“Nowless,” she called out, waving to get the man’s attention. “Did you find anything inside the garrison?”
“Only dead greys.” Nowless laughed and held aloft his bloody sword and dagger.
“There is more,” she said. “I feel it. Being with Lan has taught me to sense magic. Not understand it, but sense it.”
“Stop it!” demanded Ducasien. “Stop talking about Martak. He left you. He refused to rescue you when he had the chance. Stop talking about him.”
“We are in danger, Ducasien. Signal the retreat. Do it now!”
“You’re overwrought,” he said. “We want to burn down the garrison and show the people we have the strength to…” His words trailed off. In the distance a pillar of dust rose. Ducasien frowned and said, “There’s no wind today. What causes that?”
“Magic. Call the retreat.”
Even as Inyx spoke, the other fighters gathered around and stared at the dancing, billowing brown column. They spoke quietly among themselves, commenting on the oddity. It moved toward Marktown with a speed that belied any natural phenomenon.
“Back to the hills,” shouted Inyx. The fighters stood rooted to the spot, watching. A sense of dread built inside Inyx. Magics!
The dust cloud died down and a young man dismounted from a horse. But Inyx saw that the horse’s hooves did not touch ground. The steed floated the barest fraction of an inch above. The young man patted his animal on the neck and pulled his cloak around his shoulders as if he were unconcerned about the men who had just killed an entire garrison of soldiers.
He strutted over and eyed them with disdain. “A ragtag crew. Hardly a good opposition, though you did dispatch those poor fools.” He sneered at the bodies on the ground.
“Who are you?” asked Ducasien.
“Ah, this one can speak. You have a stronger will than the others. My spell was meant to freeze all muscles, including your throat. See?” The young man spun and lifted his right hand so that the palm faced the sky and a single finger pointed. Inyx watched in silence as one of her fighters choked to death. She saw the skin about his neck turn red and fingers marks appeared where no one touched him. He let out a final gasp and died, purple tongue lolling from his mouth. He did not sag to the ground, however. He remained standing.
“Amazing the control I had over that one,” said the mage.
“He refused to relax, even in death.” The young man clapped his hands and the dead guerrilla fell face forward to the ground.
Inyx judged the distance and wondered if she could strike before the mage realized she was not similarly paralyzed.
“My lord Patriccan had worried that such an attack might take place on this garrison. The garrison commander had grown lax. He has been punished.” The mage smiled. “As severely as some of his soldiers, I see.”
The mage walked back and forth through the frozen fighters until he came to Inyx.
“You’re a comely wench to be with such an outlaw band. Are you their whore? Do they all use you?”
Ducasien roared and stepped forward, blade rising sluggishly. The spell did not contain him fully, but he had drawn attention to himself. The mage frowned. His lips moved silently and Ducasien froze as solidly as any of the other men.
“Why didn’t my spell work on you? It must be more than a matter of will,” he mused. The mage’s eyes widened. “You’re a traveler from along the Road.”
He spun and looked into Inyx’s brilliant blue eyes. “You, too!”
Inyx lunged and caught the mage in the mouth with her sword point. He gurgled and then spat blood around the steel blade. She recovered and lunged again. The mage already lay dead on the ground, a look of intense surprise permanently etched on his face. The instant he died, Nowless and the others shook the effect of the spell.
“He held us, he did. One man held us all!” Nowless stared at the dead sorcerer. “I had heard of such, but did not believe. How is this possible?” he asked Inyx.
“Never mind that. We’ve got to get out of here. This one’s death might have alerted others.”
Ducasien stared at her. “You weren’t affected by his spell. Why not?”
The dark-haired woman had no answer for that, but she guessed it had something to do with her close association with Lan Martak. They had shared more than one another’s bodies. During their most intimate moments their minds had meshed perfectly, flowing, melting together in a way she had never before experienced. Some of his magical ability—protection—might have lingered.
“Marktown is ours!” she shouted, drowning out further questions. “Prepare for the assault on their fort!”
