The betting went on as Krek stood in the middle of the arena, outwardly placid. Inside, his spiderish emotions churned. He killed through necessity, not for sport. Arachnids were mighty hunters, vicious opponents, but not wanton killers. Yet he had become that. Every day he came to the arena, stood in the sandy pit, and sent dozens of men and women to their deaths not because of physical hunger on his part, but because of psychic hunger on the part of the spectators.
In a way, killing the mechanicals was even worse. They did not bleed, but their expressionless faces haunted him. Powered by some technology he didn’t understand, the mechanicals obeyed and perished as surely as if they were flesh and blood.
He tried to stop himself and failed each time. While no mage, his abilities to deal with magic were more pronounced than Lan Martak’s. Krek felt the spells used on him but couldn’t sidestep them. The more he tried to fight them, the more potent they became.
Nashira, Suzerain of Melitarsus, proved herself a powerful mage.
Krek turned and studied the woman indolently reclining in the royal box perched on the edge of the wall. She smiled at him, took a sip from a drink laced with aphrodisiac, then slowly nodded her head. Gates opened and men trotted out, armed men intent on killing. Nashira flicked her hand and a score of human serving girls hurried to her side. They stripped her naked, then began sensuously applying oils as their nude sovereign watched the beginning slaughter in the arena.
“Kill!” shrieked the nearest man.
Krek’s mandibles severed the swordsman’s arm. He died amid a spray of his own blood.
“Circle,” came the more cautious command from the senior of the remaining soldiers. “I’ve watched previous bouts. He’s big, he’s strong, but we can bring him down.”
Krek lightly jumped a flung net, cut a pike’s head off, kicked out and buried a hardened claw into the midsection of a careless mechanical. The actions came automatically now. He tried not to think of the suffering he caused or the intense emotion of those watching.
He tried not to think of the intense emotion welling inside himself. The spider’s delicate sensibilities twisted and soured at this slaughter; the men never presented a different attack.
In spite of himself, he turned to study Nashira. The woman moaned softly now, her eyes half-hooded and her body arching so that her servants could rub the pungent oils over every square inch of skin possible. The spider couldn’t decide if the bloody slaughter or the erotic touches aroused Nashira most. It might have even been a combination, one no good without the other.
“Stop, please,” he begged as the soldiers advanced. “I do not wish to slay you. I am more powerful, more skilled. Leave me alone!” The shrill wailing cut through the roar of the crowd and caused a hush to fall. The men facing Krek shifted uneasily from foot to foot, wondering how to react.
“It’s a trick,” said one of the men. “He’s done this before. He lulls us into a false sense of security, then attacks.”
“You’re sure about that, Neeck? He sounded sincere.”
Neeck laughed harshly. “My best friend, Lor n’Histima, thought he sounded sincere, too. Lor’s dead these past four days, him and four mechs. That bug bloody ripped his head off!”
Krek heard the exchange as if from a distance. Nashira’s moans and softly muttered words rang like bells in his head. The spell she cast worked on him, drove him insane with bloodlust, brought out the most vicious of his arachnid hunting instincts.
Unable to stop himself, Krek lunged. Four men died in a single slash of his pincers. Four of his legs drove forth, buried deep in unarmored chests. He recovered, bounced as if on springs, then shot forth a sticky hunting web. The elastic band rocketed out, curled around the body of the remaining soldier, then slowly pulled the struggling man inward. Krek’s insides twisted when he saw the raw fear on the face, felt the shaking of stark panic, saw the voiding of the man’s bowels.
A single snip removed the man’s head. The body shook and escaped in one direction while the look of fear on the man’s face became a permanent feature in death. The head lay ten feet away in the sand.
The crowd went berserk. Cheers echoed throughout the city and gamblers collected bets.
Inside his head, Krek heard Nashira’s voice say, “You have done well, spider. Your servants will clean you, tend to your needs. You are the champion of all Melitarsus.” Mocking laughter faded and left Krek alone and weary in his own skull.
