All of Lan’s efforts to engage Claybore in direct battle again had failed. Lan took this to mean that the other sorcerer knew he was the weaker; Lan once saw an arm fall from Claybore’s shoulder, only to have the mage reattach it with hasty binding spells. And of the Kinetic Sphere-Claybore’s heart-there was no sign. Lan had successfully ripped it from the mage’s chest and randomly cast it along the Road. It might take Claybore years to regain it, or centuries, if Lan were lucky.
Until that time, Claybore’s powers were diminished. Not much, but perhaps enough. If only Lan could pin Claybore to one spot and make him fight!
“There is so little I can do,” said Brinke. The regal, tall blonde folded her hands in her lap and slumped. “My own spells are undeveloped. Until Claybore came, there was scant reason to nurture them. Now it is too late to learn what is needed.”
“But Claybore’s been here on this world for centuries,” said Lan. He frowned. “I don’t understand. You make it sound as if he’d only recently come.”
“I have never seen this Pillar of Night you speak of. Indeed, I had no idea this world was even visited by travelers along the Road until a few years ago. Claybore and a few of his officers arrived.”
“They organized local companies of the greys, then spread their influence,” Lan said. “That’s the usual pattern. But what was unusual was that Claybore did not leave once his power had been established.”
“That is so,” she said.
Lan looked at the woman and grew increasingly uncomfortable. He was powerfully attracted to her. While his dalliances with Kiska were not of his choosing, those with Brinke definitely were. And he felt increasingly guilty about them. Kiska winked lewdly and looked the other way, but he knew she had spoken of them to Inyx. And it was Inyx that bothered Lan the most. He had no pretensions of fidelity, either on his or on Inyx’s part, but involvement with Brinke put him at a disadvantage.
He still loved Inyx and anything used to push her farther away tore at his guts.
“Claybore,” the blonde went on, “controls this world with an iron grip. Few of us have successfully fought him. My family was halved during the first real uprising. We were halved again in number over subsequent skirmishes and only I remain to carry the fight to the mage.” Bitterness tinted her words as Brinke remembered the horrors of conflict that she had witnessed.
It was always this way, Lan knew.
“You have managed to keep Claybore at bay,” said Lan. “You must have powers you don’t realize.”
“I have no idea why Claybore hasn’t destroyed me as he did the others. Impalement. Beheading. Quartering. He magically tossed my sister high into the air and fed her to an air elemental. She lived for five days before she died.” In a voice almost too soft for Lan to hear, Brinke added, “It rained her blood for over an hour.”
“There has been overmuch of Claybore’s brutality. I have a plan that might work, but I cannot allow Kiska to accompany me. She would report directly to Claybore when she learned what I intend to do.”
“She can be kept in a cell for a few days, I think,” said Brinke. “With enough blanketing spells around her she won’t be able to contact Claybore.”
“That’s my only hope,” said Lan.
Brinke’s eyes locked with his again and Lan felt his heart stirring, going out to this lovely, brave woman.
“I am depending on you to hold her,” he said.
“Count on me. You must steel yourself to be without her, and that might be worst of all. What is your plan?”
“Not much of one,” Lan admitted. He began pacing, unconsciously locking his hands behind his back as he had seen Ducasien do. “The Pillar of Night is the key. I know it. But my ignorance about what it actually is holds me back. Scouting the Pillar is all I can do. With subtle enough magics, I might be able to creep close enough to examine it without Claybore discovering.”
“A double,” Brinke said suddenly. “We can arrange for a double. Oh, not anyone who can perform the arcane spells you command, but a physical double to walk the battlements and be seen from a distance. I am sure Claybore has spies watching the castle. If we can dupe them for only a few days, that will give you time to reconnoiter.”
Lan had little faith in such a deception. Claybore’s magics were such that the slightest of spells would reveal the double. But Lan had nothing to lose by trying.
“Do you have someone in mind? I can spin a few spells about him that might confuse any seeing him.”
