In the distance, he heard hushed tones muttering, “He uses the power stone.”
The power stone. The rock mined in the valley of spiders. It did more than provide heatless light. It fed his magics, gave them scope and range unlike anything he had imagined before.
Slowly, muscles protesting, Lan struggled to his feet. He countered every thrust Claybore made. The pain faded until only its haunting memory lingered. But Lan couldn’t renew his attack.
He and Claybore were deadlocked.
Then a new element entered the conflict. Quiet, subtle, Iron Tongue began speaking.
“You are a mighty sorcerer, Claybore. One of the best. But even you can show mercy. Now. You show the spirit of brotherhood so well known among all mages.”
Lan realized the words meant nothing. Carried along with their seductive cadence came a magic that was irresistible. His battle with Claybore had weakened the mage adequately for Iron Tongue’s sorcerous suasions to work. A hesitation came to Claybore’s attacks. They lessened, even as Lan weakened under the onslaught.
“I will allow you to consider surrender, worm,” came the mage’s words.
“Surrender is not the answer,” Iron Tongue insinuated softly. The words carried no volume, no command, but the effect became increasingly dramatic.
“We… we will meet again. I will triumph!” In the distance Lan saw the fleshless jaw clacking. Mechanical arms and legs waved about, then carried Claybore away, as if into a dense fog. Soon only a dull glow from the heart-sphere locked into the armless and legless torso remained; then it, too, vanished.
Lan sank forward, hands resting on the cool stone battlement in front of him. Sweat poured in vast rivers across his face, into his eyes, under his arms and even down his legs. He controlled the trembling.
“You saved me,” he told Iron Tongue. “Your magic worked on him. He gave up when he might have conquered.”
“You held him,” Iron Tongue said, his words oddly accented. “Such power as he commanded this day all of Wurnna could not turn away. You did it with no help. You will stay and aid us in our continued fight.” The words softened, became lilting and seductive. “Wurnna has much to offer. We are friends. We can give you all you need. You are one of us. And there is Rugga, lovely, loving Rugga.”
Lan Martak recognized the spell being woven about him by Iron Tongue’s words, but lacked the strength to fight it. Or did he? Even after the life-and-death struggle with Claybore, he felt more vibrantly alive than ever before. The young mage straightened and allowed his thoughts to lightly brush the surface of the brilliant mote dancing so deep inside him.
“Do not attempt to ensorcel me, Iron Tongue. Your chants are potent, but the wrong way of winning my further assistance.” Lan bent and helped Rugga to her feet. The woman’s face was as white as flour and she had a wild, half-crazed expression. She had touched magics far beyond her abilities. Lan sent his mote dancing through her mind, burning and probing, touching and healing. In minutes, she shook as if she had a palsy, then collapsed.
“Get her to her chambers. She will sleep off this ordeal.”
The expression on Iron Tongue’s at this feat of healing assured Lan that, even in a city of sorcerers, his powers had grown drastically and far outstripped the others—with the possible exception of Iron Tongue himself.
“Fully a thousand greys were destroyed by the dark dragons,” came the report. Lan swallowed and found his mouth dry. He had slaughtered a thousand men and women with a single spell—and it had required no more effort than lifting a spoon to his mouth.
He pushed his still-filled plate away. He had eaten voraciously, but the death toll took the edge off his hunger more than the food had. The young mage did not enjoy the power growing within him, yet he had to learn to control it and use it against Claybore. Things had been so much simpler when he had hunted the forests, loved Zarella, and had never heard of Claybore or his grey-clad legions.
“Why me?” he wondered aloud.
“Lan? You said something?” Rugga sat beside him, her warm thigh pressed intimately against his under the table. Her hands had strayed many times during the meal, but he had tried to ignore the urgings.
Lan had become cautious of the woman’s attentions. Ever since entering Wurnna, he more clearly noticed motives in others. Hers hinged on more than simple lust for him. He shook his head. It took no mage to understand what Rugga wanted. The power struggle between her and Iron Tongue for control of the city was a thing of the past—because of Iron Tongue’s histrionic abilities. Any new element entering the game gave Rugga another chance at seizing power.
