Pillar of Night

CHAPTER TWO

The skies split above Lan Martak’s head. Gone were the heavy, leaden clouds that had sent their torrents of acid-laced rain down on the mountain kingdom of Yerrary. Replacing them came rainbows blazing through the spectrum, touching on all the colors and adding new ones Lan had never before seen. Then these, too, vanished and melted into swirling, churning whites and greys that took form, lurched out at him, and dissipated. Dizzy, stumbling, he fell forward into…

… green.

… soft.

… summer.

Lan Martak blinked and smiled slowly as he surveyed this new world. Traveling through the cenotaphs had always produced a disjointed sensation, a falling that ended with an abrupt stop. His new magics gave him more control over the transition between worlds. Claybore might require the Kinetic Sphere to perform his world-stepping, but Lan now went him one better. Only a simple uttered spell gave him access to all the worlds along the Cenotaph Road!

“This is much nicer,” said Kiska k’Adesina. “That other world was too dreary.” Lan looked at her, empty inside. No emotion sprang forth when he deigned to notice the brown-haired woman. She was his avowed enemy, and he felt nothing.

Lan almost rejoiced in this neutrality. He tried to coax more of it into play. He knew full well that Claybore had placed a geas on him, but no spells or chant at Lan’s command removed it. Kiska would be a millstone around his neck and, one day when he least expected it, that weight would carry him under the surface and drown him. If only he could remove her before then!

He wanted to. Deep inside he knew a provocation great enough would give him the strength to sunder Claybore’s geas. He tried to bring it forth. Intellectually he knew that she was responsible for untold suffering on a dozen planets. She commanded Claybore’s grey-clad legions and subjugated entire worlds in the dismembered mage’s name. Lan had no love for Kiska k’Adesina.

And yet he did. The man choked as the geas asserted itself. Lan fought the churnings deep within, the love tinglings that mocked him and his most adroit spells. He shook off the sexual urges and concentrated on the world spread before him.

“Summer,” he said. A light, humid breeze caressed his face and warmed flesh that had been chilled on another world just a step-and incalculable distances-away. He sucked in a lungful of the air and tasted freshness, the heady fragrance of flowers in bloom, the slight decays of forest mulch that meant renewed growth for other plants and trees. He closed his eyes and heard the insistent hum of insects. Lan batted away a few of the more eager bugs as they landed on his forehead and neck.

Kiska gripped his arm and broke the serene mood. “Look, Lan, there. Below. In the valley.”

Reluctantly, he focused his gaze on the terrain stretching out from beneath his feet. Even without his magics, he knew what it was like being a god. Simply standing and looking at this fair world caused the feelings to rise within.

“Claybore’s legions,” he said. Twin lines of grey marched along the riverbanks. From their formation he saw they had no fear of attack. This was their world and they ruled it totally. Lan moved so that he could study Kiska’s reaction. She was, after all, a commander in Claybore’s army. The small smirk on the woman’s face told him what he needed to know. These troops spelled danger for him.

But how?

Did the trap lie in avoiding contact with the troops, or in openly confronting them? Should he flee now before they spotted him or should he attack while surprise was in his favor? Endless possibilities flowed through his mind, like clear water across a river rock. Lan found no answer.

“Well?” demanded Kiska. “What are you going to do?”

“What would you have me do? There are hundreds of them. I can hardly fight each and every one.” He placed his hand on the sword still dangling from his belt. It had been a long while since he’d drawn the weapon. His battles had become more magical.

“A sword?” she said scornfully. “Use your magic. Slay all of them with a fireball.”

“You want me to alert Claybore? Any use of magic will allow him to home in on me.”

“Why not?” Kiska asked. “You can defeat him.” The sly look in her eye told Lan that she believed otherwise. She tried to lure him into a not too subtle trap.

“We go,” he said. “Down the other side of the hill.”

“Where? Where are we going? Are we to wander aimlessly, looking for pretty stones and interesting plants? Or do you have a plan?”

