Inyx’s mind raced. How had this scene been reconstructed? Magically. Did Kiska control any spells? No. Who did? Claybore!
“You try to weaken my will,” Inyx said. She twisted against her bad shoulder, then rocked in the other direction, unseating Kiska. They rolled over and over, struggling for dominance.
Both were sent tumbling once more by a wave of heat from where the real battle took place. Lan and Claybore were locked in a furious fight so intense it crossed worlds and returned to boil the very ground beneath their feet. Neither mage noticed. Both vied for supremacy by using every magical trick at their command.
Inyx saw Lan being forced back, yielding, slowly being crushed by the imponderable weight of magics on him.
“Fight, Lan!” she cried. “Stop him!”
She had no idea if her words cheered the mage or if he reached down and found some inner resource that he’d missed. His defense strengthened. He forced Claybore back. Inyx saw the disembodied sorcerer begin to waver. His arms flopped loosely now, as if they would spring from his torso. Even his bone-white skull began cracking.
“He’s losing,” she whispered in awe. For the first time since she and Lan had walked the Road together, she had the hope that Claybore would be decisively defeated.
Even Kiska k’Adesina watched, her face ashen with the realization that her master might lose.
As suddenly as the shift in power came, another replaced it. Inyx gasped and struggled for breath. Invisible fingers closed about her windpipe.
“She dies, Martak,” bragged Claybore. “I will kill the slut.”
Inyx fell to hands and knees, panting harshly when the invisible fingers left her throat. Lan had broken Claybore’s spell. She looked up in silent thanks. But the gratitude turned to anger when she realized that Claybore had only used her as a diversion for his real attack.
Kiska stood upright, caught between transparent planes crushing the life from her body. She visibly flattened as Claybore applied more and more magical pressure. Her face contorted with the pain of being smashed to bloody pulp. Her brown eyes looked beseechingly at Lan Martak. The young mage paled when he saw the woman’s predicament.
“I… I can’t fight him and save her. Not at the same time,” moaned out Lan Martak.
“Kill Claybore!” shrieked Inyx. “Stop him and you’ll stop his spells.”
“She dies,” cut in Claybore. “I will kill her before you can penetrate my barrier.”
Lan fought to drive his light mote through Claybore’s protective spells. He failed. And every moment he dallied, more and more life fled from Kiska’s body.
“Don’t save her, Lan. Kill Claybore!” Inyx’s words fell on deaf ears.
Lan Martak turned his full power to saving Kiska.
Claybore broke free. “I almost had you, Martak,” said the sorcerer. “I thought this would be the final battle. I erred. But next time. Then I will be ready for you. Then you die!”
Claybore wavered and popped! away, transport spells stolen from Lan carrying him from the world.
“I had him. He… he was weakening,” said Lan in a shaky voice. “He would have succumbed. Not even Terrill could best Claybore, and I had him. I had him!”
“You unutterable fool,” snapped Inyx. “You let him go. And for what? Her?”
Kiska k’Adesina sneered at Lan’s weakness. But the power of Claybore’s infernal geas grew with every use of magic. Lan Martak had no choice but to protect the woman he loved-and hated.
“You fool,” repeated Inyx.
All Lan could do was agree. He held out his opened arms, beckoning to Kiska.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Claybore limped along, his mechanical right leg refusing to function properly. He stopped and stared into the cog-wheeled device and saw that one of the magical pinpoints of energy had been extinguished. From deep within his skull’s empty eye sockets came a tentative pink glow that firmed into a rod of the purest ruby light. It lashed forth to the offending spot on his leg. The metal turned viscid and flowed; Claybore’s death beams winked out before the metal deformed.
“There,” he said. “Repaired. But damn that Martak. I should have my own legs instead of these pathetic creations.”
“Master, we failed,” came a weak voice. Claybore swiveled about to face Patriccan. The journeyman mage clung to a tree trunk a few feet away. All blood had rushed from his face, leaving him with a pasty complexion. His eyes looked like two dark holes burned into a linen sheet. In spite of the apparent weakness, the mage had a feverish air about him, one approaching desperation.
“Failed?” roared Claybore. “How dare you say we failed?”
“Master, we did not destroy Martak. Or the others.”
“Forget the others. They are nothings. They are ciphers in this equation. Martak is all.” Claybore calmed. “While it is true we did not triumph totally, still we did not lose all, either.”
Patriccan’s appearance belied that boast.
“Martak’s strength surprised me, but I was not unprepared to deal with it. There is dissension in our enemy’s ranks now. And I still have my most potent weapon aimed at his heart.” Claybore chuckled at the pun. “Kiska will sow the seeds of discord and, when the time is ripe, she will destroy Martak.”
“We should have defeated him,” said Patriccan, sliding down the tree to sit between two large roots. “I lost all power when he sent the air elemental for me.”
“You are a weakling,” Claybore said without apparent malice.
“Is it enough having them fighting among themselves?” asked the lesser sorcerer.
Claybore did not respond for some time. Finally came the single word, “Yes.”
Patriccan was hardly satisfied with his defeat. Martak had been so strong!
“Find a living creature and bring it to me,” ordered Claybore. The dismembered mage went to the lip of a well and peered into the infinite ebony depths. He chuckled at the thought of who lay trapped within. Claybore’s ruby beams lashed forth and stirred the blackness, like a spoon stirring soup. Tiny ripples flowed and subsided.
“Here, master.” Patriccan limped up with a small doe. The creature kicked out with hooves and tried to wiggle free. The mage held it magically and gave the poor beast no chance to escape.
A wave of Claybore’s hand sent the doe tumbling into the well. A greeting surge of darkness enveloped the deer and swallowed it whole.
“Resident of the Pit, are you there?” called out Claybore. “I would speak to you.”
“I am here.”
“You have failed, Resident. You know that now. You saw how easily we defeated Martak and the others.”
“Martak lives.”
“But what good will he be? His friends have abandoned him. Inyx and the insect Krek are needed-and they shun him.”
“I have seen.” The Resident of the Pit’s voice rumbled in a basso profundo.
“And,” went on Claybore, warming to his bragging, “my commander’s influence over him grows every time he uses even the most minor of spells against me.”
“That is so.”
“Even Brinke’s power will not free him. I use her to further entangle him. Inyx will never again support Martak, not after Kiska informed her of Martak’s liaison with Brinke.”
“I have seen all this. Why do you summon me, Claybore?”
“You, a god, asking a question like that? Come, come, Resident, you know why. I want you to suffer. I want you to know the glory of my triumph. I want you to know that you have failed. Your pawn Lan Martak is worthless to you now.”
“There will be others,” said the Resident of the Pit. “I have nothing but time.”
“Martak will be removed soon,” said Claybore. “When he is gone, I will augment my power and finally become