“I need to speak with her,” Lan repeated. He used just enough of the Voice to convince Ducasien of the seriousness of the matter.
“I will tell her.”
“Take us to her,” Lan ordered. Ducasien obeyed, knowing he was being manipulated magically. Lan did not care for the man who had become Inyx’s lover and cared even less if Ducasien knew he was being manhandled by minor spells. Once more Lan felt time pressing in all around him. The Resident of the Pit had to be released-soon.
“Lan!” Inyx cried. She forced herself to calm and said in a less enthused voice, “What are you doing here?”
“According to Ducasien, interfering with your plans.”
“Krek!” Inyx ran to the spider and hugged two front legs. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“You are getting spots of my fur wet with your salty tears, friend Inyx. I wish you humans would not leak like that every time you show emotion.”
“The fur’s grown back well. No signs of the burns,” Inyx said, stroking over the bristly front leg.
“It has been a considerable time since we parted,” Krek said. “On the world where I became Webmaster of the mere spiders, it has been almost four years.”
“So long! It’s only a few months here,” said Inyx.
“And about the same for me,” said Lan.
Inyx tried to ignore him but couldn’t. “How have you been, Lan?”
“Missing you,” he said.
“Inyx. We must reinforce the troops to prevent any from escaping the fortress,” said Ducasien.
“Do it,” ordered Lan, the Voice again compelling Ducasien to obey.
The man trotted off to carry out the order.
“Don’t use the Voice on him like that, Lan. I don’t like it.”
“I won’t on you, Inyx. I never have.”
Inyx brushed back tangled strands of her raven-wing black hair with both hands. Her blue eyes locked with Lan’s brown ones. The rapport that had once been theirs returned.
“Oh, Lan,” cried Inyx, flinging herself into his arms. “It’s been so damned hard. And I see what it’s been like for you. Our thoughts. I mean, they linked like before, only, but… oh, damn!”
“Perhaps friend Inyx would care for a juicy bug to replenish all the fluids she is losing,” suggested Krek.
“Everything’s all right, Krek. Now.”
“No, Lan. You don’t understand how it is now.” Inyx forced herself away. “Ducasien and I, we’re a team. When you left-drove us away!-I needed someone and he was there. I can’t do to him what you did to me. I just can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Lan explained his need, how only Inyx could provide the support he needed to penetrate the spells guarding the Pillar of Night and counter it to release the Resident.
“The fight is almost complete here. We can’t leave without making sure that the greys can never regain their power.”
“Inyx, Claybore will become a god. Do you think minor battles mean anything to him? He fights for all the worlds along the Road, not just one. He can afford to let you expend your effort here while winning a thousand others.”
“We’re only human, Lan. We can only deal with one at a time.” She looked at him, her blue eyes probing. “Ducasien and I are humans. Are you?”
Lan had no answer for her. He ever feared thinking about it. Too often he had been told he was immortal. His magical abilities far transcended any controlled by a mage, other than Claybore. Did this make him less than human-or more?
“Friend Lan Martak is sincere,” said Krek. “There is even a shred of logic to his plan to enlist the aid of this former god.”
“We need the Resident, Inyx,” he said. “With his aid we can defeat Claybore once and for all.”
“Terrill thought so, too.”
Lan knew he’d have to tell her of Terrill’s fate later.
“In this, I am right. We can defeat Claybore.”
“Very well,” she said cautiously. “You convince me, but only because of one thing.”
“What’s that?” Lan asked.
“You’re saying ‘we’ instead of I when you talk of stopping Claybore. That’s the only way I’ll aid you-as an equal.”
“Three equals,” said Lan, looking over at Krek and smiling.
“Four,” said Ducasien, returning in time to overhear. “I do not like this, I think you lead us all to death, Martak, but I will not allow Inyx to go anywhere I do not also go.”