Power. It always revolved around control over others.
And Lan Martak was learning to play for his own ends.
“Such a lovely necklace,” he said softly. Even softer he added, “And such a lovely neck.”
“Only the neck?” she teased.
“And the face. And the regions… lower.” He allowed his eyes to drink appreciatively of the woman’s lean beauty. As he did so, Lan realized that some portion of that beauty was magically enhanced. Rugga cast minor spells to soften her somewhat masculine angularity and enhance what was already present. At some other time in his life, Lan would not have minded, if he had even noticed. Now it angered him. Rather than assume she did it for his enjoyment, he decided she wanted to bind him through her body.
“All yours, my Lan. Let us go.”
“Not yet,” he said, glancing down the table at Iron Tongue. The mage sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark and clouded with suspicion. Lan had to defuse that suspicion enough to make use of it without fanning it into outright opposition.
“These dinners always become so insufferably stuffy. He never allows anything interesting. Like I offer.”
“Rugga, my lovely, in a moment. First, tell me of that necklace. It appeals to me.” The sensations racing up his arm as probing fingers lifted the baubles from silken skin seemed so tantalizingly familiar, yet he failed to put a name to them. Iron Tongue supplied it for him.
“Those are polished power stone. They are used for decoration as well as utility. After it is taken from the ground, I energize it with spells known only to the ruler.” Lan knew Iron Tongue idly boasted; the spells to activate the stone seemed quite simple to him, now. But Lan knew that Iron Tongue talked for a reason other than conveying information.
The words boomed forth, resonantly touching the deepest parts of Lan’s being. He wondered if Iron Tongue did it on purpose, whether he controlled the magical organ in his mouth fully. If Iron Tongue allowed anger to intrude, he might prove a more dangerous opponent than even Claybore. Lan couldn’t forget the way Iron Tongue had persuaded Claybore to break off the attack when the other mage had had victory within his grasp. The tongue was a potent weapon, indeed, and one which would make Claybore invincible if he recovered it.
“How did you come to discover the stone?”
“We of Wurnna have always known of it. The mines close at hand petered out.”
“And required you to begin mining in the valley of the spiders,” Lan finished.
“Just so. By the time we began mining there, we were dependent on the stone to energize our entire civilization. A few of my magical spells is all it takes to provide limitless power from the rock.”
“It multiplies your magics?” Lan frowned. He felt it did more than this, but couldn’t say exactly what else.
“Somewhat. My particular use—and it differs for every mage—is to add to my personal force.” Iron Tongue held up an arm entirely braceleted in the power stone. The jewelry rippled and danced with coruscating, many-faceted gems. “I draw on their power. With Rugga, she uses them to enhance her beauty.” The words carried an insult. When Rugga stiffened, Lan reached under the table and seized a wrist, holding her down, soothing her with his presence. She subsided; Iron Tongue obviously counted this a minor victory in their power struggles.
“I feel more when near the gems,” said Lan.
<
br /> “Each mage draws slightly different powers from them. This is another reason we use slaves to mine the ore.”
They didn’t trust any single sorcerer to be near such a vast vein of the power stone. Wurnna lived in turmoil, both internally and externally, Lan surmised.
“Can’t you come to some accord with Bron and the spiders? You don’t need to enslave when you can get them to aid you in return for the objects that only you of Wurnna can offer.”
“Why barter when we can take?” snapped Iron Tongue. “They have no sorcerers in their rank. Inferior. They are our inferiors. And the spiders are mere animals.”
“Intelligent animals.”
“You speak well of them, Lan,” said Rugga. “Have you forgotten they tried to feed you to their odious hatchlings?”
