“You do not deceive me with your subtle workings, Resident. I know that is all you have left in the way of power. A nudge here, a touch there. Martak will fail you.”
“He does not consider himself my pawn.”
“He’s too stupid. Who else would have given him the abilities he has shown? He destroyed Lirory Tefize with hardly any effort. Lirory was a master mage. I say that it was you, Resident, who gave Martak the power. Oh, you were cunning about it. Ask Martak and he’d tell you he gained the ability on his own. I know better.”
“He is a remarkably adept human.”
“He’s a remarkably incapable one,” countered Claybore. “You chose him, how or why I can’t say, but you picked him to be your champion. I have removed him permanently now.”
“How so?”
“Don’t play coy, Resident. You know.” Claybore strutted around, basking in victory and the way his fingers wiggled once again. He built scintillant sculptures in the air, then destroyed them with a sweep of his arm. This was what it meant to again live.
“My powers fade. I am so weak.” The voice trailed off.
“You cannot gull me into such an obvious trap. Nor can you convince me Martak isn’t your special pet. But k’Adesina is mine and she subverts his power.” Claybore perched on the edge of the cistern, metal feet dangling into the pit. Far below stirred the darkness, so similar to his own shadow hound and yet so different. “Martak uses his magics and the geas I placed on him grows stronger. He and Kiska k’Adesina are bound magically to one another now. She is a dagger placed at his throat. When the proper moment comes, when he cannot help himself, that dagger will sever his arteries!”
“Using others in such a fashion is but one reason why I opposed you then and do so you now.”
“It doesn’t matter what you oppose or favor now, Resident of the Pit. I allowed k’Adesina to be captured. Even she does not realize how she has been forged into the perfect weapon against Martak. As the bond grows, so does her outward affection for him. But this is only a guise. Her hatred for him will destroy him—and he will be powerless because of my compulsion geas.”
“He is no apprentice. He knows the nature of the spell.”
“Oh, yes, he might suspect the geas, but he will be completely unable to do anything about it. That is the beauty of my revenge. Martak understands that Kiska will be his destruction and he cannot stop it. He welcomes it and hates himself even as he does.”
“Why do you tell me this?” Swirls of black moved through equally black space. Only the adept saw such arcane movement. Claybore saw and clacked his jaws together in delight.
“He robbed me of my flesh. Never again will I be able to look as others do. He has stolen my tongue and misuses its power. But I have rejoined arms and torso and head and heart. Before I take possession of my legs and discard these pathetic mechanical limbs, I wanted you to congratulate me.”
No response.
“Come, come, Resident. Give me your blessing. I might even free you from the Pillar.” Claybore only baited the captive god. Nothing in the universe would persuade him to free the Resident of the Pit from such carefully wrought imprisonment.
“Throughout the eons, you have not changed, Claybore,” came the measured words. “Martak will triumph and become more than you ever dreamed. I see the future and it is his.”
“You won’t share that future,” snarled Claybore.
“I will not share his future,” agreed the Resident.
“Watch your pet crushed under foot,” said Claybore, his mood lightening again as victory became a heady possibility. “We will do battle. His most impressive spells will fail. I will be victorious. Wait and see.”
The Resident of the Pit did not deign to answer.
Claybore pulled his legs over the rim of the pit and laughed once more. His shadow hound shied away at the sound, fearing new punishments. Claybore motioned for the beast to follow. He wended his way back through the excavation and upward to where Lan Martak toiled to find a clue on how to use the pair of legs to his best advantage.
Claybore would not allow the young mage the opportunity to discover that.
“I know where the legs are,” Lan Martak said. “I can see them as plainly as if they were in this very room. But how do I use them? What gain did Lirory see from obtaining them?”
“Don’t fret,” said Kiska k’Adesina, her hand stroking over his light-brown hair. “You are a master now. The way will open to you when you least expect it.”
Lan turned and looked at the woman. Manic intensity burned within her, no matter how placid her words. He sensed the magics boiling around them and the subtler undercurrents that bound them together. But try as he might, he found no way of separating their destinies, nor did he have an inkling as to why he protected her as he did. He had to believe it was instinct on his part, a hunch that Kiska would be useful in the battle against Claybore.
But this hardly seemed right. Lan shrugged off the worrisome thoughts.
Claybore knew how difficult it was for Lan to slay wantonly. Even Kiska’s husband had not been a careless or thoughtless death at his hand. Surepta had murdered Lan’s lover, raped and murdered his half-sister, and had driven him from his home world in disgrace. In spite of all that, the death throes Surepta made as Lan had run him through with a sword had not been satisfactory. No amount of suffering had balanced the cosmic scales for what he had done.
Lan had been warned by the Resident of the Pit that revenge would turn to ash in his mouth. It had. There had been no thrill of victory over Surepta, no feeling of justice being served. The death had been just that—a death both necessary and sickening to him.
“You cannot defeat a mage who has such experience, Lan,” the woman told him. “Don’t try. Give it up.”
He wanted to strike out, to silence her. But there was no way. To use the Voice only hardened the ties between them. A sudden use of magic—another fire elemental—might kill Kiska, but he couldn’t do that. Not now. The spell died on his lips before being half-formed.
