After what seemed like an eternity Allic stood up, tossing the papers on the desk.
"Lousy bitch," he muttered. "I want this room swept from one end to the other," he commanded. "Once it's secure, you people can start in on the books. Maybe in them we can find out who his secret allies are and get some clue as to where he has fled--but these papers here are to be touched by no one but myself."
Grimly, Allic came out from behind the desk, stopped in the middle of the dais stairs to study a design on the far wall, then started to walk toward the door.
With a swiftness that was surprising coming from one of such age, Musta leaped forward, arms outstretched to push Allic from behind.
Shouting a warning, Mark sprang also, catching the sorcerer in the back. The two tumbled past Allic, who spun around like a cat. Twisting and writhing, the old sorcerer tried to grab Allic as he fell onto the carpet, Mark clinging desperately to the man's waist.
There was an explosion of light and instantly Mark's shield powered up to full strength as flames sprang up around him, roaring greedily. He tried to kick Musta away, but he felt as if his arms and legs had suddenly become bound.
The room seemed to disappear, replaced by a terror straight out of hell. Mark found himself looking down into a fiery sea of flowing lava and a sky of darkest black, illuminated only by curtains of liquid flame. A howling filled his ears; then he heard guttural growls of delight as demons rose from the flaming pit, talons extended to render his flesh.
For the first time in years Mark Phillips shrieked with terror, unable to offer the slightest resistance.
Suddenly he felt as if he were falling upward, as if some distant thread was tugging at his doomed body. Musta still clung to him, but the enfeebled hands could not hold, and as a demon reached up and grabbed the aged sorcerer by the legs, the old man lost his grip on Mark and dropped into the nightmare of hell.
There was a violent jerk and Mark fell backward, tumbling back into the room. A cloak was thrown over him, smothering the flames that had started to lick at his clothing.
Where the carpet had been, a pentagram now stood revealed, the portal within ablaze with hellish light.
"You fell through when that damned Musta tried to push Allic in," Ikawa said, crouching over his friend, his face contorted with anxiety. "It took all of Allic's strength to pull you back through. If he hadn't grabbed you at the last second you'd have been lost."
One of the other sorcerers moaned and pointed at the floor. Apparently Mark had dragged his feet over the pentagram when he came back through, for all could see a break in the glowing lines.
A horrifying shriek filled the room and all looked up at the blazing portal.
Musta seemed to be rising out of a hole in the floor, writhing in pain, impaled through the chest by the talons of a demon who now stood before the party.
Still numbed by the horror he had seen, Mark scurried backward, while the other sorcerers snapped up their shields.
The towering demon struggled to push his way into the room even as Allic snapped out a cone of light around the pentagram, to which the rest of the sorcerers added their own energy.
The demon struggled against the wall of light for a moment longer; then his gaze fixed on Allic and a smile lit his twisted features.
"I had thought that Sarnak had sent through another tidbit for torment," he growled, "but I can see that you are now master here, Allic."
"Sarnak has been banished and this portal will be smashed forever," Allic snarled.
The demon barked out a howl of laughter that shook the room.
"My master will be pleased to hear that one of his old rivals still lives. Sarnak created this entrance into our realm for his secret torments, and for occasional help. But not even he really knew where it led."
The creature paused and the flames seemed to grow much stronger. "Ah, but do you not remember where we have met before? I am Kultha."
Even through his fear, Mark could see Allic start, and visibly pale.
"Yes, now you remember me," the demon screamed, "and the fields of Barquna. We have not forgotten."
"Gorgon," Allic whispered. "You were one of Gorgon's chieftains at the battle."
"Yes, I serve the lord Gorgon, you pale-skinned bastard," the demon roared, "He still lives and has not forgotten you or your father. Jartan would never have won without trickery, and he is a craven beast; Gorgon looks forward to the next encounter with him. And know this, Allic, son of Jartan the pig: I have reserved a place on my trophy rack for your head."
"Sarnak's treachery was only a shadow of what you shall face, though we helped to twist his thoughts, to feed his dreams."
"Why do you tell me this?" Allic whispered.
"Why not? You are powerless against those of us who dwell in hell, and we shall destroy you."
The demon roared out his laughter and raised his left hand, upon which Musta still writhed. From his right palm a bolt of flame shot out, but Allic and his companions were ready and it smashed ineffectively against their shields. Ikawa stood protectively over Mark, covering him with his own shielding as flame washed the room, igniting the books and desks into a raging inferno. Allic murmured the spell that would close the portal and the glowing lines began to shrink inward, growing smaller and smaller.
Kultha, still laughing, started to fall away, and as he did his gaze fixed on Mark. "Know this, tidbit: You are my prey, unjustly snatched from me. Soon you will be mine again, and I will bring you into eternal anguish by my own hands," the demon whispered.
The portal continued to close downward until all they could see was Musta, still twitching and shrieking on Kultha's talons; then sorcerer and demon were gone.
Allic rushed over to Mark, sweeping him into his arms and striding for the door.
"You've got to fight the terror," he said grimly, "or it will overwhelm you."
