“She dies, Martak. Your lover dies.”
The desolation welling up within Lan couldn’t be expressed. He had no true love for Kiska. She had tried to kill him on more occasions than he could count, yet he did love her. Irrationally, without any regard for common sense, Lan loved Kiska.
“Look at her pain, Martak. I really don’t want to do this to one who has been such a loyal follower, but it gives me some practice. When I become a true god I think I shall do this every day.”
Lan gambled everything on forming one last spell to hurl every spark of energy he had directly at Claybore. Stun Claybore, stop the torture Kiska felt.
The bolt lashed forth with such intensity the rock walls turned viscid and flowed in sluggish, molten streams. The dancing light mote guided the tip of this energy blast directly for Claybore’s skull. The sorcerer staggered back, his metallic legs beginning to melt under the onslaught. But the reaction was not that which Lan expected. Claybore was being driven to the wall and yet an aura of triumph surrounded him.
Lan jerked about, trying to discover the reason. He saw his friends entering. The giant spider Krek lumbered forward, his eight legs ungainly in the confines of the tunnel and chamber. Large brown eyes took in all that happened. Behind Krek came dark-haired Inyx, sword drawn and an expression of bloodlust etched on her handsome face. She and Lan had been through much together as they walked the Road, and his current attitudes about Kiska and the single-minded drive he displayed for stopping Claybore weren’t going to deter her from helping him in his moment of need. Just behind the fierce warrior woman stood Ducasien, the man from Inyx’s home world, the one to whom she had turned when Lan was unable to comfort her.
“Stop her!” came Krek’s voice. Lan ventured a quick glance to one side and saw Kiska k’Adesina rising up, dagger in hand. The dagger was aimed straight for his back.
As long as he maintained the spell against Claybore, Lan couldn’t move, couldn’t defend himself against physical attack. Even worse was the sight of the woman he loved trying to kill him, as if she still plotted with Claybore for his downfall.
Inyx rushed forward, her quick, strong hand gripping Kiska’s wrist and twisting at the last possible instant. Lan felt hot steel rake over his back. Thick streams of blood gushed forth, but the wound was messier than it was dangerous.
But the shock of seeing the woman he was magically forced to love attempt to kill him broke the continuity of his spell. Claybore began worming free of the attack.
“Come,” the sorcerer beckoned. “Come to me!”
The leg twitched and kicked and bobbed until it again hopped across the chamber. Lan’s power waned; he was unable to cope with Inyx and Kiska fighting, the spell he launched against Claybore and the countering spell the sorcerer returned, and the sight of the leg hopping to rejoin the body.
“Krek,” he moaned. “The leg. Stop it!”
Krek’s huge front limb reached out and batted away the leg, sending it into the far wall. Flesh hissed slightly as it touched rock already turned molten from other spells.
“The heat. Oh, my precious fur is smouldering,” cried the spider.
“Never mind that. Stop the leg from reaching Claybore.”
Lan’s words needed more conviction to get the spider to move. The way the man’s tongue burned within his mouth told him that his own enervating spell had been turned against him. Claybore’s cunning played on his every weakness, his every mistake.
But if Krek was unable to move, the gnome’s leader Broit Heresler and his few surviving clansmen did act. The gnomes, who called this hollowed mountain their home, rushed into the chamber, spades and picks cutting and hacking at the leg. The limb tried valiantly to defend itself against the tiny chunks being taken out of it, but there were too many gnomes attacking.
Claybore cursed, tried to magically destroy them, and found himself overextended. He dared not relent in his attack on Lan; to do so meant his own demise. But he needed his leg and the gnomes prevented it from rejoining him.
“Bring out the water,” Broit called. Others of the gravedigger clan rolled huge barrels into the room.
“You can’t do that!” shrieked Claybore.
They threw acid water onto the leg. Flesh smouldered and turned putrescent. Soon, only the bare leg bones remained, and they were easily hammered into dust by the gnomes.
“You’ve lost, Claybore,” said Lan. “Stop your drive for power now. We can work out some sort of truce.”