Lan said nothing about one of his friends being an arachnid. Nor did he mention Inyx or her trip to Bron. Instead, he replied, “Claybore divides you. You fight Bron and they fight back. You battle the spiders and they eat your slaves. It wouldn’t surprise me if Bron and the spiders were also at war. And you all fight Claybore.” He shook his head sadly. It was no wonder that Claybore and his legions had conquered most of this world so easily. The spiders posed no threat to the marauding sorcerer; Claybore had claimed that Bron had fallen; only the organ resting in Iron Tongue’s mouth remained for Claybore’s victory on this planet to be complete.
“We could have eliminated the others long ago. It amuses me to allow them to remain.” Iron Tongue sounded diffident, but Lan read the real reason behind the claims. Wurnna depended on Bron for workers and the city’s rulers maintained the spiders’ threat as a method of control. Without some menace, Iron Tongue might not remain at the forefront of the city, even with his potent abilities.
Lan changed the course of the conversation abruptly, asking, “How did you come by Claybore’s tongue?”
Iron Tongue stiffened.
“He’s had it for over a decade. His father died and willed it to him. It is the symbol of power for our city-state.” Rugga sounded bitter as she told this to Lan. The young mage didn’t have to be told she’d have willingly cut out her own tongue for a chance at the power that the organ afforded her ruler.
“The origin of the tongue is lost in myth,” said Iron Tongue. “One of my forefathers forged it magically and has handed it down through the generations.”
“It belonged to Claybore,” Lan said, more to test reaction than to inform. Rugga looked at him curiously, as if he had struck his head and wasn’t quite sane. She believed in the mythic origins cited by Iron Tongue. But Iron Tongue’s face clouded over with anger; he knew that Lan spoke the truth.
Without a word, Iron Tongue rose and stalked from the room. Other mages hovering around the perimeter of the room talked among themselves in hushed tones, occasionally pointing and sending small, harmless questing spells in his direction. Lan let out a pent-up lungful of air and shoved himself back in his chair. The legs scraped on the power-stone flooring in the room.
“Rugga, my lovely,” he said, “show me how the power stone renews strength after strenuous activity.”
She smiled wickedly and rose, holding out her hand for him to take. They left, aware of the stares of those in the room. Lan knew he played a dangerous game aligning himself with Rugga, but internal policy in Wurnna interested him far less than triumphing over Claybore. Only by incurring Iron Tongue’s anger did he see a way of winning the worlds-spanning struggle with the dismembered sorcerer.
But Rugga showed him that certain of those steps could be enjoyable. Very enjoyable.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“We can’t outrun them,” Inyx gasped. “They close on us, no matter how we confuse the trail.”
“This is my country. They will not find us.” Jacy Noratumi sounded more confident than he felt. The soldiers had proved more tenacious than he’d thought. When he and the other pathetic few had fought their way through the defensive wall of what remained of once-proud Bron, he had thought to simply walk away, that Claybore would be content with conquering the city.
Leaving his home to the grey-clads had rankled more than anything else in his life. He felt he had given up too easily, yet he saw that Inyx was right in her advice to abandon the city. To carry on the fight, he had to be free to roam, to chevy, to retaliate in whatever fashion came to his fine brain. Dying with his city was a noble gesture, but one which denied Noratumi’s true duty to its citizens.
Revenge now drove him, and Inyx figured prominently in it.
“There are too many of them. I… I think they use seeking magics on us. Lan told me of his home world where they use sniffer-snakes, magically enhanced creatures to smell out prey. They are almost impossible to elude or defeat.”
“These are flesh-and-blood soldiers following us,” Noratumi said flatly. “As such, they can be killed with a good sword thrust.” He demonstrated by slashing at the air above his mount’s head. The animal whinnied and glared back at its rider as if to protest such cavalier behavior.
“We can’t run from them forever. They will wear us down. We need time to establish a base.”
The man knew Inyx was right. Without at least a week to find and establish a secure camp in the mountains, they would be ineffective and kept on the run. Sooner or later they would falter and the grey legions would have them at their mercy. From Claybore, Noratumi expected no mercy at all.
“We can double back and try to regain the city, then. Bron is vulnerable. Claybore would hardly expect such an attack.”