Inyx did not mention the mage they knew to be in the fort—and now she knew the mage’s name. Patriccan. Kiska k’Adesina’s pet sorcerer. Inyx had clashed with Patriccan before and the other mage had turned tail and fled.
But Lan Martak had been beside her then. What would happen now when she faced a master sorcerer?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“There are evil stirrings,” said Lan Martak. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and continued to stare through the empty doorway in Brinke’s study. The woman denied having formal training as a mage, but Lan felt the power within her. He reached out and found his dancing light mote familiar and pulled it close to him, teasing it, coaxing it to spin and whirl in front of Brinke. At the precise instant, Lan released it and let it explode within Brinke.
The blonde arched her back and threw her hands upward. Her head tossed from side to side and piteous moans escaped her lips. Lan did not worry; she was in no physical danger. What menaced them both lay through the archway.
Claybore.
“I have some small control of it,” Brinke muttered between clenched teeth. “It is so close. So very, very close.”
“There!”
Lan leaned forward and applied his own scrying spells to the strangely formulated one intuitively used by Brinke. A kaleidoscopic pattern churned in the archway and then settled down into a perfect three-dimensional image of Claybore.
“Kill him!” Brinke cried. Her hands clutched the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles turned white. She half rose and leaned forward, eyes turned into pools of utter hatred.
“Be calm,” Lan said soothingly. “This is only a picture of Claybore, not the flesh-and-blood reality.” He snorted derisively. “If you can even call him flesh and blood.”
Lan studied the image as it moved about on mechanical legs. They worked more smoothly than the prior ones and gave the mage better mobility. But it wasn’t the clockwork motion that drew Lan’s full attention. The skull showed renewed signs of cracking. The nose hole had several large fractures radiating from it, and in the back of the skull Lan spotted tiny triangular-shaped craters resulting from long cracks intersecting.
“What’s wrong with his arms?” asked Brinke.
“They don’t seem to be well-hinged, do they?” Lan noted the looseness of the swing, the almost uncontrolled swaying movement. Claybore barely held himself together. When he turned and seemed to face directly at Lan and Brinke, it became all the more apparent.
“His chest!” gasped Brinke.
Lan smiled without humor. He had been responsible for ripping the Kinetic Sphere from Claybore’s chest and sending it bouncing along the Cenotaph Road. He had no clear idea where he had discarded it, but it was no longer beating heartlike in the sorcerer’s chest. Any small advantage he could garner might prove the difference between winning and losing the battle to come.
Lan’s attention wandered a little. He remembered what the Resident of the Pit had said about the Pillar of Night. He shook free of the memory of that ebony, light-sucking column reaching to the very sky. Once he began thinking of it, Lan found it impossible to consider anything else. Perhaps that was its power. To have his thoughts tangled up at an awkward time might mean his death.
Deep down in his heart, his living, beating, flesh heart, Lan Martak did not believe he was immortal. Claybore had said he wa
s and the Resident had intimated it, but Lan had to think otherwise. His powers still grew and would one day match Claybore’s, but that day was still in the future. He could not be immortal. Impossible.
“The visual part of the scrying is complete,” Lan said. “One more small adjustment and we can spy on him. But do not utter a word. The connection will be two-way. We can see while he cannot, but both Claybore and we will be able to hear.”
Brinke nodded understanding. She settled down into her chair, grey eyes fixed on the scene captured under the arch.
Lan performed the final spell.
“…send Patriccan immediately,” Claybore said. “It seems that matters on that world have reached a crisis stage.”
“Immediately, master,” said a uniformed officer. The woman bowed deeply and backed away, leaving Claybore. The mage sat at a table, elbows resting on the top and fingers peaked just under a jawless, bony mouth. Claybore held the pose for a moment, then laughed.
He rose and pulled out charts. Lan studied them over the mage’s shoulder, memorizing the details. Claybore’s headquarters were on the other side of the world and at a port city easily reached by either ship or caravan. For Lan it would be a month’s journey or more, but Claybore would never know his adversary crept up on him.