Mark tried to smile, but he wondered if ever again he could sleep, or wake in the night without the memory of that fear tormenting his soul.
Allic paused at the doorway and looked back into the burning room.
"The gods help us all," he said, his voice edged with fear, "if the demon lords are stirring again."
Chapter 2
Kochanski stood alone on the balcony of Jartan's private suite listening to the surf pounding, hundreds of feet below. The smells of the sea and the cries of the seabirds beneath him should have been relaxing, and several times he made a conscious effort to unwind, but he was still too tense.
He glanced over his shoulder at the ornate thronelike chair behind him. Try the Godchair one more time and then call it a day, a part of him urged. But he just didn't have the energy to make the attempt, so he returned to contemplating the coming sunset.
He had been out how many times today? Three? No, four. Each time he had sat in the Godchair and the chair's magic had taken his soul on a journey through this universe that they were marooned in, while his body stayed safely in the palace. And each time he had travelled to some Earthlike world among the stars. Some were so similar to the real thing that it had wrenched his heart to look upon them. As his mind's eye explored the surface of each planet he saw great wonders and beauty--but no Earth.
His skill in using the Godchair was growing stronger every day, and now he could make it respond to his slightest command. But the search for Earth seemed to be coming to a dead end. He had originally compared it to trying to find a needle in a haystack. But what if this particular universe was the wrong haystack? According to Jartan there were so many universes, or dimensions, that no one had ever bothered to count them all.
He felt a flow of the Essence surrounding him and turned to face a pillar of light forming behind him. An instant later there was a brightly glowing figure within the column: Jartan, one of the Creators and rulers of this universe.
"Try not to be too depressed, Kochanski," commented Jartan, as the pillar of light coalesced into a brilliant, luminous figure shining with an internal radiance. "This search of
yours could take years. Allowing yourself to be disappointed this early is self-defeating."
Kochanski smiled and relaxed. "My lord, sometimes I do wonder why I even try. Hell, this world of yours is better than anything I ever dreamed of. I've got the powers of a sorcerer, a thousand year life span, and a whole universe to explore. This is the type of place I'd fantasize about when I was a kid growing up in Trenton."
"Trenton, is it a beautiful place?" Jartan asked.
Kochanski started to laugh so hard that tears came to his eyes.
"Did I say something funny?" Jartan inquired.
"Ah, my lord, if only you could experience Trenton on a hot summer night, and smell the Delaware River down by the sewer plant, you'd understand."
"May I look within?" he asked.
"Certainly, my lord," Kochanski replied, pleased that the god would ask permission before probing his private thoughts. Kochanski felt the gentle stirring within his mind and then the pulling away.
Jartan's features wrinkled in a grimace of disdain. "I see what you mean," he said, chuckling softly. "But there are loved ones there who can make even a place like that beautiful."
"My folks, my brothers and sisters, and my granny," Kochanski whispered. "I guess they would've gotten the telegram a long time ago."
"Telegram?"
"A message from my government. Since the war started back home everyone lives in dread of the messenger, bearing the statement 'On behalf of the President I regret to inform you that...' " He fell silent for a moment.
"I'll be reported missing in action, most likely. My family will hope against hope that after the war is over I'll show up. They'll carry that hope for years, always wondering, praying, never knowing. You see, it's all so strange. Here I've never been happier, yet at the same time there is that tug, that pull. If only I could spend one day back there, to tell them I'm safe, that I'm happy... Then I would return to your service."
"I guess that's what's tugging at most of us. For some there is family, several with wives and children. For others there's still the sense of duty to their country in time of war. Maybe one or two are just plain homesick. Yet I think most of us in the end would prefer to stay here, if only we could finish up our business back there first."
"It might not be possible that way," Jartan replied gently. "If, and I must emphasis the if, you do find a way, you might be able to cross back, but chances would be high that keeping a gate open to your world would be difficult. Because the Essence was drained from your world, your crystals would be useless for reforming a gate to return to Haven. Tracing and reopening a gate at a certain time later would be difficult. Chances are those of you who ventured through would be lost to us forever. It'll be a hard choice if that chance ever comes."
Kochanski looked away, unable to respond.
"Live your existence for what it is now," Jartan said in a fatherly tone. "All of you by rights should have died in that battle back on Earth. View what you have now as a gift of a new life, unexpected, and to be treasured as such. From what you have told me of the war on Earth, millions upon millions like you have died tragically without such a chance to live as you now have. You have also had the additional gift of finding former enemies, the Japanese, to be friends as well."
"I should add that your arrival here has been a gift to us. I fear to think what might have happened in the war between my son and Sarnak without you offworlders. Without all of you I probably would have lost him, and thousands more might have died as well. Know that I shall be forever grateful."
Kochanski looked into Jartan's eyes. The gaze held his, filling him with a sense of peace. Then, embarrassed, he chuckled softly.
"Ah, what the hell am I bitching about?"
Jartan patted Kochanski on the shoulder, then threw back his head and laughed, delighted with the pleasure of friendship with this mortal who did not grovel in the presence of a god.
"Good, very good. Anyhow, there's some business we need to discuss, so why don't you call it a day as far as the practice goes? How about a drink first?"
