The mech struck a pose, spindly arms on nonexistent hips. The torso appeared human enough, but a pearly light shone forth from the region of the heart. Silvain knew no heart beat within the breast; the Kinetic Sphere pulsed there. That globe allowed Claybore to slip from world to world without using the cenotaphs. In conquest of that particular organ, he had thought himself ultimately triumphant, but that fool Martak and the others had proven otherwise.
“You failed,” came the words ringing inside Silvain’s head.
“I offer no excuse.”
“Good. None is expected—or accepted.”
“I will not fail again.”
“Failure a second time means death. I have been lenient with you because of past victories. Silvain, I cannot tolerate another failure. I must triumph on this world.”
“While I have been here only a short time, I have examined the assembled documents. Conquest goes well.”
“Fool!” raged Claybore, the swirlings of ruby light forming in the eye sockets of his skull once more. “Who cares for mere territory? I fight a battle spanning entire worlds! I must find those parts of me Terrill scattered along the Road. That is my goal, not some mudball spinning stupidly through space.”
“I err.”
“Where is k’Adesina?”
“Here, Lord.”
Alberto Silvain turned to see a small, almost fragile woman enter the room. She held herself proudly erect, her brown hair cut short to form a skullcap. What she lacked in stature she more than made up for in intensity. Silvain blinked as he looked at her. More than ambition drove her—but what could that something else be?
“You two have much in common,” said Claybore. “You have both failed me.”
“The spider’s webbing prevented me from slaying Lan Martak for you, Lord. It will not happen—”
“Silence!” roared Claybore. “Excuses. You both make the same excuses and the same promises. ‘It won’t happen again,’ ” he mocked. “No, it won’t. You will succeed this time. Both of you.”
Silvain frowned, wondering what this k’Adesina woman had done. It would take a while to build a new intelligence network among the grey-clad soldiers populating this world, but it would be worth the effort. He needed information if he wanted to serve Claybore. Data on this woman ranked highly on his list of items to learn. She carried rank equal to his own.
“Report, Kiska,” the mage commanded. The mechanical clanked as it shifted position. Silvain felt uneasiness at the movement; the skull’s eye sockets stared blankly at him.
The woman cleared her throat and began. “Since coming to this world through the cenotaph atop Mount Tartanius, I have organized four major offensives.”
“Get on with it,” snapped Claybore. “I need to know the precise problems we face as of this instant.”
“Very well, Lord. Subjugation is complete except for three areas.” Silvain perked up, listening intently. The woman’s voice took on added timbre. She became totally enmeshed in the telling.
“The valley of spiders, Bron, and Wurnna,” supplied Claybore. “The spiders are insignificant. They have nothing that interests me. Is what I seek in Bron or Wurnna?”
“The city-state of Bron is under siege. While our troops have suffered unexplained losses recently, the city itself is permanently sealed by spells. No one enters or leaves.”
“But I still feel my tongue!”
“Yes, Lord,” the woman went on, excitement entering her voice. “Your tongue is in Wurnna.”
“Damn!”
“The sorcerers of that city easily counter our mages’ best spells. They repulse our most fervent attacks. It is my belief that their leader, known as Iron Tongue, either has in his immediate possession, or knows the whereabouts of, your tongue.”
“With a name like that, he must employ the tongue on a regular basis,” supplied Silvain. He drummed nervous fingers on the tabletop in front of him. “Is it possible he carries the tongue inside his mouth—in place of his own natural tongue?”
“It is possible,” said Claybore.
“Directing further efforts toward Bron seems wasteful. I suggest all attention be focused on Wurnna and the sorcerers within it. For that, Lord, we need your aid.”
“It shall be available. But I would like the two of you to work out a strategy for physical conquest. At the precise moment I launch my sorcerous assault, I want all within Wurnna to fear for their mortal bodies. Have such a plan prepared for my examination no later than midnight.”
Both Silvain and k’Adesina snapped to rigid attention as the mechanical carrying Claybore’s torso and skull glowed a deeper blue and walked swiftly from the room. Albert Silvain sank to his chair in relief when the mech had vanished.