“As four equals,” Lan said. He and Ducasien shook hands. Inyx laid her hand atop theirs and over their heads came a long, hairy leg. They would fight as one in the final confrontation.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Claybore walked down the corridor, his bowed leg giving him a curiously rolling gait. The mage held onto his left arm as it tried to fall off once more, and his skull actually split enough to drop a tiny piece to the wooden flooring. Claybore bent and picked up the precious skull fragment and gently put it back into place. With some reluctance, it stayed.
In spite of all the troubles he experienced with his newly whole body, Claybore felt more power surging within him than he had since Terrill had dismembered him. The circuit had been completed, albeit imperfectly. The magics long lost now sang and pulsed through his veins. The sorcerer felt invincible, like a god.
“Patriccan!” he called out. “Attend me!”
Patriccan’s own wounds had healed adequately for the man to show little outward sign of damage. He hastened to join his master.
“How may I be of service?” he asked, bowing low. Patriccan winced at the sight of the dark eye sockets churning with the pale ruby light. The death beams that lashed forth had reduced the ranks of his mages by a quarter. None stood against that ravening death-none except Lan Martak.
“My arm rejects me once again. Is there nothing to do? A demon to summon?”
“Master, even at the best of times it is difficult to entrap a demon. Since you exiled the one who worked on your leg, they have become even wilier in eluding my snare spells. Hasn’t the adhesive paste bonded the arm?”
“See for yourself.” Claybore thrust out his left shoulder. The arm had disconnected grotesquely and dangled by a few arteries and grey, stringy nerves.
“Please, master, come into my laboratory. I will again attempt the connection. The flesh has been separated so long that it has taken on a life of its own.”
“One of the penalties of immortality. The parts attempt to live by themselves. Damn Terrill,” Claybore exclaimed. Then the sorcerer chuckled and danced about, favoring his gimpy leg. “How should I visit Terrill and let him know that his plight will continue? How can I best instill hope and then dash it?”
“His madness prevents any such revenge, master,” said Patriccan fumbling with the arm. He frowned. The best of his magics failed to hold Claybore’s arm in place. Even Claybore had not been able to keep himself intact.
“Perhaps I shall lift the madness, give the promise of rescue-after letting him know what his life has been like for ten thousand years-and then cast him back into insanity.”
“A fitting end for him, master.”
“Don’t patronize me, fool.” Claybore jerked free of Patriccan’s fumbling examination. He stormed into the journeyman mage’s laboratory and perched on the edge of the green-tiled table, waiting impatiently.
Patriccan went first to a cabinet filled with vials and mixed a new potion. He chanted over it and activated it with magics barely under his control.
“This will keep the arm from slipping free of its own volition,” said Patriccan. He held Claybore’s arm in place, then swabbed on the frothy mixture he had conjured.
“My arm turns increasingly numb. No feeling and the fingers refuse to clench.”
“Master, this is the best I can do. Will you do battle with Martak soon? If I have time to experiment, perhaps then I can find some other way of mending your body.”
“The power is on me,” said Claybore. “Simply having all my parts agai
n augments my ability. Spells long forgotten now return to me, and power? I have power!”
Patriccan looked skeptically at the mage. The bone white of the skull had been broken by the weblike dark fracture patterns. The flesh had been destroyed and the tongue now rested in Martak’s mouth. Patriccan did not understand how Claybore could be so sanguine about his chances when the reconstructed body that carried him into this conflict betrayed him at every turn.
“Come into the viewing room, Patriccan,” ordered Claybore. “I will show you the progress I make.”
Patriccan followed, feeling the aches in every joint; but compared to his master, he was in perfect condition.
“See?” said Claybore, pointing to the wall of moving scenes. “On that world the conquest is complete. A full score of sorcerers joins the effort. On this world, two of my strongest opponents are dead. Their magics availed them nothing.” Claybore chuckled when he saw huge mechanical juggernauts, magically powered by captive demons, lumbering forth to crush opposition. This world had proven especially recalcitrant. Only the most intricate of magics had allowed Claybore to topple its regime.
