Pillar of Night

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 a god. I will see to it that you never die. You will live in this dimensionless limbo forever, forgotten by your worshippers and doomed to endlessly watch and wait-for nothing!”

“Even if you do achieve your ambition, I will find a way to die. I grow so weary of this existence.”

“It must be terrible,” Claybore said insincerely. “Seeing everything, knowing everything, and being unable to do anything about it.”

“Release me, Claybore. I am nothing to you. Destroy me. I want to die.”

“A god can never die. You know that.” Claybore laughed and let the Resident of the Pit slowly drift back into the timeless boredom of his existence.

“What now, master?” asked Patriccan.

“We recover, then approach Martak once more. This time we go in peace, not in battle.” Claybore chuckled to himself. “Perhaps this time we will destroy him totally.”

“This is victory?” asked Inyx. She stared at the battlefield and shivered in reaction. She had a bloodthirsty side to her nature, but seeing such carnage was not to her liking. It was one thing to do battle with your foe, hand to hand, sword to sword, and best him. The wholesale slaughter of the grey-clads by the arrows had been bad-the sight of all the slingers blown in half by Patriccan’s reversal of the spell used in the explosive pellets sickened her.

“Of course it is,” said Nowless. “Don’t you see how they have lost? Their fort is well nigh destroyed and all the soldiers are dead or put to rout. Their power over us is broken.”

Inyx looked at Ducasien, who shared her concern. Almost seven hundred had died this day. Few of them had died in a manner either she or Ducasien would consider honorable.

Inyx saw Lan and Kiska nearby. The pair argued. She found no solace in that. If it hadn’t been for Lan’s inability to let Kiska k’Adesina suffer, Claybore would have been defeated and the long, hard road they had followed would have been vindicated. But Lan Martak had succumbed to Kiska’s pleas and Claybore had escaped.

He had not reached the point of his hatred for the woman to overcome the compulsion spell placed on him.

What bothered the dark-haired woman the most was knowing that Lan would not have saved her had she been the one in trouble. Claybore had used the same spells on her, and Inyx had felt the invisible fingers choking the life from her body. Lan’s attack on the master sorcerer had been unabated, but the instant Claybore shifted his attack to Kiska, Lan had ceased fighting and had fought only to save Kiska.

“He loves her,” said Ducasien.

“He does not,” Inyx snapped back. “It’s some damned geas Claybore put on him. Lan knows it, but the compulsion spell is too subtle for him to break.”

“That is a convenient excuse,” said Ducasien.

“It is not an excuse. It’s the truth. There’s no other explanation for the way Lan acts around her. She is an avowed enemy. He killed her husband and she has tried to murder him repeatedly.”

“There’s no accounting for tastes, especially when it comes to love.”

Inyx started to say something further to Ducasien, then thought better of it. The man was new to the Road and the ways of mages. He had no clear-cut idea what a tiny spell might do-or the power of a major one. Still, even knowing how adept and cunning Claybore was did not ease the pain Inyx felt at this moment.

Both Kiska and Lan were under the compulsion spell, but Kiska slipped free at all the worst times to attempt to kill Lan. Inyx wondered if Claybore’s intent was physical death or just a wounding, a weakening at the precisely opportune second. Claybore battled for the most ambitious of all goals: godhood.

“This world is freed of the grey-clads, at least for the time being,” Inyx said, changing the subject. “Nowless had better organize a new government if he wants to keep the countryside from falling into chaos.”

“Nowless isn’t much of an administrator,” said Ducasien.

“Or much else, if you ask me,” Inyx said. She blinked when she realized what Ducasien really meant.

“Why not?” the man said. “This is a lovely world. We can stay and rule.”

“You would be king?”

“Perhaps not king, but something significant. When I left Leponto I never thought of settling down and finding a single spot to live. Now the idea appeals to me. It becomes even more beguiling if I-we-were in positions of power.”

“I have never considered it,” said Inyx, frowning. She had walked the Road for years and relished the thrill of adventure. But all things must come to pass. Was it time to cease her aimless ramblings?

With Ducasien?

Lan Martak walked up, Kiska trailing behind. The woman had a smirk on her face that contrasted with Lan’s glum expression.

“What do you want?” demanded Inyx.

“To speak with you. Alone.”

“Oh? Think you can leave your precious Kiska for such a long time?”

“Don’t be more of a bitch than you have to, Inyx. This is important.”

“I am sure it is.”

Lan looked at her, pain in his eyes. “I can’t help myself. I’ve tried. Every spell I’ve ever known or heard of, I’ve tried over and over. Claybore did not attain such power without being very, very good at his magics.”

“And you’re some tyro from a backwater world. Is that it?”

“Yes, Inyx, that’s so.” The hurt in his words softened Inyx’s mood.