“With a suit of your clothes and some expert makeup,” said Brinke, “this will work. I know it!”
They discussed the potential for danger to the double for some time. Then their words turned more intimate and Lan forgot his reservations about becoming involved further with this gorgeous, beguiling woman.
He left just before dawn the next day.
Lan sensed the power emanating from the Pillar of Night as if it were a column of intense flame. Even from a hundred miles away, he knew the precise location and homed in toward it. The man longed to use some small spell to propel himself across the distance in the blink of an eye, but he knew this would prove fatal. Stealth was his ally. He had no idea if his double parading around Brinke’s castle had fooled anyone or not, but Lan had to believe it had.
He had spent more than ten days in the demon-powered flyer, listening to the hissing of the creature in the back compartment. The demon’s continual complaints wore on him; when he didn’t effectively silence the demon, the vituperation became worse.
“What a cruel master you are,” shrieked the demon through a tiny port just behind Lan’s head. “Lady Brinke never flies more than an hour at a time. You tire me.”
“You can’t tire,” said Lan, tired. “Would you have me send you back to the Lower Places?”
“See?” cried the demon. “Threats! You abuse me, then you threaten me when I speak of it. How awful you are!”
“Keep the rotors turning,” ordered Lan, seeing that the demon was slacking off again.
“I… I can’t. Something drains my strength.”
Lan started to argue, then felt the waves striking him. Power diminished and he wanted to fall asleep. Only through will power did he keep going.
The Pillar of Night rose up from the plain, a black digit defying him.
“The spikes atop the Pillar,” he muttered. Tiny discharges leaped from one to the other. With every spark came new weakness. The closer he flew to the Pillar, the less able he would be.
“I hurt!” complained the demon. “My fingers are blistered and my muscles are over-tired. And I… I feel trapped. I must escape this steel prison!” Loud ringings came from the chamber as the demon began scratching at the plates in a vain effort to escape. The binding spells were too adroit.
“Be calm,” Lan said. “There’s nothing we can do about it. That column frightens me as much as it does you.”
“Impossible! I piss on myself in fear! Gladly will I piss on you!”
Lan stared at the Pillar, then pushed down on the flyer’s controls and landed at the edge of a forest ringing the base of the magical construct.
“You will stay here,” Lan said. “No other can command you.”
“You will die in that forest,” said the demon. “I’ll be lost in this iron pot forever. You can’t do this. Oh, you cruel, cruel monster!”
Lan pulled what supplies he had left from the flyer and hoisted them to a pack on his back. The forest disquieted him. Lan tingled as magics began growing. The tree limbs whipped and swung for his face, thorny vines raking his flesh and drawing bloody streaks. The temptation to use his light mote familiar to clear a path dogged his steps, but he fought it down. These were not natural woods; they were Claybore’s creation. Any spell used within the perimeters of the woods would alert the sorcerer instantly.
Lan wanted to examine the Pillar of Night carefully before betraying his presence.
But the forest became denser and the plants more aggressive. When Lan camped for the night
in a tiny clearing, he built a larger than normal fire to keep the creeping plant life at bay. Even this had little effect; he noticed the trees themselves beginning to circle him, their roots painfully pulling out of the soil, only to burrow back in a spot just a few inches closer.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he said aloud. The words seemed to hold back the encroaching plants, with their gently waving spined pads and powerfully coiling and uncoiling shoots. Lan put another small log onto the fire; the dancing light both attracted and pushed the plants back. He guessed the warmth and need for photosynthesis drew the trees and smaller plants, but the fear of being burned held them at bay.
“Fear?” he wondered aloud, sitting up and hugging his knees in to his chest. Sleep refused to come. “Do they fear? Do they love? Or are their movements instinctual and only in response to a stimulus?”
