Patriccan looked skeptically at the mage. The bone white of the skull had been broken by the weblike dark fracture patterns. The flesh had been destroyed and the tongue now rested in Martak’s mouth. Patriccan did not understand how Claybore could be so sanguine about his chances when the reconstructed body that carried him into this conflict betrayed him at every turn.
“Come into the viewing room, Patriccan,” ordered Claybore. “I will show you the progress I make.”
Patriccan followed, feeling the aches in every joint; but compared to his master, he was in perfect condition.
“See?” said Claybore, pointing to the wall of moving scenes. “On that world the conquest is complete. A full score of sorcerers joins the effort. On this world, two of my strongest opponents are dead. Their magics availed them nothing.” Claybore chuckled when he saw huge mechanical juggernauts, magically powered by captive demons, lumbering forth to crush opposition. This world had proven especially recalcitrant. Only the most intricate of magics had allowed Claybore to topple its regime.
“And there,” the mage continued, rubbing hands together as he stood in front of one panoramic view of a world in ruins, “there my troops have captured a grimoire, that might allow me to complete the spell creating the Pillar of Night.”
“You would kill the Resident?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Claybore. “I am undecided. I rather enjoy gloating, and the Resident of the Pit is a captive audience this way. Still, I prefer having the power to permanently remove a god, if the mood strikes me. The legion commander on that world will deliver the grimoire to me within the week.”
“What efforts are being made by Martak? I cannot assume he bides his time.”
“There is evidence he penetrated all the way to the Pillar,” said Claybore. “I have not been able to contact k’Adesina and find out. The Lady Brinke holds Kiska behind a wall of magic.”
“You cannot break through?” asked Patriccan, astonished.
“Of course I can.” Claybore’s irritation made Patriccan cringe away. He waited for the ruby death beams. They never came. “I have been occupied with other things.” Claybore flexed his right arm; his left sluggishly stirred but did no more.
Patriccan, for the first time, began to doubt. His master took too many chances, made too many mistakes. While Claybore was ostensibly whole again, Patriccan knew how tenuous were the bonds holding arms and legs to the torso. The dismembered sorcerer gained much in strength by being reassembled, but all of the parts were not his own. Did that cause the peculiar overconfidence? Patriccan hoped not. The final confrontation with Martak required every skill Claybore had accumulated over a very long lifetime of sorcerous doings.
“It will all come together on the plains in front of the Pillar of Night,” said Claybore. “Martak will not stand a chance. And with his defeat, I will sap the power that makes him so powerful. I will suck up his essence and let it fill me. I will become the new god of the universe. None will dare oppose me!”
“None so dares now, master,” said Patriccan.
“Martak does. Look. There and there and there.” Claybore went from scried scene to scene, pointing. “All those worlds opposed me. They were crushed by might of arms. No longer will they even think of opposition. My very name will cause them to drop to one knee and pay me the homage I am due.”
“Those machines,” said Patriccan. “They come to this world? How? Surely, none will fit through a cenotaph.”
“They come,” said Claybore. “Using this, they will come.” He tapped his chest cavity where the Kinetic Sphere pulsed slowly.
Patriccan said nothing. He knew the immense power of the Kinetic Sphere, but the journeyman mage had to question the value of Claybore’s draining himself so before meeting Martak. The effort to move even one of those huge demon-powered fighting machines from another world had to be extreme.
He bowed and left the room. There were preparations to be made and perhaps he might even find the time to properly question a few prisoners brought him from another world. He had no desire for the information they hid; Patriccan desired only the painful questioning.
That would ease some of the strain he felt, he was positive.
“Why not just fly directly to the Pillar?” asked Ducasien as they disembarked from the demon-powered flyer. The warrior was still pale from the trip; it was his first experience with such a vehicle and the demon had berated him constantly for his airsickness.
“I tried that before,” said Lan. “The demon refused to go any closer than the edge of the forest. But I have a path well scouted now. The dangers of the forest are… minimal.”
All knew Lan lied. The sense of “deadness” within the woods reflected a closer appraisal of their chances. But Lan was able to use his spells freely enough now and that opened ways that were both more and less dangerous. The physical threat within the sterile forest would be small, but the attention attracted by the use of a potent spell might be unwanted. It was a risk that had to be borne.
“You leave me sitting here,” complained the demon within the flyer. “Just like that? After so many hours of faithful service? What kind of ass are you?”
“Be quiet or I shall eat you,” said Krek. The spider unfolded long legs from the cramped storage space of the flyer. One taloned leg tapped hard against the hatch plate behind which the demon crouched.
“Go on, you overgrown nightmare. Try it! I’ll give you such a case of heartburn you’ll never recover!”
“We have no time for such things, Krek.” Inyx tugged at the giant arachnid’s leg and led him away.
“All things being equal, I would rather devour her.” Kick’s mandibles clacked just inches away from Kiska k’Adesina’s neck. The mousy-appearing woman’s expression altered in a flash and her long sword snaked from its sheath, point darting straight for the spider. Lan was helpless to stop her, but Brinke wasn’t.
The blonde raised her arm and blocked the thrust so that it missed Krek’s thorax by inches. Brinke mouthed a small spell that made Kiska drop to her knees, cursing volubly.
“You blonde bitch. You will die for this. My legs are numb. Lan, I can’t walk!”
“Release the spell, Brinke.” Lan closed his eyes and tried to retain his calmness. How could he possibly do battle with Claybore when his handful of supporters tried to slay one another-and the ones who weren’t actively working toward killing merely hated the others.
“Very well.” The lovely mage passed her hand above the fallen woman’s head. Hair began to sizzle and spark. The smell of burned hair filled the air and gave some substance to the undead forest.
“Stop it!” Lan shouted, control gone.
Ducasien moved to stand beside Inyx, hand on sword. Brinke flinched but stopped her spell. Even Krek shifted away. Lan had used the Voice, something he had avoided among the group before this.
“We have little time. Bickering among ourselves will only lead us to defeat.”
“She will stab you in the back at the first opportunity,” said Brinke, pointing to Kiska. The brown-haired commandant of Claybore’s troops smiled wickedly.
“I know,” Lan said weakly.
“We still have time, Lan my darling,” Kiska said, rising to her feet. She stroked along his cheek and kissed him. She clung to him and prevented him from getting away. He lacked the resolve to make her stop, even though he knew both Inyx and Brinke were seething.
“Put her into the chamber with the demon,” suggested Krek. “Let them give one another heartburn.”
“No way, you oversized ceiling crawler,” protested the demon. “It’s too damn small in here. First you want me to fly right on up to that awful black rotating pillar and risk my scaly limbs. Now you want to squeeze a truly dreadful lumpy human in here with me. You’re a cruel one, fuzz-legs.”
“Thank you,” said Krek. “I had not expected such a fine compliment from one of your inferior mental status.”
“Inferior!” raged the demon. It scrabbled against the metal plates until a loud ringing echoed through the forest. The spells binding it to the flyer were too great. After a few minutes of frenzied activity, the demon subsided into a sulky silence.
“We must hurry,” said Lan, not using the Voice now. He already felt drained and the real struggle had yet to begin. Just trying to hold together this disparate band taxed him to the utmost.
The flow of emotion became too confusing for him to consider. Ducasien loved Inyx, who obviously cared for him-but little more. Brinke had true affection for Lan, but the sorcerer tried to hold back because the geas forced