“The reason he wouldn’t expect it,” Inyx said bitterly, “is that it’d never succeed. We need an army. Look. Do you see an army?”
“I see nobility in these refugees. They will fight, if I so order.”
“They’ll fight and die, then,” snapped Inyx. “Twenty—fewer!—are not enough to lay siege to a city. With Claybore’s mages conjuring constantly, they could wipe us out without endangering the hair on a single soldier’s head.”
“Why doesn’t he use this vaunted magic to stop us now?”
Chills caused Inyx to shiver in spite of the sun’s warmth on her back. She spent much of her time glancing over her shoulder, certain that the grey-clads had ridden them down.
“He doesn’t need to expend the energy. The soldiers can follow. But I suspect a mage accompanies them to help track us. We have used tricks designed to slow the finest of hunters. None has worked. Can you explain that, if not through the use of magic?”
Jacy Noratumi sullenly shrugged, turning away from the dark-haired woman. He had never met one like her before; she fascinated him with her independence and quick thinking. That she swung a sword better than most of his citizens only added to his admiration of her. He just wished she’d stop harping on this Lan Martak. He’d met the man briefly at the oasis and had seen little in him to justify such loyalty.
Noratumi couldn’t bring himself to believe Inyx actually loved Martak—a mage and a spider-lover! What perversity!
“We must find a base. Soon.” When Noratumi didn’t answer, Inyx pressed on, this time voicing what she had hoped he would intuitively understand. “We must make our peace with Wurnna. They can offer the sanctuary we require.”
“Wurnna? Never! Those demons would enslave us. Sooner would I throw myself on my sword than even attempt to ally with them.”
“Bron and Wurnna have warred long enough. Bron is no more. They can use our aid to save Wurnna. Claybore no longer has to divide his forces. He can bring the full force of his army against Wurnna now. If you want to preserve this world for its native inhabitants—for yourself—this is the only way.”
“Better Claybore than Wurnna ruling.”
“You can’t mean that.” Inyx saw Noratumi’s resolve weakening. She softened her approach, rode closer and reached out to place her hand on the man’s shoulder. “Claybore will never be satisfied with less than total obliteration. His goals do not require anyone living on this planet. He must be stopped. Soon.”
&n
bsp; “But Wurnna,” whined Noratumi. “They are Bron’s sworn enemies. For centuries we have fought one another.”
Inyx didn’t need Lan’s magical powers to understand the nature of the struggle. They fought one another; they also needed one another. The external threat hardened resolve and allowed cohesion of culture and purpose that wouldn’t have existed otherwise. If either had triumphed, that would have required new territories to be explored and exploited and conquered. Both Bron and Wurnna had enjoyed and profited from the local conflict. With Bron no longer in the matrix, Wurnna’s rulers faced what had been, until recently, unthinkable. They fought a foe capable of actually destroying them.
“Give me another idea.”
Silently, Jacy Noratumi reined toward the notch in the mountains leading to Wurnna. The sag of his shoulders told of his lack of enthusiasm for the journey. At times being a leader carried burdens too intense for any man.
“The refugees come,” said Iron Tongue.
Lan nodded. He, too, had sensed their approach through the tortuous mountain trails. Since Rugga had gifted him with both a bracelet and necklace of the power stone, he found it easier to use his magical abilities. Casting spells, minor and major, no longer tired him as it once had. He marveled at the powers he had accumulated and now exercised; the power stone freed him from physical exhaustion. His magics opened vistas into the universe that dazzled him. At times he felt exultation rivaling any god’s and at others he became humbled at the task ahead of him. These powers weren’t for his personal use. In some way he didn’t yet understand, Lan Martak traced back the source of the magic to his home world. The Resident of the Pit had touched him and caused the burgeoning of latent magical powers within his breast.
Duty and pleasure. Those magics provided both. He had to use them for betterment along the Cenotaph Road—and that meant countering the evil Claybore had wrought.
[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue Page 12