He dozed off, only to be awakened by a cold, slippery vine stroking over the back of his neck. Lan came awake instantly, a spell forming on his lips. He caught himself and drew forth his dagger, slashing frantically when the vine began tightening around his left arm. The severed vine pulled back and Lan imagined he heard a piteous howling of pain.
The rest of the night was spent wary and half asleep, no real rest being gained.
Seldom had he been so glad to see sunrise.
He stood and stretched cramped muscles and wiped away an ichorous substance left by the vine when he’d cut it. Lan pushed through the tight circle of trees, some of which were less than two feet apart, and used his sword to hack away the bushes.
He ate a trail breakfast as he walked, not wanting to spend any more time in the forest than necessary. He had only just penetrated the forest; he didn’t cherish the idea of spending another night within its boundaries.
Finding a meandering stream of muddy water allowed Lan to make better progress along the banks. Branches formed a canopy above and shut out the cheering sunlight, but the added speed more than made up for the dreary landscape.
“I… I can’t breathe,” Lan gasped out after walking for more than an hour. “The air. Gone stale. No breath. So hard.” He started to fall forward when a long, slender vine dropped down and wrapped itself tightly about his right wrist. Long needles shot into his flesh and the pain rocketing into his brain pulled him out of the fog. He screeched in anguish and tried to jerk free. He only succeeded in losing his balance on slippery rocks.
Crashing down to the stream bank, Lan struggled in the vine’s grip. He found his knife and slashed awkwardly at the green rope until he cut it in two. The pain kept him working until the sucker pad that had already sampled his blood and the sharp, hollow spines were removed from his wrist.
“Air,” he panted, then wondered. The shock of pain had kept him breathing. “There’s nothing wrong with the air,” he said to himself. “It’s a guard spell. That’s all it can be.”
He hunkered down and forced his lungs to suck in deep draughts of air as he gently probed for the source of the spell. He didn’t find it, but took the chance of using a counter. Chanting, softly at first and then with more determination, he worked out a magical pump that would force air into his lungs, even if his chest refused to expand to accept it. In this way Lan hoped to attract little attention to himself-he wasn’t opposing the spell but rather working on himself to counter the effects of the spell.
Just as he thought all was again serene, a bloodcurdling scream ripped apart the stillness of the forest.
Lan heard heavy crashing through the thick undergrowth and drew his sword, ready to fight. Without an instant’s warning, a heavy body surged through the air directly at him. Lan dropped to one knee, braced the hilt of his sword on the ground, and felt the impact. The blade twisted mightily and almost left his grip, but he held on grimly.
A man-or parts of what had been a man-had perished on his carbon-steel blade.
“Who are you?” Lan asked, pulling his sword from the man’s chest. The grotesquely misshapen head belied any claim to humanity. One arm was missing and the legs bent at curious angles. The sword had found the proper spot between ribs to penetrate through to the heart.
Lan could hardly believe that the creature still lived. One torn eyelid waggled up and down to reveal a glassy, bloodshot eye. The other eyelid opened to reveal a gaping cavity where the eyeball had been plucked out.
“Who are you?” asked Lan, kneeling beside the creature. “Let me tell your people where you died.”
The raucous laughter welling up from the creature’s throat chilled Lan. He stepped away, then used his sword to put the thing out of its misery. The wound started under one ear and deeply cut to the other. Lan Martak felt unclean even seeing such a parody of humanity.
“You have this much more to answer for, Claybore,” he said. “This foul work has your imprint on it. I know that.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course it is his handiwork. Who else strays into these woods, eh, tell me that, tell me that?”
Lan spun, dropping into an en garde stance at the words. A man with arms three times normal size hung from a tree. He had no legs. Swinging back and forth, the man built momentum and reached for another tree limb and moved closer to Lan.
“Who are you? Who by the lowest of the Lower Places was he?” Lan indicated the pitiful creature sprawled on the ground, still feebly twitching as if life refused to flee even after having heart pierced and throat slit.
“We’re all having fun, ever so much fun, yes, fun, fun, fun!”