“What did you do wrong?” he asked k’Adesina.
Her chocolate eyes blazed.
“My defeat was small compared to yours. I did not lose our lord a bodily part. I merely failed to destroy Martak and the spider.” She sneered as she added, “Even without Claybore’s urging, I would gladly slay Martak.”
“Why?” Silvain heard the personal animosity toward the young warrior ringing out like a black bell.
“He killed my husband.”
“Martak has led a checkered past, it seems. And one more impressive than I had thought.”
“I had him in my grasp and I lost him,” Kiska k’Adesina said, her words quavering with emotion. “That will not happen again. This time he will be mine!”
“I rather think our duties lie in obtaining for our lord what he seeks,” Silvain said dryly. He brushed away imaginary wrinkles in the map before them and looked it over. The stone hut they huddled in was centrally located to both Bron and the city of sorcerers. Claybore’s entire encampment could be shifted to either target quickly; earlier subjugation had gone well and left the two most difficult goals close to one another, allowing concentration of forces. Silvain stroked the stubble on his chin, ran his finger over the rough parchment map, then indicated a star on the chart, asking, “This is the location of Wurnna?”
A curt nod.
“So. I believe a frontal assault in such a fashion gives the greatest chance for success.” He sketched out the paths for k’Adesina.
“No,” she said emphatically. “This is not the way.”
“May one inquire why not?” Silvain’s pride had been injured by her adamant denial. He fancied himself a master tactician and was unused to having anyone contradict him. While he had failed in the Twistings, it had been due to unforeseen powers controlled by Lan Martak and not from any lack of genius on his part.
“This canyon—this corridor leading to the gates of Wurnna—is off limits for our troops. A man standing on the battlements can whisper and be heard throughout the canyon.”
“So?” Then understanding burst upon Silvain. “The tongue. This Iron Tongue can turn our soldiers against us. Is this organ so potent?”
“It is. What once belonged to Claybore produces magics of the first water when used by another. Iron Tongue speaks; all who hear him believe without question.”
“Can Claybore conjure against its use?”
“That is the tongue’s power. It enhances spells tenfold. Perhaps a thousandfold. I am no sorcerer and cannot say for sure. This I do know. As long as Iron Tongue uses it, we must beware of sending troops to their death.”
Silvain laughed harshly. “Let them die. What we must guard against is this Iron Tongue turning them against us.” He saw that Kiska k’Adesina agreed. He went on, warming to the topic. “Let us think on possible approaches and meet once again in, say, one hour.”
“That sounds logical. That will still give us a few hours before midnight to work out a plan together.” Her brown eyes locked on his cold dark ones.
“Yes,” Silvain said slowly. “Together. Definitely together.”
He folded the map and left the room, his thoughts on more than battle tactics.
“Should we take the time to torture him?” Alberto Silvain asked. The wom
an’s expression told him the answer. She wanted to see pain inflicted and would not be swayed, no matter how pressing other matters became. Silvain idly wondered if k’Adesina would risk Claybore’s displeasure over this.
“There are new magics my torturer wishes to show us,” the brown-haired woman replied tartly. “I would see them.”
“Very well.” An indolent wave of the hand hid Silvain’s real interest. He had never considered magic a fit instrument for torture. Such inventiveness added new dimensions to Kiska k’Adesina’s convoluted character.
She snapped her fingers, then reclined in the highbacked carved wood chair dominating the simple stone hut. Numerous others before her in the chair had left stains and burns on the broad arms. Her own fingers threatened to put in new depressions. Silvain smiled slightly at her tension. It was the eagerness of a horse in a race that affected her, not fear. She yearned for this torture.
“Milord, milady,” said the effeminate man at the side of the room. “With your kind permission I shall begin.”
K’Adesina nodded curtly. The mage-torturer’s expression never changed as he began muttering a chant under his breath. Silvain strained to catch the words. The rhythm seemed oddly familiar, but the words eluded him. All chance of overhearing and learning a precious new spell fled when a shriek of pure agony filled the chamber.