“And there,” the mage continued, rubbing hands together as he stood in front of one panoramic view of a world in ruins, “there my troops have captured a grimoire, that might allow me to complete the spell creating the Pillar of Night.”
“You would kill the Resident?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Claybore. “I am undecided. I rather enjoy gloating, and the Resident of the Pit is a captive audience this way. Still, I prefer having the power to permanently remove a god, if the mood strikes me. The legion commander on that world will deliver the grimoire to me within the week.”
“What efforts are being made by Martak? I cannot assume he bides his time.”
“There is evidence he penetrated all the way to the Pillar,” said Claybore. “I have not been able to contact k’Adesina and find out. The Lady Brinke holds Kiska behind a wall of magic.”
“You cannot break through?” asked Patriccan, astonished.
“Of course I can.” Claybore’s irritation made Patriccan cringe away. He waited for the ruby death beams. They never came. “I have been occupied with other things.” Claybore flexed his right arm; his left sluggishly stirred but did no more.
Patriccan, for the first time, began to doubt. His master took too many chances, made too many mistakes. While Claybore was ostensibly whole again, Patriccan knew how tenuous were the bonds holding arms and legs to the torso. The dismembered sorcerer gained much in strength by being reassembled, but all of the parts were not his own. Did that cause the peculiar overconfidence? Patriccan hoped not. The final confrontation with Martak required every skill Claybore had accumulated over a very long lifetime of sorcerous doings.
“It will all come together on the plains in front of the Pillar of Night,” said Claybore. “Martak will not stand a chance. And with his defeat, I will sap the power that makes him so powerful. I will suck up his essence and let it fill me. I will become the new god of the universe. None will dare oppose me!”
“None so dares now, master,” said Patriccan.
“Martak does. Look. There and there and there.” Claybore went from scried scene to scene, pointing. “All those worlds opposed me. They were crushed by might of arms. No longer will they even think of opposition. My very name will cause them to drop to one knee and pay me the homage I am due.”
“Those machines,” said Patriccan. “They come to this world? How? Surely, none will fit through a cenotaph.”
“They come,” said Claybore. “Using this, they will come.” He tapped his chest cavity where the Kinetic Sphere pulsed slowly.
Patriccan said nothing. He knew the immense power of the Kinetic Sphere, but the journeyman mage had to question the value of Claybore’s draining himself so before meeting Martak. The effort to move even one of those huge demon-powered fighting machines from another world had to be extreme.
He bowed and left the room. There were preparations to be made and perhaps he might even find the time to properly question a few prisoners brought him from another world. He had no desire for the information they hid; Patriccan desired only the painful questioning.
That would ease some of the strain he felt, he was positive.
“Why not just fly directly to the Pillar?” asked Ducasien as they disembarked from the demon-powered flyer. The warrior was still pale from the trip; it was his first experience with such a vehicle and the demon had berated him constantly for his airsickness.
“I tried that before,” said Lan. “The demon refused to go any closer than the edge of the forest. But I have a path well scouted now. The dangers of the forest are… minimal.”
All knew Lan lied. The sense of “deadness” within the woods reflected a closer appraisal of their chances. But Lan was able to use his spells freely enough now and that opened ways that were both more and less dangerous. The physical threat within the sterile forest would be small, but the attention attracted by the use of a potent spell might be unwanted. It was a risk that had to be borne.
“You leave me sitting here,” complained the demon within the flyer. “Just like that? After so many hours of faithful service? What kind of ass are you?”
“Be quiet or I shall eat you,” said Krek. The spider unfolded long legs from the cramped storage space of the flyer. One taloned leg tapped hard against the hatch plate behind which the demon crouched.
“Go on, you overgrown nightmare. Try it! I’ll give you such a case of heartburn you’ll never recover!”