Kochanski nodded, considering what kind of drink he felt like having today. Something stronger than beer... Rum and coke? No, too sweet. How about bourbon on the rocks? They hadn't tried that yet. And he concentrated on remembering the smell and taste of a tumbler of bourbon and ice as he sat with his dad on the back porch on a summer evening, listening to the radio broadcast a Phillies game. It had been the week before he was shipping out to Europe, his last night at home. The memory was sharp and poignant, standing out with crystal clarity: the taste of the bourbon, the clinking of the ice, and the warmth of that shared moment. He could sense Jartan's mind meshing with his, savoring the moment as well, feeling the warmth of the evening air, the sweet sadness of a time now lost to all but memory.
He could feel Jartan drifting out and away, and their eyes held again for a moment in understanding. A moment later, the god offered him an icy tumbler, the cubes clinking, the scent of fine aged bourbon tantalizing him.
Smiling, Kochanski took the tumbler and held it up.
"Your health, sire," he said formally before taking a sip. It was as good as the memory. Smiling, Jartan kept his hand extended. There was a flash of light and a second tumbler appeared. Jartan brought the drink to his lips and a smile crossed his features.
"Excellent. Now hold out your free hand."
Kochanski complied and there was another flash of light. A cry of delight escaped him: Between his fingers was a glowing cigarette. Taking a deep puff he exhaled luxuriantly.
"A Lucky Strike, no less!"
"Let's keep this one a secret," Jartan said in a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't approve of the habit--not good for your health and I dislike any addictions. But as you would say, 'what the hell.' I figured you'd enjoy it, but don't let the others know or they might start pestering me about it."
Kochanski smiled and nodded.
"Now to business," Jartan said smoothly, a smile still lighting his features.
"First, your progress with the Godchair has been remarkable. This search for your home world has served as excellent training for the development of your talents. However, you need to develop the skills of symbolic matching to a greater degree. I want you to try using actual models of landmarks or artifacts from your world, as opposed to just the world itself, and allow the Godchair to follow a solid image when you hunt."
"You mean like..." and Kochanski floundered for a moment as he tried to bring images into focus. "Let's see... the Rocky Mountains, or the Empire State Building ... or the Atlantic Ocean..."
"Your best image was of that building: Something that your people actually built and that you have seen yourself. And then, following that picture, create a model of it here for you to focus on."
"Uh, Jartan, I'm still pretty weak on creating things. Can't I just draw it or something?"
"No. It must be an exact image. Which brings me to my second point. You need to also develop some expertise with dimensional travel into other universes, so I'm going to assign you some help from someone who has a talent for the creation of portals, among other things."
Kochanski shrugged. "Okay by me. Can he help me with those models you want, too?"
He started to feel uneasy when Jartan began to laugh.
"It's 'she,' Kochanski. And you will be surprised at what she can do."
The woman in the mirror was very beautiful, of that she felt no doubt. But how old? Leaning back in her chair, Patrice gazed at the reflection before her.
She let the image shift slightly, creasing away the first faint lines that traced outward from the eyes, erasing the darkness beneath them into a smooth glow of youth.
But the eyes themselves, she thought sadly. I can still work subtle changes on my features, but my eyes will never lose that edge of hardness. Never again could she look out at the world with the doelike innocence that had been such a charm thousands of years before.
She had seen far too much, and felt and lost far too much. Pe
rhaps that innocence was lost when Kavan had so foully betrayed her. She had never meant to kill him, she thought sadly, only to let him know that it was not wise to cheat on the daughter of a god. How she had mourned her first lover. As for the young creature who had perished with him, she had no such thoughts. After all, the girl had deserved it for hunting upon someone else's grounds.
"Perhaps that was when the innocence fell away," she whispered sadly.
Was it Kavan's fault, or was it after she had truly lost count, and no longer cared? There had been that brief moment again when Traciea had been born--but then how long ago was that? Three millennia? And Traciea, who had never gained the Essence--the father's fault undoubtedly, whatever his name was. She had watched poor Traciea grow, remain barren, and in the end drift into horrifying senility. That, perhaps, was what had caused the first lines of hardness to settle in as she, still young after a thousand years, saw her child grow old, wither, and die in her arms.
She had borne no children since.
Patrice automatically locked the hurt away and moved on with her musings. There had always been other games to play; and in them there were no emotions to tangle in, no unfeeling males who would use, laugh, and drift away. Men might try to use her that way, but they had at least learned to fear her.
As her concentration waned, the faint lines and shadows returned to her features. Yet she could still see the cold beauty of her form. Her hair had not faded at least, flowing in an amber cascade over her shoulders to cover her full breasts, then drift over her narrow waist to end in a filigree of curls around the fullness of her hips. Smiling, her features appeared almost youthful--except for the eyes.
Ulinda's slim hand came to rest on her shoulder. Patrice looked up, smiled, and came to her feet.
"Do you bring good news?"
"Yes, my lady," replied Ulinda. "Imada, who is the younger of the two outlanders we captured, is finally ready for the next step."
Crystal Sorcerers Page 3