“There,” said Kiska k’Adesina. “One of the men captured at the debacle in front of Bron. I ordered him brought here to discover the true nature of that fiasco.”
Silvain tented fingers and balanced his chin on the ridge formed by the tips. He dispassionately studied the poor wight being dragged into the chamber on barbs of pure magic.
Fight as he would, the prisoner couldn’t escape a tiny yellow circle on the dirt floor. Hands pressed against unseen barriers. But there was no exit except death; the man failed to appreciate that. Silvain immediately pegged the man as a lowly soldier, probably nothing more than a spear-carrier.
“Can you learn anything from the likes of him?” he asked k’Adesina.
“We shall see. My Patriccan is most skilled.”
Silvain only shrugged. His attentions turned from the prisoner’s cries for mercy that would never come to Kiska k’Adesina. Her rapt gaze told him she obtained more than information. To her this was a sexual stimulus, an aphrodisiac. Or was it a mere substitute? That was an item to be explored later.
“How did Noratumi destroy a full company of our soldiers?” she demanded.
“Lady, release me. I… I will tell alllll!” The plea fell on deaf ears. She motioned to Patriccan. The old, wizened mage rubbed gnarled hands together and began repeating the chant Silvain had noted earlier.
The yellow circle on which the prisoner stood began to turn from yellow to a deep gold, then it became orange and red and red-white and finally white-hot. The captive danced like a bug on a griddle, unable to leave the ring of magic and slowly charring from the soles of his feet upward.
“What spell did Noratumi use to defeat our troops?” she asked again, her voice rising in pitch.
“He… he is no sorcerer. He hates them. We of Bron war against Wurnna.”
“That much seems apparent,” said Silvain. “These reports verify it.” He tapped his knuckles against a closed leather-bound book on the table in front of him. Leaning back, he hiked feet to the tabletop, watching both the victim and k’Adesina past his boots. Silvain presented the perfect picture of a feline at rest.
“Up,” the woman ordered her mage. Patriccan’s hands rose slightly, witchlight glowing at his wrinkled fingertips. The effect on the prisoner was even more startling. The white-hot circle began to lift from the dirt floor. When it reached the man’s knees, his cries became totally incoherent.
“How can you get decent information when he babbles like that?” asked Silvain. “You, Patriccan. Clarify his words.”
“A mind burn, Lord?”
“That might be interesting.”
“I am conducting this, Silvain,” the woman snapped. “I decide what is to be done to this fool.”
“It is only a suggestion. I have never used magics in this fashion before, but a mind burn proves most effective during battle, when the opposing leader can be singled out.”
“Do it,” Kiska k’Adesina said with ill-concealed anger. Silvain lounged back, content now to watch. Agitating the woman further served no purpose. He had learned as much about her as he desired. For the moment. It was the mage that drew his attention now. The spells used were variants of simple fire-starting chants, but with certain arcane twists. While no mage himself, Silvain maintained an arsenal of certain useful spells. The time might come when one served him well.
The white ring of fire rose quickly past the prisoner’s knees, waist, chest, neck. It stopped short of his chin. Like a man drowning, he fought to keep his face above the blazing circle threatening to destroy him. Tears of pain ran down the man’s face and sizzled hotly on the magical ring.
“The mind burn,” Patriccan announced in a low voice. Both hands and words combined now, a wringing motion coordinated with the cadence of his chant. The victim stiffened, all trace of pain gone.
“This strips away layer after layer of memory until nothing is left. I liken it to sunburned skin peeling away.”
“Don’t lecture, Patriccan. Just do it.”
K’Adesina waited while the prisoner began to babble. Skillfully, the ancient mage only allowed those words to escape that pertained to Kiska k’Adesina’s question. The story of how Noratumi had arranged for the log to smash the dam and flood the grey-clads’ camp poured out, just as the trapped waters had. Then nothing more left the prisoner’s mouth.
