’s words fell on deaf ears.
Lan Martak turned his full power to saving Kiska.
Claybore broke free. “I almost had you, Martak,” said the sorcerer. “I thought this would be the final battle. I erred. But next time. Then I will be ready for you. Then you die!”
Claybore wavered and popped! away, transport spells stolen from Lan carrying him from the world.
“I had him. He… he was weakening,” said Lan in a shaky voice. “He would have succumbed. Not even Terrill could best Claybore, and I had him. I had him!”
“You unutterable fool,” snapped Inyx. “You let him go. And for what? Her?”
Kiska k’Adesina sneered at Lan’s weakness. But the power of Claybore’s infernal geas grew with every use of magic. Lan Martak had no choice but to protect the woman he loved-and hated.
“You fool,” repeated Inyx.
All Lan could do was agree. He held out his opened arms, beckoning to Kiska.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Claybore limped along, his mechanical right leg refusing to function properly. He stopped and stared into the cog-wheeled device and saw that one of the magical pinpoints of energy had been extinguished. From deep within his skull’s empty eye sockets came a tentative pink glow that firmed into a rod of the purest ruby light. It lashed forth to the offending spot on his leg. The metal turned viscid and flowed; Claybore’s death beams winked out before the metal deformed.
“There,” he said. “Repaired. But damn that Martak. I should have my own legs instead of these pathetic creations.”
“Master, we failed,” came a weak voice. Claybore swiveled about to face Patriccan. The journeyman mage clung to a tree trunk a few feet away. All blood had rushed from his face, leaving him with a pasty complexion. His eyes looked like two dark holes burned into a linen sheet. In spite of the apparent weakness, the mage had a feverish air about him, one approaching desperation.
“Failed?” roared Claybore. “How dare you say we failed?”
“Master, we did not destroy Martak. Or the others.”
“Forget the others. They are nothings. They are ciphers in this equation. Martak is all.” Claybore calmed. “While it is true we did not triumph totally, still we did not lose all, either.”
Patriccan’s appearance belied that boast.
“Martak’s strength surprised me, but I was not unprepared to deal with it. There is dissension in our enemy’s ranks now. And I still have my most potent weapon aimed at his heart.” Claybore chuckled at the pun. “Kiska will sow the seeds of discord and, when the time is ripe, she will destroy Martak.”
“We should have defeated him,” said Patriccan, sliding down the tree to sit between two large roots. “I lost all power when he sent the air elemental for me.”
“You are a weakling,” Claybore said without apparent malice.
“Is it enough having them fighting among themselves?” asked the lesser sorcerer.
Claybore did not respond for some time. Finally came the single word, “Yes.”
Patriccan was hardly satisfied with his defeat. Martak had been so strong!
“Find a living creature and bring it to me,” ordered Claybore. The dismembered mage went to the lip of a well and peered into the infinite ebony depths. He chuckled at the thought of who lay trapped within. Claybore’s ruby beams lashed forth and stirred the blackness, like a spoon stirring soup. Tiny ripples flowed and subsided.
“Here, master.” Patriccan limped up with a small doe. The creature kicked out with hooves and tried to wiggle free. The mage held it magically and gave the poor beast no chance to escape.
A wave of Claybore’s hand sent the doe tumbling into the well. A greeting surge of darkness enveloped the deer and swallowed it whole.
“Resident of the Pit, are you there?” called out Claybore. “I would speak to you.”
“I am here.”
“You have failed, Resident. You know that now. You saw how easily we defeated Martak and the others.”
“Martak lives.”
“But what good will he be? His friends have abandoned him. Inyx and the insect Krek are needed-and they shun him.”
“I have seen.” The Resident of the Pit’s voice rumbled in a basso profundo.
“And,” went on Claybore, warming to his bragging, “my commander’s influence over him grows every time he uses even the most minor of spells against me.”
“That is so.”
“Even Brinke’s power will not free him. I use her to further entangle him. Inyx will never again support Martak, not after Kiska informed her of Martak’s liaison with Brinke.”
“I have seen all this. Why do you summon me, Claybore?”
“You, a god, asking a question like that? Come, come, Resident, you know why. I want you to suffer. I want you to know the glory of my triumph. I want you to know that you have failed. Your pawn Lan Martak is worthless to you now.”
“There will be others,” said the Resident of the Pit. “I have nothing but time.”
“Martak will be removed soon,” said Claybore. “When he is gone, I will augment my power and finally become a god. I will see to it that you never die. You will live in this dimensionless limbo forever, forgotten by your worshippers and doomed to endlessly watch and wait-for nothing!”
“Even if you do ac
hieve your ambition, I will find a way to die. I grow so weary of this existence.”
“It must be terrible,” Claybore said insincerely. “Seeing everything, knowing everything, and being unable to do anything about it.”
“Release me, Claybore. I am nothing to you. Destroy me. I want to die.”
“A god can never die. You know that.” Claybore laughed and let the Resident of the Pit slowly drift back into the timeless boredom of his existence.
“What now, master?” asked Patriccan.
“We recover, then approach Martak once more. This time we go in peace, not in battle.” Claybore chuckled to himself. “Perhaps this time we will destroy him totally.”
“This is victory?” asked Inyx. She stared at the battlefield and shivered in reaction. She had a bloodthirsty side to her nature, but seeing such carnage was not to her liking. It was one thing to do battle with your foe, hand to hand, sword to sword, and best him. The wholesale slaughter of the grey-clads by the arrows had been bad-the sight of all the slingers blown in half by Patriccan’s reversal of the spell used in the explosive pellets sickened her.
“Of course it is,” said Nowless. “Don’t you see how they have lost? Their fort is well nigh destroyed and all the soldiers are dead or put to rout. Their power over us is broken.”
Inyx looked at Ducasien, who shared her concern. Almost seven hundred had died this day. Few of them had died in a manner either she or Ducasien would consider honorable.
Inyx saw Lan and Kiska nearby. The pair argued. She found no solace in that. If it hadn’t been for Lan’s inability to let Kiska k’Adesina suffer, Claybore would have been defeated and the long, hard road they had followed would have been vindicated. But Lan Martak had succumbed to Kiska’s pleas and Claybore had escaped.
He had not reached the point of his hatred for the woman to overcome the compulsion spell placed on him.
What bothered the dark-haired woman the most was knowing that Lan would not have saved her had she been the one in trouble. Claybore had used the same spells on her, and Inyx had felt the invisible fingers choking the life from her body. Lan’s attack on the master sorcerer had been unabated, but the instant Claybore shifted his attack to Kiska, Lan had ceased fighting and had fought only to save Kiska.
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