He tried to form the words, to practice them so that he could tell Lan Martak what happened to him every day. Only inarticulate gurglings emerged. Tears of frustration formed in the spider’s eyes as mechanical attendants led him from the arena.
“How are you today, Kyle?” asked Lan Martak of the Suzerain’s young son. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide. For no reason, Lan felt a shiver of dread up and down his spine.
“I am fine, thank you,” came the polite reply. “You are very good.”
“Beg pardon?” asked Lan, surprised. “Good at what?”
Kyle’s lips pulled back in a grin that hardly belonged on a seven-year-old face. The laughter accompanying it bordered on the demented.
“My mother will see you now, if you like,” said the boy, his mood shifting swiftly. The brief view of something demonic passed. Only innocent child remained.
“Thank you,” said Lan uneasily. He walked the length of the audience chamber, conscious of the rumbling echoes his bootsteps made and feeling all the more anxious because of it. He might have been a soldier called before his commanding officer rather than an honored guest seeking out his hostess.
“Lan, it’s been so long since we’ve talked,” greeted Nashira. She rose, her arms outstretched to him. He allowed himself to be hugged, scenting the gentle essences of her perfume and brushing his cheek against her lustrous blue-black hair.
“It’s over a week,” he said.
“Too long. Do forgive me. Matters relating to the city have been taking too much of my time. Those damned ’hoppers,” she said, sadly shaking her head. “They grow worse rather than better. I fear we’ll have to resort to sterner measures.”
“Magic?” he suggested. Lan felt the woman tense slightly. She recovered quickly and shook her head. “Not that. The people of Melitarsus would never stand for it.”
“Why not?”
“As useful as magic can be, they’ve had bad experiences. My grandfather overthrew a sorcerer to gain the throne. The sorcerer had misused his power and enslaved the populace, making them no more than his personal servants. My grandfather vowed that no Suzerain of Melitarsus would ever again practice magic—or allow its practice within the walls. We have our mechanicals to serve us and do not need spells. The wagons powered by demons are imported and not allowed to remain longer than a week, and our flyers are totally wind-powered, no magics at all used.”
“But you’re a sorcerer,” blurted Lan, regretting the words immediately.
“What do you mean?” Sharp, hard.
He covered, saying, “Your beauty ensorcells me. Your intelligence enthralls me. Your wisdom transcends magic.”
Nashira laughed delightedly.
“You’re such a rogue, Lan. I’m so happy you have come to Melitarsus. None of my court say such things to me. Not a one. All my ministers talk of is crops and cash flow, road repair and how to fend off the next wave of ’hoppers. They are so dull.” Her long fingers stroked over his cheek, the dark-painted nails cutting slightly into his flesh to leave small red crescents. Lan felt an electric tingle pass throughout his body, do things to him.
His magic sense screamed.
“I hate to burden you with further demands on the city’s resources, but Krek and I really must press on. What is the chance of getting the escort you promised?”
“Escort?” she said, swirling away. Her dress shifted colors like a rainbow. A flawless naked back turned to Lan. She studied him from over her shoulder. The man wondered how the dress stayed pressed so intimately to the front of her body when th
ere was no support behind.
“Soldiers. To escort us to Mount Tartanius.”
“Oh, yes, those men,” she said. As she moved, the colors of her dress changed from bright oranges and reds to more sedate greens. Wedges of black formed and powered through the pastels, replacing them totally. It was as if the dress altered with her mood. Even as he watched, colors flowed into new hues, took on different configurations, some patches of the dress even becoming transparent. Lan almost choked when strategic portions of the dress turned clear, but the clarity of the view of Nashira’s most intimate parts clouded, turned opaque, and began shifting through an artist’s palette of colors.
Lan shook himself. The sensation of being trapped threatened to panic him.
“The hospitality you’ve shown is second to none,” he heard himself say, almost as if another spoke. The feeling of distance within himself grew. Panic mounted. Magics flared brightly all around him. He tried to warn her of Claybore. All he uttered was, “I can’t fault you on even the smallest of points.”
