Robert Vardeman - Pillar of Night

“Oh, yes, Martak,” came the scornful words. Claybore enjoyed his revenge to the hilt. “You now find yourself lost. Remember how it was when I did this to that bitch Inyx? You sought her out and only succeeded in bringing her back because of the help you had. This time there is no aid for you. None. You are lost!”

The laughter following faded away until only deathly silence remained behind.

Lan walked through the cloaking whiteness, aware of Kiska nearby but not seeing her. The weight of responsibility for her drove him to seek her out. The task proved more difficult than he’d imagined. Even though Lan had successfully found the disembodied Inyx in this place between worlds when Claybore had exiled her here, he had forgotten how truly alien the white nothingness was.

Time ceased to have meaning. He walked and he thought of all that had happened. The magical battle had been premature on his part, yet he hadn’t been totally unprepared. Meeting with the Resident of the Pit had definitely alerted Claybore to his presence on that world, even if the small magic used in battle with the grey-clad soldiers hadn’t. But the sight of the Pillar of Night again stunned Lan and allowed Claybore to work his spells unhindered.

Why? What was it about the black column that devoured all light that so paralyzed him? He was not afraid of it or the magics locked within it, yet he knew he ought to be. There came from it an undeniable power, and the Resident was unable to tell him of it. In some fashion the magics robbed the Resident of godhood and reduced a once mighty deity to little more than a wishing well.

But what a wishing well! Lan guessed that there were pits on every world along the Road. His mind turned to other avenues of attack. If the Resident of the Pit existed simultaneously on each world, might it not be possible to walk the Road using those pits? Where was the magic for that? Lan searched for the proper chant, the incantation that would reveal any such well in this whiteness, and failed.

He turned-or not, since it hardly mattered-and saw Kiska k’Adesina. She had become a ghostlike figure, transparent and flickering in and out of sight like a guttering candle flame. Lan lost her as gauzy curtains floated between them, then found her, much to his disgust, by using the geas Claybore had laid upon him. His love for her drew them together.

“Lan,” gasped Kiska as she grabbed for his arm. “I never thought I’d be happy to see you. What is this place?”

Lan Martak didn’t answer. The geas forced him to joy on being reunited with Kiska, but he knew there was no true love. For Inyx he would have stranded himself in this nothing place if she could only have walked free on some world of substance. But for Kiska, he would not trade spit for her company, given free will.

But an idea began forming. His spells were useless, that he knew. Could Claybore’s geas provide the thread leading out of this white desolation? Lan smiled wryly at that. To use Claybore’s own spell to unlock a more deadly one amused him. It almost vindicated his claim to being a mage.

Try as he would, though, all Lan succeeded in finding was a hint as to the direction, a glimmering of hope that he had enough power held in reserve to accomplish the task.

“Lan?” Kiska moved closer and yet the distance between them did not change. “I feel as if I am coming apart. Drifting apart inside. Everything is so… dreamy.”

“The space between worlds does not follow ordinary laws. My spells fail and force is useless.” He lightly touched the hilt of his sword. Creatures roamed through the whiteness, but they fought in ways he had never mastered. If magic and blade availed him nothing, how did he defend himself? He renewed his efforts to follow the trail back to Claybore’s world.

“I don’t like it here. I want to go somewhere else. Lan, take me away from this.”

Power surged inside Lan. The geas to love Kiska, to keep her from harm and to please her, added to his ability. The thready indications of magic he spied became clearer, dark dots occasionally hidden by the movements of the white landscape. Lan followed the trail as he would any spoor in the forest.

“Who?” came the distant question.

Lan tried to ask Kiska what she meant, but the woman was again separated from him, more by mind than distance. Even though she clung to his arm, they were poles away from one another-and someone else again asked, “Who is there?”

“We are lost between worlds. Claybore’s spell holds us here. Can you help?”

“Where?”

“Here,” Lan said. He formed a mental image of the whiteness and sent it out, as he would a spell. The thready path they followed became more distinct.

“I see you and yet I do not. This is perplexing.”

“Help us.”

For a long while no answer came. Lan feared he had made contact with another mage-one in Claybore’s camp. He had not forgotten how the mage Patriccan had given him such problems when Claybore had laid siege to Iron Tongue’s walled city. Lan thrust the metal tongue in his mouth out and lightly touched the very tip. It heated, indicating spells about him of which he knew nothing. The legacy of Claybore’s tongue had brought him both augmented magical powers and woe. For all the newfound ability it gave him, it also took its toll on his humanity.

“Help me,” he said, using the Voice. The tongue warmed even more. The potent spell rippled along the black band leading off into the whiteness.

“Do not think me such a fool,” came the instant warning. “I am no novice.”

“Help me, please,” Lan said, toning down his command and making it a plea. “Without your aid we will be lost here. Show me the way back.”

“Very well.”

The black thread widened. Lan coaxed it and the mage on the other end spread it out until it stood as wide as a footpath through the forest. Lan and Kiska hurriedly followed it.

“Lan!” shrieked Kiska, when they had walked for what seemed hours. Her sword slid free of its sheath and cut through white nothingness to one side of the path. “Did you see it?”

A hulking creature loomed up once more. Its skin had faded to glasslike transparency and revealed the sturdy skeletal structure within. The only parts of the beast that seemed the least bit solid were the six-inch-long fangs in the vicious mouth. Lan tried a fire spell, only to have it snuffed out inches from his hand. He drew his sword and slashed downward. He caught the creature high on one shoulder and tried to cleave it open to the groin.

His blade bit into a clavicle, then found only mist.

“You wounded it, Lan. It… it attacks!” Kiska’s voice betrayed fear but her actions were those of a soldier. She did not even consider retreat. She widened her stance and prepared to meet the brutal assault head on.

The creature spun from Lan’s punishing blade at the last instant and ducked under Kiska’s sword. She thrust high and missed. Fangs sank into her thigh.

Kiska moaned and tried to cut the beast’s back. Her sword found only mist. Lan drove it back and into the whiteness.

“What is happening? I sense disturbance,” came the other mage’s words.

“We were attacked. If we don’t win free soon, we might never make it.” He looked anxiously at Kiska’s wound. It bled, but not in the fashion of most bites. The blood came out in perfect, expanding circles, like the ripples on a small pond when a rock is dropped into the water. Lan tried to staunch the flow from the curious wound but only made it worse.

“Follow my familiar,” the other mage commanded.

But Lan saw nothing. He helped Kiska along the black pathway, not knowing where it led. The tiny hints he received about their rescuer only raised more questions than they answered. In some fashion he sensed the other mage was also bound to Claybore, but not as he was through the geas linking him inexorably to Kiska k’Adesina.