“No plan,” Lan said. Kiska moved closer to him, but he shrugged off her embrace. The man wanted nothing more than to be alone with his own thoughts-to be alone physically. But the geas prevented him from chasing her away. The mere thought of Kiska k’Adesina being out of his sight caused him to shiver uncontrollably and break into a sweat.

They walked down the far side of the hill until they came to a tributary to the river flowing down the far valley. Here they made camp, Lan looking for easy game to catch. He started to stun a small, furry creature with a spell, then held back at the last instant. Instead, he clubbed it with a rock. The spell, no matter how trivial, would alert Claybore to his presence. Lan’s instincts told him to keep hidden for as long as he could, learn Claybore’s weaknesses, find his own strengths, and explore the odd vision given him on the other world.

The Pillar of Night, Claybore had called it.

The memory blurred for Lan, something quite unusual. The magics bound within that towering spire of the blackest stone provided the key to destroying Claybore. All Lan had to do was learn the secret of the Pillar of Night. He snorted and shook his head. Simple. Or it ought to be for one who had pretensions of becoming a god.

Lan swung his crude stone hand axe and clubbed a second animal. He carried them back to camp, where Kiska had laid a small fire.

“Clean them,” he said, dropping the animals at her feet.

“Later,” she said in a husky voice. She stood and approached him. Lan couldn’t move. He needed her. He had to have her.

She came into his arms and they kissed deeply. The revulsion welling inside Lan made him want to gag. He didn’t. He felt her hot breath against his lips, his cheek, his ear, his throat, lower. Lan’s heart almost exploded as Kiska coaxed even more from him. They sank to the soft turf together and made love.

Weakness boiled inside the man. The invincible mage felled by a woman he hated-and had to love. Lan drifted off to sleep, wondering where Inyx and Krek were. And if Inyx were locked in Ducasien’s arms. The sleep, when it came, was not restful.

Lan Martak awoke, hand on sword. The darkness cloaking the tiny glade told him that it was well after sundown, perhaps as late as midnight. The stars wheeled through the sky in unfamiliar patterns and sounds totally unique told him of strange beasts stalking and being stalked.

One sound echoing through the forest brought Lan to his feet. He recognized the whisper of metal against leather, the feet marching, the movement of soldiers.

“Kiska,” he said, shaking the woman awake. He wanted to leave her, but the spell forced him to warn her. “We have company.”

“Ummm,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Those brown eyes snapped wide open when she saw Lan with sword already in hand. No fear showed through, but Kiska tensed. “What is it?”

He silently motioned for her to follow. She gathered their few belongings and trailed behind, making no attempt to move quietly. To Lan and his forest-trained senses, she made more noise than all of Claybore’s grey-clad soldiers.

Lan fought down the urge to use a simple scrying spell. To know the troop numbers, their movement, their positions, would make eluding them so much easier. But he dared not betray his position. In the far distance he “saw” magics stirring, a dim, unsettling sensation for him. Lan had yet to identify the source as Claybore’s magics, but if Lan spotted the use of arcane lore this easily, Claybore would be able to “see” him, also.

Surprise, Lan thought grimly, was his only ally. And a fickle one it was, at best.

He peered around the charred bole of a lightning-struck tree and saw the broken formation of soldiers advancing. They crept forward in waves, the soldiers behind protecting those advancing. Only when the new terrain was adequately scouted did those behind move forward to reconnoiter further.

“They’re armed with bows,” Kiska said. “An odd choice for this world.”

“What do you mean?” Lan demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” the woman said. Even in the dim light filtering through the forest’s canopy of broad green leaves, Lan saw the smirk on Kiska’s lips.

“Make any sound to attract their attention and I’ll kill you,” Lan said.

Kiska laughed at him, the laughter drifting through the forest and alerting the man on the closest end of the combat line. The grey-clad soldier spun and motioned to the man next to him.