“Then stay!” she cried. “Stay in Melitarsus. We need more men like you.”
“I do nothing,” he protested. “That’s the problem. I… I do nothing at all.”
“I can make you a lord of the city. Your fighting prowess is obvious. How would you like to be deputy commander of the watch? It carries both prestige and great duty. You would be second in command of the army, next only to General Clete n’Fiv.”
“No, Nashira, please.”
“I can’t make you commander. That wouldn’t be the least fair to Clete.”
“I’m not asking for that. I just want to continue on to Mount Tartanius.”
“You’re no pilgrim. What’s there you can’t find in Melitarsus? Some woman? If Ria displeases you, select another!”
Lan Martak felt a surge of cold insight. If he expressed desire for Nashira, that meant his death, yet the woman used sexual charms on him, teasing and taunting. Even as she spoke, portions of her dress became crystal clear again, portions showing the furry nest between her thighs, the pink-capped mounds of her breasts. The sexual message clearly served as an inducement to stay, yet the ruler of Melitarsus remained aloof, untouched, untouchable. She would give him anything to keep him, anything but herself.
The contradiction confused him.
“The escort. Do we get it?”
“Oh, Lan, you are so stubborn. Be on your way. But let the spider remain, if he so chooses.”
This took Lan by surprise. It had been Krek who had given him the impetus to come and confront Nashira. The woman’s tone told him that she fully expected Krek to remain behind if he decided to push on to the mountains. He couldn’t think of a single thing that bound Krek to this city, to this woman. The spider preferred the mountains where he could range as he had as a hatchling, as a Webmaster. Melitarsus offered nothing but a tiny room in which to spin his webs.
“He’d come with me.”
“Why not let Krek decide for himself?”
Nashira sounded too sure of herself for Lan to debate the issue.
“You have no qualms about letting us leave, if we both choose to do so?”
“Of course I do!” she protested. “The ’hoppers are deadly this year. Your devoured carcasses would be found by the side of the road come fall. I like you—both of you. That’s the last thing I’d want. Stay, Lan, stay here. Enjoy all Melitarsus has to offer, at least until the autumn chill kills off the grasshoppers.”
Lan Martak sensed magic building all around him. The audience chamber wavered slightly. He saw Nashira as if through a heat shimmer. His senses jumbled, reminding him of the instant/eternity he’d spent in the white foggy limbo between worlds. The colors of the woman’s dress blazed brilliantly now; her pungent perfumes made his nostrils flare; oceans roared in his ears. He felt a power growing within him, growing from a tiny seed within his mind, turning into something stronger, more vibrant, more commanding.
“Kyle!” the woman said sharply.
Lan felt the magical power used against him slacken. He almost fell to his knees when it vanished entirely. Pale and shaken, he stood before Nashira. The expression on her face combined anger and pride. Peering out from around her skirts like a much younger child stood Kyle.
“You appear faint, Lan. It’s nothing I said, is it?”
“What?” He slowly recovered. His senses returned to normal, and the compelling flow of magic around him ebbed. “Sorry, my mind wandered elsewhere.”
“That is sometimes dangerous. If your mind wanders, you might be tempted to join it.”
Lan said nothing.
“Go, my good friend, relax in your quarters. Take a soothing bath. Tell Ria I’ve ordered the physician to send you some medicine. You’ll be hale and hearty before you know it.”
“All should be cared for as Krek and I are,” said Lan, bowing slightly.
“All should be as stimulating as you and the spider are,” said Nashira. Her laughter followed him out of the audience hall.
* * * * *
Lan Martak ducked down an alley, fear clutching at his throat. He didn’t think they’d seen him. If they had, a half-dozen swords would have been sheathed in his body by now.
He’d left Nashira’s palace, distraught by all that had occurred. The visit hadn’t produced the hoped-for results. She had given him no promise of troops to escort him and Krek through the ’hopper infestation; Nashira had promised more than any mortal could hope for in a lifetime. All the parts of this puzzle failed to come together. If Krek were right and the Suzerain maintained no army outside the walls of the city-state, she could supply a score of troops—more!—without diminishing her defense capabilities.
