Fire and Fog
Cenotaph Road - 05
Robert E. Vardeman
CHAPTER ONE
A warrior dressed in flame strode out. No human this, he towered a hundred feet above the walls of the fortress city of Wurnna. Immense hands clutched a ponderous sword that no score of men might lift. Muscles rippling and sending out dancing tongues of fire, the giant swung the weapon.
Lan Martak knew the defense of the city rested with him and him alone. He tried to ward off the blow, but the magical sword grated and screeched and cut through the stony battlement, sending vast clouds of dust into the air. Wherever the sword touched stone, it turned molten and burned with insane intensity. None of the mages 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 and sent molten droplets flying in deadly streams.
“Lan,” cried his companion Inyx, “there is no stopping it. The spells aren’t even slowing the monster.” Lan reached out and gripped her hand, more for his own solace than to reassure her.
The young mage studied, probed, lightly tested Claybore’s monster for some clue on how to defeat it. The disembodied sorcerer’s attack was diabolically cunning. Lan, Inyx, and their spider friend Krek had chased the dismembered Claybore across the worlds along the Cenotaph Road, preventing him from regaining bodily parts severed and strewn eons ago by an even greater mage. But even with only head and torso intact, Claybore proved an adversary more than Lan’s match.
Lan Martak began to worry that he would lose the battle for Wurnna, and with it what Claybore sought so diligently: the tongue resting within the Wurnnan ruler’s mouth.
Lan clapped his hands and sent his familiar, a 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 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, Claybore’s commander in chief.”
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. Her hatred for the man and the way he had raped her caused Inyx to begin to tremble. She wanted Silvain to die—by her own hand.
The pit grew, Lan’s powerful mote of light digging until the cavity stretched from one side of the canyon to the other, preventing the giant from crossing to again menace the city.
“Prepare to launch a bolt of pure energy directly at the giant’s feet,” Lan ordered the few remaining mages huddling nearby. Sorcerers tended to be arrogant. But the spirit of the Wurnna mages had been broken long ago, first by their own ruler Iron Tongue and now by Claybore’s incessant attacks, which none dared meet head-on. All Lan hoped for was some small additional backing. The brunt of this battle was his and his alone.
He turned and looked at the ruler of Wurnna, the man whom Claybore sought above all others on this world. Residing in his mouth was Claybore’s magical tongue, a tongue whose slightest use commanded legions.
“Iron Tongue,” whispered Inyx, “tell the giant to stand still. Don’t let him move. You did it before. 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 Iron Tongue. The word exploded from his mouth, backed by the full power of the organ. Lan stumbled and had to support himself under the onslaught of that command. Iron Tongue might be insane, but the power of his magical tongue remained.
The effect on the giant convinced Lan that the battle might yet be theirs. 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 from a volcano, torrents of hot lava rushed outward. This lava was the giant’s lifeblood. Larger-than-life hands clutching vainly at the magical 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.
“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 smaller, finally vanishing 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,” Lan commanded, knowing this might be Wurnna’s doom. Claybore had counted on his attacking the wrong place. He had sacrificed his commander in chief 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 the city of mages.
“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 dangled out obscenely.
“It’s aimed for me,” Lan said, pushing Inyx away. “Go join 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 futilely. His mind worked at top sp
eed, 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 grabbed at the sword blade with his hands, knowing even as he did so that no physical force would move the magical object from its course. The sword point dug deeper into cheek, burrowing into the jawbone, driving for the back of his head where the magical point might sever the spinal column.
Lan couldn’t stop the deadly advance; the joined forces of the remaining mages of Wurnna did. Rugga, senior of those sorcerers surviving, 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. Although weakened, the sorcerers 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 themselves 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, leaving his mouth a bloody ruin. Thick spurts of his life juices blossomed and washed down 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.”
“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, in preparation for death.
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.
“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 the giant spider Krek mounting the perpendicular stone wall as if it had stairs cut into it. The soft sounds came from the coppery-bristled fur on his legs brushing as he walked.
“Friend Inyx,” the spider said, “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!” roared 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 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!” taunted Inyx, but deep inside she felt sickness mounting. Their triumph seemed pathetic in the face of Claybore’s victory. Destroying the tongue did not prevent him from becoming more powerful through the regaining of other bodily parts.
“I come for my 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, 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. Inyx thought the slow consumption by death had been halted; but 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 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 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.”
“He blocks us. All of us together cannot pierce the cloak he pulls about himself.”
Then came the faint and eerie chants from L
an’s newly grown lips. The spell mounted in power, built and soared to the skies. It was a spell of power and hope and success.
His soft brown eyes flickered open and met Inyx’s vivid blue ones.
“Lan?” she said hesitantly, unsure of herself, unsure of Lan.
“It’ll be all right. The tongue. It… it’s giving me power I never thought possible. The spells I only half-understood. They’re crystal clear to me now. And more! I see so much more!”
Turning to Rugga, Inyx asked, “What effect will that tongue have on him? When Iron Tongue confronted Claybore, it drove him mad. Because the tongue was once Claybore’s, might that not happen with Lan, also?”
Rugga only shrugged. She was the most potent sorcerer in Wurnna now, but this was far beyond her expertise. Compared with Claybore—and Lan Martak—she was only an apprentice.
“Claybore still remains,” pointed out Krek. “From what the skull has said, victory on this world is minor. Should not our attentions be directed elsewhere?”
“Claybore is on this world,” Lan said. “I ‘feel’ him nearby. If he is stopped now, the war is won.” He got to his feet with Inyx’s strong arm around his shoulders for support. He tapped into the power stone around him, allowed the tongue to roll in his mouth, he drenched with his saliva, become a part of his body—and soul.
“He still wants the tongue,” said warrior captain Jacy Noratumi. “But now we can fight him for it. You can do it, Martak. You can!”
Lan said nothing. He waited, consolidating the power building within, savoring the richness of his senses, the nearness of his own death. When Claybore came, he was ready.
“The tongue!” demanded Claybore.
“Your death,” said Lan in a voice so soft it was barely audible. But he did not merely speak, he used the Voice. “I want you to slay yourself. Kill yourself, Claybore. Die, die!” He put all the urgency possible into that command.
And Claybore started to obey.
Only a faint human voice crying out broke the spell and saved Claybore’s quasi-existence.
[Cenotaph Road 05] - Fire and Fog Page 1