Lan gripped his sword hilt until his fingers turned white. He shook himself and then started off through the forest at a breakneck clip. The mage hardly cared if Kiska kept up with his pace or not. He wanted to eliminate her with a single sword thrust-and he couldn’t. The fires of the geas burned the brighter within him now as his anger grew. The spell laid upon him always proved more powerful than his own will. Cursing, damning Claybore for doing this to him, damning Kiska and all the grey-clads, he found a rocky knoll poking up out of the gently grassed forest on which to make his stand.

“They come for you, Lan my love,” mocked Kiska.

“Go on, kill me now,” he said. He stood, sword point lowered. Kiska k’Adesina pulled forth her dagger and started to obey. She wanted to kill him; with all her heart and black soul, she would!

The dagger danced about in her trembling hand. She swallowed hard and sank to her knees. “I can’t,” she muttered. “I can’t!”

Lan looked at her and, in that moment, shared the frustration. The spell Claybore had wrought bound them both. Whatever the disembodied mage had in mind, the time was not yet right for the trap to spring. Lan Martak recognized the deadliness of having Kiska beside him and could do little to prevent it. If anything, knowing Claybore’s spell would suddenly erupt into violence and death-and not knowing the exact instant-made the waiting all the more excruciating.

“Defend yourself,” Lan said. “These grey-clads will kill anyone with me.”

“No, they… won’t,” she said, unsure.

The first arrow barely missed Kiska’s right arm. She jerked back and stared in disbelief at the feathered shaft buried in the soft turf.

“Fight or die,” Lan said. His heart raced now, as much for his own safety as for the woman’s. Damn Claybore!

A flight of arrows from the shadows caused Lan to drop behind a stump for cover. He reached out and pulled Kiska flat. The second barrage from the soldiers was instantly followed by six men with drawn swords.

“A spell!” Kiska cried. “Fry them with a fireball!”

Lan’s blade slashed across the first man’s eyes, sending him reeling back into the ranks with blood fountaining. Another thrust to the throat slipped under a sergeant’s gorget and penetrated the Adam’s apple. A heavy boot broke another’s wrist.

“Fight!” Lan cried to Kiska. “Would you see me slaughtered here and now?”

“Yes,” she hissed, but the woman was on her feet, dagger seeking target after target. Claybore’s spell still cut both ways. Lan and Kiska might hate one another, but they were tightly bound together. Until that indeterminate time arrived when Claybore’s diabolical trap would be sprung, Kiska had to fight to save her “lover,” just as Lan fought to save Kiska.

Another half-dozen arrows winged toward Lan. Reflex action caused him to use a fire spell; the arrows burst into flame and turned to ash inches from his chest. He lunged and caught another soldier on the upper arm, putting him out of the fray.

“How many of them are there?” moaned Kiska. She was covered with blood-Lan couldn’t tell how much was hers-and obviously weakened. She had retrieved a fallen sword and used it, but the greys still swarmed from the safety of the woods. Only the slight rise gave Lan and Kiska a fighting advantage.

“Too many,” said Lan. He didn’t want to use another spell, but he had no other choice. Alerting Claybore of his presence was not as immediately dangerous as dying on the sword point of one of Claybore’s soldiers.

Lan’s lips moved imperceptibly, the spell forming. The full power of the tongue resting within his mouth would be sent forth at the proper instant.

“They all attack!” cried Kiska.

“Die!” Lan commanded, using the Voice.

Fourteen of the grey-clads stopped, stiffened, then dropped their weapons. For the span of three heartbeats not a single soldier moved. Then they slumped to the ground like rows of wheat being harvested.

“Such power,” Kiska said softly, looking at Lan. “Claybore’s tongue is mightier than all their swords.”

Lan tried forming the spell again, this time directed at Kiska. He failed, as he had known he would.

“Claybore now knows I have come after him,” said Lan. “I had hoped for more time to study this world.”