“Truce? You fool! You don’t understand. I’ve tasted ultimate power. I can’t turn away from it. I can’t share it.”
The sorcerer lay in a heap on the ground, his metallic legs destroyed and his own legs unreachable now. Lan Martak had magically blasted the one leg and the other was little more than bonemeal in a paste of acid water on the floor.
Claybore reached up and touched the spot on his chest where the Kinetic Sphere pinkly pulsed.
“You will find this victory fleeting, Martak,” promised Claybore. The sorcerer’s entire body blinked out of existence. The sorcerer walked the Road.
“You killed him!” cried Broit Heresler, jumping up and down, his bandy legs quivering with excitement.
“He shifted worlds,” said Lan in a tired voice. “We stopped him from regaining either of his legs, but he still walks the Road, plotting and planning.”
A strangled sound came to the mage’s ears. Lan spun and saw Inyx with her fingers firmly wrapped around Kiska’s throat. The dark-haired woman slowly choked the life from her victim.
“Inyx, no!” he cried. Ducasien placed a hand on Lan’s shoulder to restrain him. Lan cast a minor spell that hurled Ducasien across the room. A second spell sent Inyx after him, leaving Kiska alone and gasping for air on the floor. He went to her and knelt, cradling her head in his lap.
Emotions boiled within Lan. He hated her for all she had done. She was insane, a cold-blooded murderer. And he loved her. He had to protect her at all costs.
“Lan Martak,” came Krek’s voice, “she attempted to stab you in the back. You saw. You know of her treachery.”
“I love her,” he choked out. His heart leaped with joy when he saw her muddy brown eyes flicker open and focus on him. Lan read only hatred blazing up at him and it didn’t matter. He loved her.
He had to. That was the curse laid upon him.
“Good riddance,” snarled Kiska k’Adesina. She stood close beside Lan Martak on the mountaintop. The circle of energy surrounding them held the acid rain at bay and gave them a clear view of the tiny procession wending its way across the barren plain to the graveyard. Lan watched and felt a coldness inside grow until he wanted to scream. Inyx gone. Krek gone. His friends had abandoned him because he was unable to break free of Claybore’s spell binding him so tightly—so cunningly!—to Kiska. He didn’t want them to leave, yet his actions had driven them off.
There’d be no more of Krek’s odd observations on life and the worlds they explored together. Inyx would no longer be there to comfort him or defend his back during battle.
The thought of Inyx in Ducasien’s arms sent rivers of hot tears rolling down his cheeks.
Lan Martak clenched his fists and shook with emotion.
“You don’t need them. You have me. What were they, anyhow? A slut and an overgrown bug. You love me, Lan my darling. We can rule together.”
“Be quiet,” he said. Kiska only laughed at him, knowing his impotence in dealing with her.
The cenotaph blinked open and glowed a pale yellow. Lan watched the magics that linked one world to another begin to flow. First one brighter spot, then another, and finally a third and last. Inyx. Ducasien. Krek. Gone.
All that remained on this world was the burning ground where the rains washed over the stone.
“Claybore must be destroyed,” he said.
“Yes, my love,” came Kiska’s mocking words.
Lan Martak clapped his hands and summoned newfound power to shift worlds without a cenotaph or the Kinetic Sph
ere. He didn’t need Inyx or Krek. Claybore would be stopped. He’d show them.
A second clap of his hands prepared the world-spanning bridge of magic.
He would stop Claybore and rule a million worlds.
On the third clap of his hands, only barren rock showed where he and Kiska had stood. They now walked a lush, green meadow on a world distant in space and time.
CHAPTER TWO
The skies split above Lan Martak’s head. Gone were the heavy, leaden clouds that had sent their torrents of acid-laced rain down on the mountain kingdom of Yerrary. Replacing them came rainbows blazing through the spectrum, touching on all the colors and adding new ones Lan had never before seen. Then these, too, vanished and melted into swirling, churning whites and greys that took form, lurched out at him, and dissipated. Dizzy, stumbling, he fell forward into…
… green.
… soft.
… summer.