“Claybore!” came the shout. “Here!”
Lan spun and saw Kiska standing behind him. He had been so intent on Claybore’s map that he had not heard her enter the room. Lan tried to silence her, but the damage had been done.
The ghastly parody of a human jerked about on his clockwork legs. One spastic hand lifted and pointed toward Lan and Brinke. The kaleidoscope patterns returned to the doorway and then faded.
“As I thought. Welcome, Martak, Brinke. And my ever-loyal commander Kiska k’Adesina. How fare you all?”
“He sees us,” gasped Brinke.
“But of course I do, Lady Brinke. I am a mage second to none. Kiska’s outburst alerted me. I knew instantly that someone spied upon me. It required no huge mentation to decide that it had to be Martak. While your scrying spells are interesting, they lack subtlety.”
“Release me, Claybore. Do not hold me a prisoner to your magics any longer.” Brinke’s face reddened and Lan saw the beauty erased by the intense emotional storm wracking her.
“Release you from what, my lovely Brinke? That little geas I placed upon you? Don’t be silly. You have no idea what it will do. Or when.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Claybore’s mocking laughter filled the chamber. It penetrated like a knife and even sent one of the omnipresent demon-powered cleaning units scuttling away in fear. Lan had listened to the byplay and knew it was for his benefit. All the while Claybore boasted and taunted, Lan summoned his energies. He had thought to rest before this confrontation, but he saw now that he would never be more prepared.
The entire wall vanished as Lan hurled one of his fireballs. The green sphere exploded and melted stone and brick on Lan’s side of the spell gate. On Claybore’s side maps and papers strewn about the tables ignited and a superheated wind blew against the sorcerer’s skull. New cracks appeared, but Claybore seemed not to notice. Claybore’s quick hand gestures dropped Lan into inky blackness.
He panicked, remembering the whiteness between worlds. Then he found his light mote and used it to guide him from the pitch black hole and into the sun. Panic would destroy him; calm would allow him to prevail. The two mages fought constantly, striving for advantage.
“Let me help,” urged Brinke. “Use me however you can to destroy him!”
“Yes,” mocked Kiska, “use her. As if you hadn’t already.”
Lan dared not silence either of them. He needed full concentration to counter the increasingly devious spells Claybore threw at him. And his own grew in complexity.
Mere power would not suffice. There had to be artifice, also.
“You are not making any headway, Martak.”
“Nor are you, Claybore.”
“I feel no need to. After all, you are the challenger. You have to unseat me.”
“You’re no king and I’m no usurper,” Lan shot back. He molded his light familiar into a slender needle, the tip of which burned with eye-searing intensity. At the proper instant it would be launched directly for Claybore’s skull. Split that bone monstrosity and Lan thought Claybore’s power would fade.
“You misjudge our positions.”
“Lan!” screamed Brinke.
A rustle of velvet and leather from behind told Lan that Kiska had again tried to knife him in the back. He watched her carefully enough at most times, but when dealing with Claybore he left himself open. As much as he wanted to destroy her, swat her as he would an insect, Lan simply couldn’t. It seemed that, with every spell he cast, his love for the woman grew.
Claybore’s laughter filled his ears.
“Ah, darling Kiska has again tried and failed. She will succeed one day. But I am not too worried about that. I have other traps laid for you, Martak. You will enjoy them, I’m sure.”
“Goodbye, Claybore.”
Lan Martak launched the magical needle with all the power locked within him.
Claybore again laughed. Lan sensed rather than saw Claybore slip aside at the last possible instant. And Lan felt himself being pulled forward with the needle. He followed it between worlds and onto another. Only quick reflexes saved him from a nasty spill. He had emerged in thin air some ten feet off the ground. Lan doubled up and rolled and came to his feet.
Beside him stood a dazed Kiska k’Adesina.