“I will not allow him those legs,” he said firmly.
“He can’t get to them. Lirory hid them well.”
“I can see them,” Lan said tiredly. This wore him down—dealing with Kiska. That was another aspect of the spell. Simply dismissing her as annoying, much like a mosquito buzzing about his head, proved as difficult as killing her. “I am sure Claybore is able to, also. After all, they were once a part of him. The bond between leg and body would be strongest for him.”
“You are tired. Rest. Relax.”
Lan turned from Lirory’s grimoires and sat in the slag rock throne. Energies welled up and bolstered his flagging power. He closed his eyes and wondered if the use of a sudden enough spell wouldn’t kill Kiska and free him.
He tried and failed.
Lan ignored Kiska’s constant negative comments and cast forth his senses throughout all of Yerrary, seeking, probing, examining. With ease he found the chamber cradling the legs. They radiated a glow he thought should be obvious to anyone, then realized he looked not with his eyes but with other magical senses.
Lan rubbed his temples and felt as if he’d burst into tears at any moment. How far he had come. Gone were the simple days of roving through the woods near his home, finding game, living free. Gone, all gone, and in their place came new powers and even weightier burdens and wearisome responsibilities.
“Lan?” came a familiar voice. He opened his eyes and saw Inyx. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, the sight of Ducasien standing so close beside her sent him into a rage.
“What is it?” he yelled.
“We came to see if you needed anything,” the woman said, her words turning chilly. “I see you are well enough served.”
“I am.”
Ducasien started to speak. Lan glared at him and the man fell silent, the words jumbled in his throat. This brought a slight sneer to the mage’s lips. This was the way to deal with subordinates—do not allow them to speak unles
s addressed directly.
Power flared within and he liked it.
“Krek says you’ll need help when you meet Claybore.” The raven-haired woman tossed her head and brushed away strands of the lustrous hair. She had bathed, eaten, and rested. In other times Lan would have found her heartrendingly beautiful. Now she was little more than an annoyance, an interruption—another of his servants.
“The spider is too prissy for his own good,” said Lan. “What does he know of the battles to come? They will be ones of magic. There won’t be need for insects.”
“Insects?” Inyx’s eyebrows shot up. She was too shocked to be angry at the man’s words. “Is that all he is to you? A bug?”
“You know what I meant. What will happen will be between mages. Claybore and myself. We will fight and I will win.”
The throne on which he sat glowed a deeper-hued red and power suffused his body until he felt invincible. How had he ever thought Claybore his equal? Lan Martak was better, unconquerable!
“Sorry I even mentioned it,” Inyx said bitterly. She motioned to Ducasien to accompany her. The man’s hand rested on his throat as he tried to speak. Lan’s laughter followed them from the room. Yes, this definitely was the way to handle servants.
“You have learned much, Martak,” came the formless words inside his head. Lan’s attention snapped to the chamber holding the legs, then slowly circuited the vast interior to the mountain kingdom. He found Claybore some distance away, but that meant nothing. Their magics penetrated rock as well as space and time. Whether they were in the same room or worlds apart, this battle would continue until one of them was defeated.
“You will not recover your legs, Claybore.”
“What makes you think I want them, worm?” The sorcerer vented a harsh laugh.
“You want them,” said Lan. Already he mounted his ward spells, formed his attacks. The throne energized him and gave a support. Although it looked nothing like the power stone he wore around his neck, the material of the throne served the same purpose. From somewhere on this world it focused the flows needed to transcend mere human capacity.
“Of course I do. I lied to see how you would respond. What good will they do you, Martak? Let me take them. Perhaps we can come to an accommodation in this.”
“You’re trying to bribe me?”
Even as Lan formed the words, he parried a magical bolt that would have wrecked entire cities. He parried and returned a bolt no whit less powerful.
And so went the battle. Each mage probed for the other’s weakness. And neither one found the crucial spot for the final thrusting, the most vulnerable point. Lan called more and more on the throne for power—and felt another attraction.
“Kiska,” he moaned softly. “Come to me. I need you!”
And Kiska k’Adesina stood beside him while he battled Claybore. Enemies to the death, they held one another like lovers while Lan’s spells sizzled and cracked about their heads. With each spell cast, the fatal attraction grew.
Lan knew what Claybore did. The other sorcerer played a waiting game. The stalemate improved his position immensely, because Lan bound himself more and more tightly to Kiska with every passing instant.
“No!” Lan wailed. A brief flash of insight told him he was lost. The ties between Kiska and himself had been forged too strongly. He mentally slipped and allowed Claybore to rob him of the throne. A spell from the gesturing sorcerer caused frost to form. Lan stood and the throne turned to powder behind him.
“Where does your power come from now, Martak?” asked Claybore. “You are growing weaker, even weaker. Surrender to my will!”
Lan heard the words, hated the attraction to Kiska k’Adesina—and oddly, grew stronger. Away from Lirory’s throne, new and subtly different power surged through his arteries. He discovered untapped reservoirs within that caused the energy derived from the throne to pale in comparison.
“You have learned much,” congratulated Claybore.