Lan Martak blinked and smiled slowly as he surveyed this new world. Traveling through the cenotaphs had always produced a disjointed sensation, a falling that ended with an abrupt stop. His new magics gave him more control over the transition between worlds. Claybore might require the Kinetic Sphere to perform his world-stepping, but Lan now went him one better. Only a simple uttered spell gave him access to all the worlds along the Cenotaph Road!
“This is much nicer,” said Kiska k’Adesina. “That other world was too dreary.” Lan looked at her, empty inside. No emotion sprang forth when he deigned to notice the brown-haired woman. She was his avowed enemy, and he felt nothing.
Lan almost rejoiced in this neutrality. He tried to coax more of it into play. He knew full well that Claybore had placed a geas on him, but no spells or chant at Lan’s command removed it. Kiska would be a millstone around his neck and, one day when he least expected it, that weight would carry him under the surface and drown him. If only he could remove her before then!
He wanted to. Deep inside he knew a provocation great enough would give him the strength to sunder Claybore’s geas. He tried to bring it forth. Intellectually he knew that she was responsible for untold suffering on a dozen planets. She commanded Claybore’s grey-clad legions and subjugated entire worlds in the dismembered mage’s name. Lan had no love for Kiska k’Adesina.
And yet he did. The man choked as the geas asserted itself. Lan fought the churnings deep within, the love tinglings that mocked him and his most adroit spells. He shook off the sexual urges and concentrated on the world spread before him.
“Summer,” he said. A light, humid breeze caressed his face and warmed flesh that had been chilled on another world just a step—and incalculable distances—away. He sucked in a lungful of the air and tasted freshness, the heady fragrance of flowers in bloom, the slight decays of forest mulch that meant renewed growth for other plants and trees. He closed his eyes and heard the insistent hum of insects. Lan batted away a few of the more eager bugs as they landed on his forehead and neck.
Kiska gripped his arm and broke the serene mood. “Look, Lan, there. Below. In the valley.”
Reluctantly, he focused his gaze on the terrain stretching out from beneath his feet. Even without his magics, he knew what it was like being a god. Simply standing and looking at this fair world caused the feelings to rise within.
“Claybore’s legions,” he said. Twin lines of grey marched along the riverbanks. From their formation he saw they had no fear of attack. This was their world and they ruled it totally. Lan moved so that he could study Kiska’s reaction. She was, after all, a commander in Claybore’s army. The small smirk on the woman’s face told him what he needed to know. These troops spelled danger for him.
But how?
Did the trap lie in avoiding contact with the troops, or in openly confronting them? Should he flee now before they spotted him or should he attack while surprise was in his favor? Endless possibilities flowed through his mind, like clear water across a river rock. Lan found no answer.
“Well?” demanded Kiska. “What are you going to do?”
“What would you have me do? There are hundreds of them. I can hardly fight each and every one.” He placed his hand on the sword still dangling from his belt. It had been a long while since he’d drawn the weapon. His battles had become more magical.
“A sword?” she said scornfully. “Use your magic. Slay all of them with a fireball.”
“You want me to alert Claybore? Any use of magic will allow him to home in on me.”
“Why not?” Kiska asked. “You can defeat him.” The sly look in her eye told Lan that she believed otherwise. She tried to lure him into a not too subtle trap.
“We go,” he said. “Down the other side of the hill.”
“Where? Where are we going? Are we to wander aimlessly, looking for pretty stones and interesting plants? Or do you have a plan?”
“No plan,” Lan said. Kiska moved closer to him, but he shrugged off her embrace. The man wanted nothing more than to be alone with his own thoughts—to be alone physically. But the geas prevented him from chasing her away. The mere thought of Kiska k’Adesina being out of his sight caused him to shiver uncontrollably and break into a sweat.
They walked down the far side of the hill until they came to a tributary to the river flowing down the far valley. Here they made camp, Lan looking for easy game to catch. He started to stun a small, furry creature with a spell, then held back at the last instant. Instead, he clubbed it with a rock. The spell, no matter how trivial, would alert Claybore to his presence. Lan’s instincts told him to keep hidden for as long as he could, learn Claybore’s weaknesses, find his own strengths, and explore the odd vision given him on the other world.