“You can see the Pillar of Night?” asked the woman. She shoved the sword into the soft dirt and wiped it free of blood. Kiska searched through the ranks of the fallen soldiers until she found a sword-belt that fit her. She draped it around her waist, the sword tugging down and swinging at her left side.

“What do you know of it?” asked Lan.

“Nothing,” she said blithely, enjoying the torment it caused Lan. “Claybore mentioned it once or twice. That’s all.”

He knew Kiska lied. She knew more than a casual mention by the dismembered sorcerer. But what?

Lan closed his eyes and “looked” around him. A pale glow pulsed from a spot a few hours’ walk away. The light warmed Lan, made him smile in fond recollection. Here was an ally. Perhaps not one overly dependable, but an ally nonetheless. Without a word to his companion, Lan started through the forest toward the green beacon of magic.

“Here,” said Kiska with some distaste. She held out the kicking, clawing badger for Lan to take.

“Do it,” he said, pointing. “Toss the beast into the well.” Kiska obeyed. The badger twisted and tried to savage her hand, but it was too late. Falling, the creature dwindled to a point of brown and then vanished into inky darkness. For some time nothing happened. Then the absolute blackness within the well began to churn and move, to take form, to rise.

“What have you conjured?” Kiska said, backing away from the lip of the well.

“I should have tossed you into the pit,” Lan said.

Inchoate space pulsed with life now and a somber voice said, “Welcome, Lan Martak. You have arrived, as I knew you would.”

“Where is Claybore?” asked Lan.

“On this world,” came the Resident of the Pit’s sly answer.

“How do I fight him?”

“With all your skills.”

Lan pondered. The Resident always answered questions honestly, but obliquely.

“How has Claybore imprisoned you?” Lan asked.

“There is no answer for this, Lan Martak,” came the baleful answer. “If I knew the exact spells, I might free myself of them.”

“You are, after all, a god,” said Lan.

“A deposed one,” said the Resident of the Pit, “and one willing to die. Eternity is too long for me. I have been trapped within this pit for thousands of years.”

“The pit?” asked Kiska. “It opens onto other worlds? I saw one such as this back in Yerrary.”

“I,” said the Resident, “am everywhere and nowhere. On every world there are wells similar to this one, but none worships me now. Claybore has thwarted me.”

Kiska laughed. “I know you now. Terrill was your pawn, wasn’t he? He tried to free you from the Pillar of Night and failed.”

“True,” said the Resident.

Lan frowned. He walked in circles around the mouth of the pit, occasionally looking into the writhing mass of insubstantial blackness trapped within.

“Am I also your pawn?” asked Lan.

“I aid you in whatever manner I can,” said the Resident. “I will tell you this, and nothing more because of the spells binding me: the Pillar of Night is both Claybore’s strength and his weakness.”

“I must destroy it?”

The whirlpool of blackness spun, then slackened in speed, dipped back into the pit and vanished, shadow melting into shadow.

Lan’s frustration rose. It always proved thus with the Resident of the Pit. Vague hints, nothing definite, warnings too general to be meaningful.

“Now that you’ve enjoyed my fair world,” came Claybore’s taunting words, “it is time for you to leave. Goodbye, Martak!”

The attack came from all directions at once. Lan fell to his knees under the onslaught of magics. Spells of mind-numbing complexity worked to burn away his flesh. His eyes expanded within his skull and threatened to explode. His genitals itched. Sounds shrill and deafening assaulted his ears even as bass vibrations shook his internal organs, churning one against the other. He clapped hands over his ears and screwed shut his eyes to protect himself.

And the attack grew.

“Stop!” he commanded, the Voice ringing from his lips. The magical tongue burned in his mouth and tasted foul with its metallic tang. But the single word caused the slightest of cracks in the battering ram of spells Claybore used against him.

That small crack widened as Lan regained his senses. He twisted magically and stood in relative calm.

Both mages surrounded themselves with protective bubbles of intricate, ever-changing magics.