Lan had learned. No compliment came without its barb.
Lan jumped back just as Claybore’s shadow hound slashed out at his legs. The beast had sneaked up on him by coming through other dimensions, other worlds. Kiska hanging on one arm, the hound snapping and clawing at his legs, Lan Martak fought as he’d never fought before.
“Begone!” he cried, forming a spell that violated space around the shadow hound. The creature puffed! out of existence. Claybore ceased his attack, and Kiska moved from him to hunker down near a low wooden table.
Stunned at the sudden cessation of all battle, Lan reeled and reached out to support himself. He staggered until he found a wall. Head ringing like a bell, sweat pouring from him in rivers, he panted as if he’d finished running a daylong race.
“You won!” came Kiska’s words.
But Lan knew that was false. He had not won. He had lost. Claybore played the game skillfully. He had traded the shadow hound for a strengthened geas binding Kiska to Lan. No matter how he tried now, Lan Martak knew he could never allow himself to be separated from Kiska k’Adesina.
What would Claybore’s next move be? Lan couldn’t tell, but he knew he’d soon enough discover it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Krek stood to one side watching as Lan Martak battled Claybore. The shadow hound vanished with a pop! and the struggles ceased. All that remained in the chamber was the lingering feeling that, while Claybore had left, he had not been defeated.
“You won!” cried Kiska k’Adesina. “To defeat a mage with Claybore’s power you must be the greatest who ever lived.”
Krek watched carefully as Lan reacted. The play of emotion on the human’s face bothered the spider. He knew so little about what actually made Lan Martak what he was. The feeling he had, though, was not good. Lan responded to his bitter enemy’s compliments.
“I haven’t won,” said Lan. “He still seeks his legs—and I do not have them. I must get them. I must!”
Inyx came to stand beside Krek, her hand resting on one of his furry legs.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“He will not listen to anything we say,” the spider replied. “But he will listen to her.”
“Why?”
“You humans go about things in ways too bizarre to comment upon,” said Krek. “I have often wondered at his tastes.”
“This is different,” insisted Inyx.
Krek said nothing. The dramatic transformation in his friend was not one he liked seeing. The kindness he had witnessed before in Lan Martak now vanished, to be replaced by coldness. The mage was driven by a single-minded determination to destroy Claybore. That wasn’t evil. But the changes occurring in Lan Martak were—especially his inability to force Kiska k’Adesina away.
“He doesn’t need us,” said Ducasien. The man stood close to Inyx and hesitated when he started to put his arm around her waist. Krek saw that the woman was torn between Ducasien and Lan, not willing to commit herself to either one—not fully, not at this moment.
He shared the dark-haired human’s confusion.
“He does,” said Inyx, but conviction wasn’t in her tone.
“Ask him.”
Inyx glared at Ducasien, then stormed forward and planted her feet firmly in front of Lan.
“What can we do to help you defeat Claybore?” she asked.
The expression on Lan’s face caused even Inyx to take a step back. The contempt written there was withering.
“I don’t need you,” he said. “Your powers are no longer sufficient. Claybore and I fight on a different plane. We battle among the worlds, all along the Cenotaph Road.” He smirked when he said, “Only I can defeat him. Not even Terrill was strong enough. I am.”
“Leave us,” said Kiska, her tone haughty and her expression as contemptuous as Lan’s.
“I don’t take orders from you, bitch,” snapped Inyx. Her dagger seemed to leap into her hand of its own volition and the warrior woman swung without even realizing she made the effort. The blade struck something subst
antial in midair.
Lan’s hand had been raised and his fingers moved in arcane magical patterns.
“Let me kill her,” raged Inyx. “She is destroying you. Listen to this bitch’s words and Claybore will eat your soul!”
“Claybore doesn’t control her,” Lan said. “I do. And I want her by my side. I… I need her.” Sweat popped out on his forehead as he spoke and he began shaking as if he had a palsy.
“Lan Martak,” spoke up Krek, “look to yourself. You are the weapon needed to stop Claybore. That much is evident. But you are destroying yourself. Without you, what chance does any of us have?”
“None,” the man said. The strain passed and the contempt returned. “You’re only a spider. And her, she’s not even that.” His brown eyes locked on Inyx’s cold blue ones.
Inyx spun and stormed off. Ducasien glared at Lan and followed the woman. Krek remained behind, emotionally torn in this matter. The spider felt himself at a crossroads and unsure what road to take from this point into the future.
“You did not say the proper words, Lan Martak,” said Krek. “You embarrassed and enraged friend Inyx. That is no way to treat her after her long and loyal—and loving—service.”
“Let her go,” said Lan. “She can’t help me any more.”
“And this lumpy female can?” Krek pointed to Kiska.
Lan said nothing, but the sweat began beading on his forehead once again. The strain he endured had to be tremendous, but his words did nothing to escape the geas.
“She can,” Lan Martak said.
“She will destroy you. She is destroying you. She is Claybore’s pawn and nothing more. How does she treat you? Why do you allow her to know your strategies, your tactics? If she means so much, place her in safety—somewhere far away.”
“No!”
[Cenotaph Road 05] - Fire and Fog Page 14