“You left Krek to fend for himself. And you’ve repeatedly chosen her over me. Oh, Lan, why? Why did it have to turn out this way?” Inyx stiffened when she felt the mental reaching out. She and Lan were bound together as one again-almost. The final link never formed. Inyx let the tears welling in her eyes run down her cheeks. Once more she had been cheated. The promise had not been fulfilled.

“I need you,” he said simply.

Inyx looked past Lan to where Ducasien and Kiska stood in stony silence. Ducasien fingered the hilt of his sword. Inyx knew the man well enough by now to know he considered drawing and killing; Inyx also knew that Ducasien would never succeed. Lan’s magics were quicker than any sword.

Lan Martak. Ducasien.

“Lan,” she said, “I’ve made my decision. I can’t continue with you. Ducasien and I are going to stay here. There’s so much to be done. The people are good but unorganized. If they are ever to be able to fight off another wave of the grey soldiers, there has to be a strong army.”

“You and Ducasien will rule here, then?”

“Not rule,” she said, loathing the idea of having life and death over others, “but advise. We are needed. I am needed.”

“But…”

Inyx cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Kiska has told me much that you’d probably not care to have related. Does the name Brinke mean anything to you?”

Lan frowned. Inyx saw anger building within him, but it wasn’t directed at her. If Claybore’s geas had not been so damnably strong, Lan Martak would have reduced Kiska to a smoldering pile of lard. Instead, he shook impotently, unable to act against her.

“It’s true, then,” said Inyx. Infinite tiredness washed over her like the ocean’s pounding surf. “That was no spell of Claybore’s doing, I’m sure.”

“What would you have me do? You deserted me. You went off with him.”

“I deserted you?” Inyx’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. Then she laughed. “We have nothing more to say to one another, Lan. Whatever understanding there was between us has fled.”

“Inyx…”

She pushed past him and returned to stand beside Ducasien, hand on his arm.

“Lan, oh, Lan,” called out Kiska. “Are we leaving soon? These are such dreary people. So inhospitable.”

“Be quiet,” he said, but there was no fire in his voice. Kiska laughed at him.

Nowless and Julinne stood to one side, confused. They whispered between themselves, obviously debating the motives of these people who had saved them from the grey-clads. Finally, Nowless shrugged and stepped forward.

“We celebrate this night,” he said. “We want you to be our honored guests, don’t you know.”

“Thanks, Nowless. We accept,” Ducasien said before Lan could answer.

Lan nodded assent. He jerked away when Kiska tried to lock her arm through his. In silence more fitting to the defeated than the victors, they trudged back into the rocky hills and Nowless’s camp to begin the celebration.

“You’re so good to me, Lan,” cooed Kiska. She spoke the words the instant she knew Inyx was within earshot. From the disheveled brown hair and the flushed expression on the woman’s face, Inyx had no trouble guessing what Kiska and Lan had been doing.

She repressed a shudder thinking of that woman in Lan’s arms.

“Nowless is ready to begin the feast,” said Inyx, ignoring Kiska the best she could.

“We’ll be there shortly,” answered Lan, lacing up the front of his tunic. Kiska laughed delightedly at the hurt she gave both Lan and Inyx. The young mage went over in his head all the spells and counters he had learned. For the millionth time he went over them and found nothing to release him from Claybore’s geas. The pure torture was knowing he was under the spell and unable to do anything but abide by it.

He fastened his sword-belt around his waist and left Kiska where they had been given bedrolls and a small tent. Lan started toward the fire and the celebrants, then paused. The feast would continue for some time with or without him. He climbed up onto the rocks and found a tiny upjut on which to stand and survey the land.

“A good world,” he said softly. “Inyx has done well in choosing it. That spot yonder would make a good farm. Plenty of water from the river, but with little chance of being flooded out should it overflow its banks. And the village-Marktown-is close by. A good market for crops.”

He pictured himself in the fields, tending the crops, weeding, joyously performing the backbreaking labor. It was a life for which he had been destined until he had fled his home world by walking the Cenotaph Road. Since then Lan’s life had been out of control-out of his control. He was nothing more than a pawn in a celestial game, being moved from one conflict to another. Lan didn’t even know for certain who the players were, but he had strong suspicions.

“Resident of the Pit, you have not done well by me. Not at all.”

“No, the fallen god hasn’t,” came the words from behind him. Lan had already felt the magical stirrings of a shift from one world to another. His own ward spells were firmly in place. The dancing light mote strained to launch itself against Claybore, but Lan held it in check.

“What do you want?” Lan asked. “You have not joined me to share the serenity of this moment.”

Claybore laughed. “What you call serenity I find boring. There are none to pay homage to me here. The wind? Why not summon an obedient air elemental? The night? Look into the depths of eternity and find diversion there. I need stimulation, not serenity.”