That didn’t fit, nor did the surge of magic he’d felt just before leaving her presence. The woman lied when she said that magics weren’t used by the rulers of Melitarsus; he’d felt ephemeral spells inside the chamber from the very first audience. No spell, however, had been so strongly antagonistic as the last one.
And he didn’t think Nashira had been responsible for it.
But Kyle? Lan tried to remember what mages he’d known had said about magic. That it required long years of study he knew. Never had he heard of a sorcerer as young as Kyle. Even native ability had to be trained over decades.
He’d wandered the streets of Melitarsus pondering all this when he’d bumped into a grey-clad soldier.
Only quick reaction had allowed him to twist into the alley and run for his life. The pounding of feet behind him told Lan all he needed to know. The startled soldier had only caught a brief glimpse of him, but he knew Lan. The way he called out to his companions proved that beyond any possible doubt.
Claybore still wanted him, still had men tracking him.
Finally eluding the grey-clad soldiers hadn’t been easy, but he knew the city better than they. Panting, heart racing, he leaned against the city wall and observed.
While the number of the grey soldiers inside Melitarsus wasn’t large, it was obvious these were scouts. Before the end of the summer the city would be overrun with them. Melitarsus would fall, just as a hundred other cities had. Lan remembered how they’d insinuated themselves into his hometown, how Kyn-alLyk-Surepta had turned traitor, sold out to them, become a ranking officer.
They started innocuously, offering their services to beleaguered law enforcement agencies. Lan didn’t doubt for an instant that the grey-clad soldiers were behind the increases in crime that they claimed to abhor and oppose. As the populace depended more and more on the interlopers and less on their own officials, the grey soldiers’ grip tightened. Soon enough, they were the only authority, and any speaking out against them mysteriously died.
When their power became complete, the disappearances were no longer mysterious. They became public executions.
Zarella had died mysteriously, and Lan Martak had been accused of her murder—by Surepta.
The pattern repeated in Melitarsus. The minor variations mattered little.
Lan hurried on when he saw another tiny knot of the soldiers advancing. They laughed and joked among themselves, but their eyes were alert. They sought him. Whether or not Claybore directed them, the grey-clads were a menace and one that Lan couldn’t ignore. Little good Nashira’s protection if they killed him in the street.
He went into a pub and sat with his back to a wall, face down. The soldiers entered behind him. Lan tensed, his fingers gripping tightly on the hilt of his knife. He calculated how to kill the leader, then work on to the others while confusion still held them. It wasn’t necessary. They talked briefly with the innkeeper, then were summoned by a woman who had remained outside. Lan didn’t get a good look at her, but she wore the grey uniform.
The man finally approached Lan, after watching the soldiers leave.
“What’ll ye have, eh?”
“Ale and some information.”
“Might be able to get ye both,” he said suspiciously. His expression relaxed when Lan dropped a pair of gold coins on the table.
“The soldiers. What do you know of them?”
“Those boys?” the man laughed. “Ye fear them? No need. They only help out. Been havin’ trouble with both some young vandals and those damn ’hoppers. Since them greys showed up, no trouble with neither. Right good fellows, they are. Even a woman commandin’, too. Damn unusual in these parts to see that, but she’s an honorable one. They do good keepin’ the disruptive elements out. Now, what kind of ale can I do for ye?”
“Never mind,” said Lan. He left the coins. He left the pub. The pattern repeated. The subjugation of Melitarsus had begun.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Turn this way, Lan my darling, this way!” Ria wiggled about so that Lan Martak had no other choice. In a rush, he finished. As always, he felt drained from the intense erotic activity, but unlike the earlier times with Ria he now felt nothing more than physical tiredness. The spiritual thrill had gone. There hadn’t been emotional involvement for over a week. And Ria seemed to be performing, to be demanding more of him not through love or even simple lust but because of some hidden need to stage a choreographed play.
[Cenotaph Road 02] - The Sorserer's Skull Page 5