“No!” protested Brinke. “Listen to her and you will never defeat Claybore.”
“If I shatter the spells holding the Pillar together, I might play into Claybore’s hands.”
“His severed hands,” said Brinke. “Remember what you did to him just a short while ago. He cannot hold himself together. He already nears the limits of his power. Release that held prisoner by the Pillar of Night and Claybore will fall victim to you in short order.”
“He was here?” cried Kiska. “Claybore?”
Lan’s head began to hurt. He found it harder to concentrate and soon conjured a small spell to shut out all sound. He let the women argue while he sat in a magically induced silence.
“Inyx,” he said softly. “I need you. You always saw so clearly. Even you, Krek. Even you, I need now.”
He released the spell and tried to follow the ebb and flow of the argument between Brinke and Kiska. Nothing was settled. He would have to decide which of them spoke truly.
Which one?
Act against the Pillar of Night and release a god-the Resident of the Pit? Or act against it and release the single most vital portion contributing to Claybore’s power? Or do nothing?
Lan Martak had no answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Claybore swiveled about on his mechanical hips as he studied the softly glowing wall. If his fleshless skull had possessed lips, he would have smiled in satisfaction. As it was, the white bone took on a higher sheen and a tiny crack began to run from one eye socket up to the crown. Claybore didn’t notice. His full attention focused on the wall and the scenes beginning to appear.
“Good,” he said to his assistant mage. “You have done well, Patriccan.”
Patriccan hobbled over and propped himself against a table littered with charts, grimoires, and other magical paraphernalia. He, too, rejoiced in all that transpired on a dozen different worlds.
“Master, your scrying improves. None sees onto another world along the Road save you. And now you are able to maintain viewing ports to a full twelve worlds. Remarkable. I salute you.” Patriccan bowed as deeply as he could. His injuries had still not healed, even though he had ordered several of his junior sorcerers to use what healing spells they knew. It had come as a shock to Patriccan to find they knew very few-their expertise, like his own, lay in the field of destruction, not healing.
Claybore strutted back and forth like a partly mechanical, partly flesh, partly decayed rooster. From the pits of his eye sockets came a directing beam of pale red. The beams struck a spot on the wall and created a picture different only in detail. Like the others, this one also showed carnage and suffering.
“You have recovered the Kinetic Sphere for me?” Claybore asked. “I see my agents with it on this world.”
“Martak failed to hide it properly, master,” said Patriccan. The mage shifted his weight and forced away the pain he experienced. If he could not take full revenge on Inyx, Ducasien and the others on that backwater world, he would at least revel in his master’s scheme to humiliate and destroy Martak.
“He did not try. It came as a surprise to him that he was able to yank it from my chest.” A hesitant hand touched the putrescence around the gaping hole in Claybore’s chest. The hand shook uncontrollably; the arm had not been properly restored. New spells were required for permanent attachment.
“Look, master,” said Patriccan. “Our legions conquer still another world. Their king bows his knee to your supreme rule.”
“Pah,” snorted Claybore. “Who cares for petty rulers? Or even if they are led by mages of some power. They are ants. So what if it is an entire world coming under my aegis? The real battle continues here and here and… here.”
He pointed to scenes from the world where Ducasien and Inyx consolidated their power, to a scene with Brinke and Lan Martak and to the darkly towering Pillar of Night.
“Master, rest assured all will be ready when the final battle trumpet is sounded.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Patriccan. It ill becomes you. This will be a bloody fight, a good one. I relish the thought of Martak squirming, begging me for mercy.”
“He proved incapable of defending himself,” Patriccan said ingratiatingly, “because of your cunning geas.”
“I worry about that,” admitted Claybore. The death’s head craned about and faced Patriccan. “He is more powerful than I in some respects and knows how that compulsion wears down on his ability. If Kiska is somehow killed, he would be forced to mourn, but my control over him would be gone.”
“He cannot allow that.”
“And I work constantly to be sure she is not placed in jeopardy, but his friends”-Claybore tapped the glowing screen where Inyx and Ducasien toiled-“are not without their own quaint powers. They might eliminate Kiska before I can play her in the proper sequence.”
“You will let her slay Martak?” Patriccan’s surprise was real. Martak had proved Claybore’s most able rival since Terrill. To allow another, a mere soldier, to kill Martak struck the mage as sacrilege. “I will perform the task for you. I have no love of him, either. Do not let her simply drive a dagger into his back.”
“Why not? What worse fate for someone such as he? To be killed by the one you love.”
“He is being forced.”
“It won’t matter. But you are wasting precious time. Have you been successful in your experiments? I need complete outfitting before any major demands are placed on me.
“Master,” Patriccan said, bowing again, “all is in readiness. Careful research has shown me the way to pioneer new spells that will prevent the rejection of your arms.”
“Yes, yes,” Claybore said impatiently. “I know all about that. My legs. What about my legs?”
The sorcerer’s legs had been hacked apart and magically destroyed by Lan and Were forever lost. Some time prior, Claybore had set Patriccan to preparing new legs.
“These may not provide the reservoir for the powers of your original limbs,” said the journeyman mage, “but, master, they will suffice until better ones can be fashioned.”
“Any of flesh and bone will be better than these mechanical atrocities.” Claybore flexed one knee joint. It whined in unoiled protest. The dancing spots of energy powering the legs frequently winked out of existence and left the mage motionless. “If you had not perfected the organic limbs, I would have considered conjuring a minor demon to provide the motive power.”
Patriccan shook his head at this. Even the most minor of demons were cantankerous and turned on both mortal and mage with-demonic-glee. To rely on one was sheer folly, even when the binding spells were as potent as the ones Claybore might conjure.
“The legs await you, master.”
Patriccan hobbled ahead of Claybore. The mage went into his laboratory and waved away his numerous assistants. Many were young and barely trained, while others were almost as experienced as Patriccan. Whether apprentice or journeyman mage, they all paid obeisance to Claybore. They knew the penalty for not doing so.
The mutilated husks of mages who had opposed Claybore littered the haunted forests surrounding the Pillar of Night. None wished to spend the rest of eternity sightless, insane, without the proper number of limbs and organs.
“Remarkably similar to my own,” said Claybore, standing at the edge of a green-tiled table. Human-appearing legs twitched feebly on the slick surface. Two mages sat on the far side of the table, eyes closed to enhance concentration, their lips moving constantly in the spells required to keep the legs alive until attached to their master.
Claybore made several passes with his hands over the juncture between machine and flesh. A hissing noise caused several of the mages to recoil. Smoke rose from the metal legs and momentarily obscured the dismembered sorcerer. As the smoke blew away all that remained was a molten puddle of metal on the floor. Claybore hovered in midair.
“This taxes me more than I thought, Patriccan. Hurry.”
“Rest on the table, master. Would you prefer a soporific spell?”
“No! I stay aware of all that happens.”