“We have no time for such things, Krek.” Inyx tugged at the giant arachnid’s leg and led him away.
“All things being equal, I would rather devour her.” Kick’s mandibles clacked just inches away from Kiska k’Adesina’s neck. The mousy-appearing woman’s expression altered in a flash and her long sword snaked from its sheath, point darting straight for the spider. Lan was helpless to stop her, but Brinke wasn’t.
The blonde raised her arm and blocked the thrust so that it missed Krek’s thorax by inches. Brinke mouthed a small spell that made Kiska drop to her knees, cursing volubly.
“You blonde bitch. You will die for this. My legs are numb. Lan, I can’t walk!”
“Release the spell, Brinke.” Lan closed his eyes and tried to retain his calmness. How could he possibly do battle with Claybore when his handful of supporters tried to slay one another-and the ones who weren’t actively working toward killing merely hated the others.
“Very well.” The lovely mage passed her hand above the fallen woman’s head. Hair began to sizzle and spark. The smell of burned hair filled the air and gave some substance to the undead forest.
“Stop it!” Lan shouted, control gone.
Ducasien moved to stand beside Inyx, hand on sword. Brinke flinched but stopped her spell. Even Krek shifted away. Lan had used the Voice, something he had avoided among the group before this.
“We have little time. Bickering among ourselves will only lead us to defeat.”
“She will stab you in the back at the first opportunity,” said Brinke, pointing to Kiska. The brown-haired commandant of Claybore’s troops smiled wickedly.
“I know,” Lan said weakly.
“We still have time, Lan my darling,” Kiska said, rising to her feet. She stroked along his cheek and kissed him. She clung to him and prevented him from getting away. He lacked the resolve to make her stop, even though he knew both Inyx and Brinke were seething.
“Put her into the chamber with the demon,” suggested Krek. “Let them give one another heartburn.”
“No way, you oversized ceiling crawler,” protested the demon. “It’s too damn small in here. First you want me to fly right on up to that awful black rotating pillar and risk my scaly limbs. Now you want to squeeze a truly dreadful lumpy human in here with me. You’re a cruel one, fuzz-legs.”
“Thank you,” said Krek. “I had not expected such a fine compliment from one of your inferior m
ental status.”
“Inferior!” raged the demon. It scrabbled against the metal plates until a loud ringing echoed through the forest. The spells binding it to the flyer were too great. After a few minutes of frenzied activity, the demon subsided into a sulky silence.
“We must hurry,” said Lan, not using the Voice now. He already felt drained and the real struggle had yet to begin. Just trying to hold together this disparate band taxed him to the utmost.
The flow of emotion became too confusing for him to consider. Ducasien loved Inyx, who obviously cared for him-but little more. Brinke had true affection for Lan, but the sorcerer tried to hold back because the geas forced him to unwanted behavior toward Kiska. Kiska hated them all, but experienced some of the geas toward Lan so that she would only wait for the worst possible instants before trying to assassinate him.
Lan’s head threatened to split like a frozen spring melon.
“Yes, let us leave this posturing device,” said Krek. The spider thwacked! the side of the flyer before joining Lan.
“Krek, you, Inyx and Ducasien will have to fend off any physical attacks. Brinke and I will concentrate on the sorcerous ones-and they are going to be desperate ones.”
“Will Claybore throw everything against us before we get to the Pillar of Night?” asked Inyx. “Or will he let the forest wear us down before attacking?”
“This is a mistake,” cried Kiska. “Lan works to release Claybore’s soul. It’s trapped by the Pillar!”
Lan cut off the protests from Brinke even as they formed on the woman’s lips. “I know,” the man said. “She lies. I have felt the Resident of the Pit within.”
“It’s a trap,” insisted Kiska. “Claybore is gulling you into believing you aid the Resident.”
Lan started walking, trying not to listen to the bickering that flowed around him. By the time the first wave of mutilated forest-dwellers swung down on them, the petty arguments had ceased.
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