The half-man whirled and capered about, swinging skillfully from limb to limb and then dropping to the forest floor. He stared up at Lan.
“You’re not one of us. You’re an interloper. I know all of us. And you’re not. One of us. No, no you’re not.”
Lan swallowed hard and gripped his sword even tighter. He had seen madness in his day. This was a classic case and he had to deal with it. Had the loss of his legs driven the man insane?
Lan Martak doubted it. Claybore’s magical experimentations were more likely to blame.
“Did Claybore try to use your legs for his own?” Lan asked.
“What? Oh, yes, yes! He had to fight me for them. But it wasn’t much of a fight. No, not at all. I lost.” A huge, salty tear formed at the corner of the man’s round, dark eye and dribbled unashamedly down his cheek.
“Get revenge on Claybore,” said Lan. “Show me the way to the Pillar of Night. I would examine it closely. You’ve seen it, I know. It’s near, only a few minutes away. I sense it. But something prevents me from seeing it directly.”
“The forest, that’s what. The trees block your view.” Another big tear rolled down the man’s cheek and then anger clouded the once handsome face. “Revenge. I want to get even for what he did to me. Kill you. You’re like him. Kill you!”
Lan watched as the legless man rocked forward and pulled his body along on those impossibly powerful arms. The biceps were almost the size of Lan’s waist. The strength locked up in that half body presented too great a threat to take lightly.
“I oppose Claybore. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Kill!” screamed the man.
Lan gasped in pain as one huge, powerful hand circled his ankle and clamped down. He felt the bones grating against one another. He swung his sword and severed the hand; it continued to cling to his leg. Gorge rising, Lan stumbled back, swinging wildly. The man came on, pulling himself on the spurting stump of his left wrist and his right hand. Sickened beyond compare, Lan lunged and drove the blade directly into the man’s throat.
The right hand grabbed the steel blade and broke it, as if it were nothing more than a splinter.
“Kill you,” came the words. A tide of crimson followed. The man fell forward, eyes sightlessly staring. Lan held the broken sword in his hand, shocked at how close he had come to dying.
He turned and became violently sick to his stomach. When the nausea passed he followed his sensing toward the Pillar. Scouting had been a good idea. He hadn’t realized Claybore kept his e
xperimental failures in the forest surrounding the base. Lan Martak wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more if he had to kill cripples.
“It only gets worse,” came quiet words from the shadows at the base of a large boled tree.
“How would you know?” demanded Lan.
“I’ve been here for so long, so very, very long.” An older man with snowy white hair stepped into sight. He smiled weakly and said, “It has been such a long time since I saw another mage in this damnable forest. I have forgotten so much, but the sight of you brings much of it back.”
“You’re a mage?” asked Lan.
“Oh, yes, I am. I used to be quite a good one, I might add.” The man smiled benignly. “You might have heard of me. My name’s Terrill and I was responsible for dismembering Claybore.”
Lan could only stare openmouthed.
CHAPTER TEN
Lan Martak stood and stared and then tried to compose himself. He hardly believed the white-haired man, and yet a ring of truth came through that pushed away any doubts he might have.
“If you are the Terrill who destroyed Claybore, why do you stay here?” Lan indicated the odd forest. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rising at the lack of sound in the woods. No insects chirped or flew. The wind refused to blow through the living, moving leaves and walking plants. Even the odors struck Lan as peculiar. None of the death-turning-to-life smells rose from the floor of the forest. It had an antiseptic odor to it, as if nothing decayed.
“I am bound. Claybore defeated me, even as I bested him.” The man sat down on a small rock and cupped his chin in gnarled hands. “Those were days of worth. Now?” He looked around, his washed-out eyes betraying no emotion at all.
“Are you under a geas?” Lan asked eagerly. Terrill was the greatest mage who ever conjured. If anyone could remove the geas Lan suffered, it had to be Terrill. And in return Lan might be able to free the master from his bondage.
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