“You have progressed,” said Claybore. “Even in the brief months since we parted company, you have learned much.”

Lan said nothing. To Claybore it might have been months. For him it was mere hours. Time flowed differently between the worlds-and Lan realized for the first time that Claybore’s Kinetic Sphere gave the other mage instant translation between worlds. Lan’s self-taught spells were of a different nature and might have produced the time delay.

He studied Claybore and saw that the sorcerer’s arms produced new and different patterns of glowing air before him. Reds flowed into greens only to burst into brilliant white pinwheels that sent sparks in all directions! Lan wished he had prevented Claybore from recovering his arms; the added power in Claybore’s conjurations was instantly apparent.

“You have repaired your legs,” Lan said.

Claybore did not glance down. The fleshless skull atop his shoulder lacked eyes. In the deep sockets ruby light swirled about, waiting to form death beams. The skull’s lower jaw had been destroyed, but the cracks Lan had caused in the white bone had been patched.

“A master mechanician labored for weeks to rebuild my legs. They are better than ever.” Claybore flexed one of the metal wonders. Lan saw the bright points of magic powering the legs. He snuffed out one of the spots and Claybore almost fell.

“Damn you!” snarled the sorcerer. The power point returned and Claybore straightened.

“Let’s go on a trip, shall we?” asked Lan, his voice deceptively mild. “Now!” This time he put all the prodigious power of the Voice into his spell.

The pair of them tumbled through the air, spinning and turning about as magics carried them aloft.

Lan’s view of the world widened and what he saw he liked. It struck him as a crime that one such as Claybore could befoul such a bucolic place with his presence. Claybore would not rule this world-or any other! He kept the other sorcerer off balance by shifting the force of gravity, slackening in places and augmenting in others.

“A trick, Martak, but not good enough.” Claybore’s fingers wiggled and new patterns of burning light shone forth. The tumbling ceased and they rocketed around the world, moving faster and faster until Lan fought for breath. The rushing air burned at his clothes, made his tunic smoulder, set the leather grips of his sword ablaze.

“Cool!” he commanded, the Voice again producing the desired results. The friction-fed fires died as light breezes wafted past him. Lan Martak breathed normally now and began building an assault against Claybore that combined every deadly spell he knew into one vicious, icepick-slender thrust.

Claybore screeched inhumanly as the magical dagger sank deep. The Kinetic Sphere turned bright red and began melting within the sorcerer’s chest. Claybore begged for release. Lan refused.

“I hadn’t thought I had the power to defeat you, Claybore,” he said. “I was wrong. This is the moment of your death.”

“I cannot die,” grated out Claybore. “I am immortal. We are immortal.”

“Terrill found your weakness. So have I.” Like a small boy pulling the wings off an unwilling insect, Lan Martak plucked the Kinetic Sphere from Claybore’s chest and sent it spinning across the heavens. The cavity where it had beat heartlike in the other mage’s chest began to putrefy. The edges of flesh in the torso gleamed with pinkish fluids that dripped into space. Lan pressed his attack even more.

“You have enslaved millions. You would enslave and torture more. I will stop you. I, Lan Martak!”

The power was on him. Lan felt it building up and flowing like a river through his body. He could not fail. He was invincible. He was immortal. He was a god!

“Look!” sobbed Claybore.

The sleek black column rose from the plains below them. Lan blinked. This had to be the Pillar of Night. The spikes ringing the ebon top of the shaft rotated slowly as he watched. And something stirred within him. The Resident of the Pit had said this was Claybore’s strength and his weakness.

How? What was it? What did it mean?

The distraction proved Lan’s undoing. Even as the sight of the Pillar of Night captivated him, he felt his spells weakening.

“Enjoy eternity, Martak,” came the sorcerer’s distant, haunting words. “Enjoy the nothingness between worlds, for it will be your home forever!”

Lan Martak turned and took a single step forward into… ghostly whiteness.