“You want only worshippers.”

“Is that so wrong? I deserve it. Of all those along the Road, I am the strongest. It is my destiny to rule.”

“I’ll stop you.”

“Is it truly your destiny to attempt it? Or, as you intimated, are you only doing another’s insane bidding? Martak, I have no great love for you…”

Lan snorted.

“…but I will make you an offer unlike any I have granted any other. I will give you half of everything.”

“What? Half of the universe?” Lan didn’t know whether to laugh or spit.

“Yes,” Claybore said earnestly. “I have come to the conclusion that being a god will be like ash on the tongue without strife. If there is none to oppose me, what more intense boredom can there be?”

“I already oppose you.”

“But not of your own free will. The Resident of the Pit fills your head with his obsolete teachings. Together we can destroy the Resident and work for our own ends.”

“That’s what he wants. Why give the Resident surcease?” Lan wondered at this strange offer, then pieces fell together.

“You still fear the Resident of the Pit, but you cannot destroy a god. With my help, you can? Yes,” said Lan, understanding bursting upon him now. “With my help you can finally destroy the Resident.”

“And gain half the universe for yourself. I need the opposition to make life interesting.”

Lan said nothing. There had to be more. Claybore did not make this offer lightly-or honestly.

“It cuts the other way, also,” said Claybore. “You are immortal. Without an adversary you will find life impossibly dull. You need me as much as I need you.”

“You are evil.”

“So you think. From my point of view, you are demented. I offer stability to the worlds along the Road. My rule might not be pleasant, but it will be firm. The petty humans will have a society that fills their need for security. There will be no sudden, unsettling shifts of policy. Even as they hate me, they will cherish what I bring them.”

“You bring them slavery.”

“I bring them security.”

Lan wondered if Claybore truly believed this. Perhaps so. It mattered little. He knew the horrors the disembodied mage would wreak. He and Claybore stood at opposite poles.

But what would Lan do when he triumphed over Claybore and relegated the sorcerer to insignificance? As much as he hated Claybore and all the sorcerer stood for, he had to admit the mage was right. An important element of his life would be gone. No Claybore, no struggle. With the powers at his command, Lan Martak could send worlds spinning from their orbits. He could destroy worlds-and create new ones. No task, major or minor, was beyond his grasp. Where would be the challenge without Claybore?

“You begin to understand,” said Claybore. “I offer you half the universe not out of altruism but out of self-interest. I need strong opposition, just as you do.”

“I will not help you kill the Resident of the Pit.”

“But Lan,” pleaded Kiska k’Adesina, scrabbling up the rocks to stand beside him, “think of it! The power! You must accept. You have to. I would be a queen of a million worlds. Give me my heart’s desire. Accept Claybore’s offer.”

Lan swallowed hard. He knew what Kiska’s only desire was. She wanted revenge on him for what he had done to her. Accepting Claybore’s offer only magnified the chances for Kiska to strike.

But…

Lan Martak weakened. He saw the truth in Claybore’s words. Without evil there can be no good. To live forever had seemed an awesome attainment once. Now Lan realized how dulling it might become. Who had he met along the Road able to stimulate him as Claybore did, to bring out the finest qualities? He needed a foil of his own caliber as much as the sorcerer needed him.

Eternity was a long, long time. There had to be something diverting. He began to comprehend why the Resident wanted only death.

“No, Lan,” came a soft whisper. “Do not listen.”

The Resident of the Pit spoke to him.

“How do I know you won’t use me to kill the Resident, then double-cross me?” Lan asked.

“You don’t.” Lan realized this might be one of the few times he received an honest answer from Claybore. “But isn’t that what we speak of now? The challenge? The striving?”

“Lan,” whispered the Resident of the Pit, “there is more than ruling. You will become like Claybore if you try to force your will on so many worlds. There are other answers. Seek them. Seek them.” The Resident’s power faded but the memory lingered. Lan swelled with the power radiated from that god-entity’s light touch on his mind.

“No,” Lan said.

“You are hasty. There is so much I can show you,” said Claybore.

Lan stiffened as the night became darker. In the distance he saw a shimmering curtain that parted to reveal a shaft of the purest obsidian black. Radiating spikes crowned it and they began to rotate slowly. The material of the slick-sided tower sucked light and heat away from Lan. He felt himself drawn to the column, drawn and repelled at the same time. All he knew, all he wanted to know, was locked up within that column.

“The Pillar of Night,” Claybore said softly. “It is your fate because you have so foolishly denied me.”

Lan Martak continued to stare at the vision of the Pillar of Night until Kiska tugged at his arm and pulled him angrily toward the feast. He followed her as if he were in a deep trance.

The Pillar of Night! His destiny-and the universe’s.