He looked around. This was a fair world, but one he’d never set foot on before. Claybore had outmaneuvered him again. But why?
“Why do you fear this Patriccan?” asked Ducasien.
“I fear his magic, not the man,” Inyx answered. She quickly outlined the battles that had raged outside Wurnna on a faraway world and how Patriccan had taken part. “He is skilled and one of Claybore’s finest surviving sorcerers. Without him Claybore wouldn’t have been able to conquer nearly as many worlds as fast as he has.”
“We do not fear him,” Nowless said staunchly.
“You should,” said Julinne, speaking for the first time in days. “I see only snatches of the future and it is grim. Many, many die. I cannot tell individuals but the land is afloat in blood.”
“Now then, good lady, are you really needing the sight to predict that?” scoffed Nowless.
“Patriccan is responsible for many deaths,” Julinne said. “There are others, potent others. Mages whose power is so incredible I cannot comprehend it.”
“They oppose us at the fort?” asked Ducasien, worried for the first time. “We have adequate fighters”—he looked at Inyx for confirmation—“but spells are rare on this world. Julinne’s the only one with a talent worth mentioning.”
“Shork can conjure fire from his able fingers,” said Nowless. Even as the man spoke he knew how inadequate that sounded. “Perhaps he can learn to do more.”
“Before the battle? Hardly,” said Inyx. “We have the advantage tactically. Can we still assume we have the element of surprise on our side?”
“No,” said Ducasien. “With mages inside the fort? A scrying spell or some infernal ward spell would alert them to our attack long before the main body of fighters arrived. We will have to postpone the battle until they no longer have all these mages available.”
“I, for one, have no desire to be turned into a newt, don’t you know?” Nowless crossed his arms over his broad chest and glowered.
“I did not say we lacked sorcerers. I said there were many engaged in the battle.”
“Now what’s it you’re really meaning to say?” demanded Nowless. “Are you saying Shork’s going to give us the magical cover we need to sneak up on those barstids?”
“Wait.” Inyx took Julinne’s hand in hers. “Can you see the faces of the mages in the battle?”
A tiny nod.
“One is rat-faced and looks as if he’d just su
cked on a bitter root?”
Another nod.
“And another has brown hair, is well built and is accompanied by a small, bright point of light?”
“You have the vision, too?” asked Julinne.
“Lan will somehow come to our aid,” she said to Ducasien. “How he found us, I can’t say. But he did!”
Ducasien turned and stalked off. Inyx said to Julinne, “Thank you. This is very important. It might mean the difference between success and failure.” Inyx bent forward and lightly kissed the other woman on the cheek, then hurried after Ducasien.
She overtook him just as he reached the spot where they’d pitched a small tent.
“Don’t be so crackbrained,” she said, grabbing his sleeve.
He jerked free of her grip and faced her. “It’s always Martak this and Martak that. If he’d been with us, the mage wouldn’t have been able to paralyze us. How do you know Julinne’s vision is accurate? We’ve never been able to verify a thing she’s said. I think you want Martak to be there. In spite of all he’s done to you, you want to see him again. So do it and be damned!”
“Ducasien, please, wait.”
She dropped to hands and knees and followed Ducasien into the tent. There was hardly enough room for the pair of them. It hadn’t mattered before.
“We cannot defeat Patriccan without a mage of surpassing power. Neither of us is able to conjure even the simplest of spells. Give us swords and we can fight the best Claybore has in his legion, but against a mage? Forget it.” Inyx slumped and rolled onto her back, staring up into the blank green fabric of the tent.
Ducasien said nothing as he lay on his pallet, similarly staring upward. Inyx soon felt his hand atop hers, squeezing gently. She turned and looked into the man’s eyes.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Ducasien said.
“You won’t hold me this way.”
“He…”
Inyx reached over and silenced him with a slender finger against his lips. “Don’t speak of him. Not now. The battle is set and we must be ready in an hour.”
[Cenotaph Road 06] - Pillar of Night Page 8