The Pillar of Night, Claybore had called it.
The memory blurred for Lan, something quite unusual. The magics bound within that towering spire of the blackest stone provided the key to destroying Claybore. All Lan had to do was learn the secret of the Pillar of Night. He snorted and shook his head. Simple. Or it ought to be for one who had pretensions of becoming a god.
Lan swung his crude stone hand axe and clubbed a second animal. He carried them back to camp, where Kiska had laid a small fire.
“Clean them,” he said, dropping the animals at her feet.
“Later,” she said in a husky voice. She stood and approached him. Lan couldn’t move. He needed her. He had to have her.
She came into his arms and they kissed deeply. The revulsion welling inside Lan made him want to gag. He didn’t. He felt her hot breath against his lips, his cheek, his ear, his throat, lower. Lan’s heart almost exploded as Kiska coaxed even more from him. They sank to the soft turf together and made love.
Weakness boiled inside the man. The invincible mage felled by a woman he hated—and had to love. Lan drifted off to sleep, wondering where Inyx and Krek were. And if Inyx were locked in Ducasien’s arms. The sleep, when it came, was not restful.
Lan Martak awoke, hand on sword. The darkness cloaking the tiny glade told him that it was well after sundown, perhaps as late as midnight. The stars wheeled through the sky in unfamiliar patterns and sounds totally unique told him of strange beasts stalking and being stalked.
One sound echoing through the forest brought Lan to his feet. He recognized the whisper of metal against leather, the feet marching, the movement of soldiers.
“Kiska,” he said, shaking the woman awake. He wanted to leave her, but the spell forced him to warn her. “We have company.”
“Ummm,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Those brown eyes snapped wide open when she saw Lan with sword already in hand. No fear showed through, but Kiska tensed. “What is it?”
He silently motioned for her to follow. She gathered their few belongings and trailed behind, making no attempt to move quietly. To Lan and his forest-trained senses, she made more noise than all of Claybore’s grey-clad soldiers.
Lan fought down the urge to use a simple scrying spell. To know the troop numbers, their movement, their positions, would make eluding t
hem so much easier. But he dared not betray his position. In the far distance he “saw” magics stirring, a dim, unsettling sensation for him. Lan had yet to identify the source as Claybore’s magics, but if Lan spotted the use of arcane lore this easily, Claybore would be able to “see” him, also.
Surprise, Lan thought grimly, was his only ally. And a fickle one it was, at best.
He peered around the charred bole of a lightning-struck tree and saw the broken formation of soldiers advancing. They crept forward in waves, the soldiers behind protecting those advancing. Only when the new terrain was adequately scouted did those behind move forward to reconnoiter further.
“They’re armed with bows,” Kiska said. “An odd choice for this world.”
“What do you mean?” Lan demanded.
“Oh, nothing,” the woman said. Even in the dim light filtering through the forest’s canopy of broad green leaves, Lan saw the smirk on Kiska’s lips.
“Make any sound to attract their attention and I’ll kill you,” Lan said.
Kiska laughed at him, the laughter drifting through the forest and alerting the man on the closest end of the combat line. The grey-clad soldier spun and motioned to the man next to him.
Lan gripped his sword hilt until his fingers turned white. He shook himself and then started off through the forest at a breakneck clip. The mage hardly cared if Kiska kept up with his pace or not. He wanted to eliminate her with a single sword thrust—and he couldn’t. The fires of the geas burned the brighter within him now as his anger grew. The spell laid upon him always proved more powerful than his own will. Cursing, damning Claybore for doing this to him, damning Kiska and all the grey-clads, he found a rocky knoll poking up out of the gently grassed forest on which to make his stand.
“They come for you, Lan my love,” mocked Kiska.
“Go on, kill me now,” he said. He stood, sword point lowered. Kiska k’Adesina pulled forth her dagger and started to obey. She wanted to kill him; with all her heart and black soul, she would!
[Cenotaph Road 06] - Pillar of Night Page 2