“His brain is gone, milady. Burned away like mist in the morning sun.”
“How poetic. Do with him what you will.”
For the first time, Patriccan smiled. Silvain wondered exactly what use the mindless prisoner would be put to. He’d have to ask around and find out. Such knowledge might prove a potent lever to use against Patriccan at some future time.
The ring lowered and darkened in color until only the original yellow disk remained on the floor. Patriccan gestured quickly and the disk, prisoner still encased in the magical barrier, slipped across the floor and out the door like an obedient dog. The mage bowed slightly and took his leave.
“Was it worthwhile, Kiska?”
“It relieved the tensions. I wish you had allowed the torture to continue. This mind burn is too efficient. He babbled all I wanted to know without testing his mettle.”
“Testing? Ha. You desired to see only pain. Is your hatred so great that you torture mere soldiers?”
“Yes,” she hissed, rocking forward in her chair. “I will do whatever I can to get back at Martak and that filthy creature accompanying him. Anything!”
“Hatred channeled properly is a potent weapon,” the man observed. “Can you focus it on… other targets?”
An appraising look came into k’Adesina’s brown eyes. They softened perceptibly.
“We should study the ways of accomplishing our master’s goal.”
“Together.”
“Definitely. My sleeping quarters are nearby.”
“Outside, down the slope and to the left,” said Silvain, smiling. This turned into a drama he enjoyed playing to the finish. The woman’s energy and hard core of irrational hatred intrigued him. He was driven by personal ambition; what spurred others to equal heights of genius always caught his interest.
To Alberto Silvain’s delight, Kiska k’Adesina was able to channel her hatred into other areas. He did not care that there was no love in the coupling. The physical act built, reached a plateau, built more, and then burst in an ecstatic rush that carried them both into still another bout of lovemaking. They finished less than ten minutes before their scheduled midnight meeting with Claybore. Somehow, the nearness of the deadline, the flaunting with the sorcerer’s possible wrath, added even more pleasure to the act for both of them.
CHAPTER
SIX
“Death awaits all who travel this road,” said Jacy Noratumi.
Inyx numbly stared at the area where the overeager soldier had been just seconds before. He had ridden forward, reached that indefinable knife’s edge of distortion and… vanished.
“What magics can do such a thing?” she muttered. Her mind raced, trying to figure out the spells. On her home world a good clean sword-thrust sufficed. Magic was something left to amuse children; no true warrior used it to kill an adversary—that amounted to cowardice. But since she had walked the Road, the dark-maned woman had seen too many instances like this one.
“Who cares?” Noratumi said bitterly. “I desire nothing more than to enter my fair city once again. A plague on the sorcerer casting this spell! Do you hear, Iron Tongue, a plague on you. May your teeth fall out, may your nose be covered with warts, may your cock turn leprous and send women running from you in horror!”
“Shouting won’t get us inside,” said Inyx. “And I doubt it’s Iron Tongue who is responsible.”
“Why do you say that?” he said in a sarcastic tone.
“The grey-clad troops weren’t Iron Tongue’s. Why do you think this barrier is?”
“Why have both troops and magics at work? That is wasteful.”
Inyx didn’t reply. The people of this world fought different battles than those she was used to. Jacy appeared unconvinced that Claybore would bring forth two types of attack; either that, or his hatred of Iron Tongue was so great that it blinded him to other explanations.
“Who cast it is of little matter,” she explained patiently. “Getting past it is more important.”
“At last, a logical word from those petallike lips.” He lifted himself in his stirrups and bowed, a mixture of sweat and blood dripping from his forehead.
Inyx tried to remember all that Lan had told her of casting spells. He was the expert in this field; she had listened, but had understood only a fraction of what he’d said. It took special talents to be a mage of Lan’s caliber, and if the truth be known, the woman was glad she lacked the ability. This war with Claybore changed Lan Martak in ways she liked—and in ways she didn’t. He had lost innocence and become more suspicious of all around him.
[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue Page 6