Robert Vardeman - Pillar of Night

“They’re all dead,” Krek said, almost sadly. He was ready for a fray and it was at an end.

“What brings you here to ruin our carefully laid plans?” asked Ducasien.

“I come to speak with Inyx,” Lan replied.

“She is busy with planning for the final thrust at the grey-clads’ heart. All save one of their fortresses have fallen and the remaining one is poorly supplied. A siege might bring it down with little injury to our rank.”

“I need to speak with her,” Lan repeated. He used just enough of the Voice to convince Ducasien of the seriousness of the matter.

“I will tell her.”

“Take us to her,” Lan ordered. Ducasien obeyed, knowing he was being manipulated magically. Lan did not care for the man who had become Inyx’s lover and cared even less if Ducasien knew he was being manhandled by minor spells. Once more Lan felt time pressing in all around him. The Resident of the Pit had to be released-soon.

“Lan!” Inyx cried. She forced herself to calm and said in a less enthused voice, “What are you doing here?”

“According to Ducasien, interfering with your plans.”

“Krek!” Inyx ran to the spider and hugged two front legs. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“You are getting spots of my fur wet with your salty tears, friend Inyx. I wish you humans would not leak like that every time you show emotion.”

“The fur’s grown back well. No signs of the burns,” Inyx said, stroking over the bristly front leg.

“It has been a considerable time since we parted,” Krek said. “On the world where I became Webmaster of the mere spiders, it has been almost four years.”

“So long! It’s only a few months here,” said Inyx.

“And about the same for me,” said Lan.

Inyx tried to ignore him but couldn’t. “How have you been, Lan?”

“Missing you,” he said.

“Inyx. We must reinforce the troops to prevent any from escaping the fortress,” said Ducasien.

“Do it,” ordered Lan, the Voice again compelling Ducasien to obey.

The man trotted off to carry out the order.

“Don’t use the Voice on him like that, Lan. I don’t like it.”

“I won’t on you, Inyx. I never have.”

Inyx brushed back tangled strands of her raven-wing black hair with both hands. Her blue eyes locked with Lan’s brown ones. The rapport that had once been theirs returned.

“Oh, Lan,” cried Inyx, flinging herself into his arms. “It’s been so damned hard. And I see what it’s been like for you. Our thoughts. I mean, they linked like before, only, but… oh, damn!”

“Perhaps friend Inyx would care for a juicy bug to replenish all the fluids she is losing,” suggested Krek.

“Everything’s all right, Krek. Now.”

“No, Lan. You don’t understand how it is now.” Inyx forced herself away. “Ducasien and I, we’re a team. When you left-drove us away!-I needed someone and he was there. I can’t do to him what you did to me. I just can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Lan explained his need, how only Inyx could provide the support he needed to penetrate the spells guarding the Pillar of Night and counter it to release the Resident.

“The fight is almost complete here. We can’t leave without making sure that the greys can never regain their power.”

“Inyx, Claybore will become a god. Do you think minor battles mean anything to him? He fights for all the worlds along the Road, not just one. He can afford to let you expend your effort here while winning a thousand others.”

“We’re only human, Lan. We can only deal with one at a time.” She looked at him, her blue eyes probing. “Ducasien and I are humans. Are you?”

Lan had no answer for her. He ever feared thinking about it. Too often he had been told he was immortal. His magical abilities far transcended any controlled by a mage, other than Claybore. Did this make him less than human-or more?

“Friend Lan Martak is sincere,” said Krek. “There is even a shred of logic to his plan to enlist the aid of this former god.”

“We need the Resident, Inyx,” he said. “With his aid we can defeat Claybore once and for all.”

“Terrill thought so, too.”

Lan knew he’d have to tell her of Terrill’s fate later.

“In this, I am right. We can defeat Claybore.”

“Very well,” she said cautiously. “You convince me, but only because of one thing.”

“What’s that?” Lan asked.

“You’re saying ‘we’ instead of I when you talk of stopping Claybore. That’s the only way I’ll aid you-as an equal.”

“Three equals,” said Lan, looking over at Krek and smiling.

“Four,” said Ducasien, returning in time to overhear. “I do not like this, I think you lead us all to death, Martak, but I will not allow Inyx to go anywhere I do not also go.”

“As four equals,” Lan said. He and Ducasien shook hands. Inyx laid her hand atop theirs and over their heads came a long, hairy leg. They would fight as one in the final confrontation.

Claybore walked down the corridor, his bowed leg giving him a curiously rolling gait. The mage held onto his left arm as it tried to fall off once more, and his skull actually split enough to drop a tiny piece to the wooden flooring. Claybore bent and picked up the precious skull fragment and gently put it back into place. With some reluctance, it stayed.

In spite of all the troubles he experienced with his newly whole body, Claybore felt more power surging within him than he had since Terrill had dismembered him. The circuit had been completed, albeit imperfectly. The magics long lost now sang and pulsed through his veins. The sorcerer felt invincible, like a god.

“Patriccan!” he called out. “Attend me!”

Patriccan’s own wounds had healed adequately for the man to show little outward sign of damage. He hastened to join his master.

“How may I be of service?” he asked, bowing low. Patriccan winced at the sight of the dark eye sockets churning with the pale ruby light. The death beams that lashed forth had reduced the ranks of his mages by a quarter. None stood against that ravening death-none except Lan Martak.

“My arm rejects me once again. Is there nothing to do? A demon to summon?”

“Master, even at the best of times it is difficult to entrap a demon. Since you exiled the one who worked on your leg, they have become even wilier in eluding my snare spells. Hasn’t the adhesive paste bonded the arm?”

“See for yourself.” Claybore thrust out his left shoulder. The arm had disconnected grotesquely and dangled by a few arteries and grey, stringy nerves.

“Please, master, come into my laboratory. I will again attempt the connection. The flesh has been separated so long that it has taken on a life of its own.”

“One of the penalties of immortality. The parts attempt to live by themselves. Damn Terrill,” Claybore exclaimed. Then the sorcerer chuckled and danced about, favoring his gimpy leg. “How should I visit Terrill and let him know that his plight will continue? How can I best instill hope and then dash it?”

“His madness prevents any such revenge, master,” said Patriccan fumbling with the arm. He frowned. The best of his magics failed to hold Claybore’s arm in place. Even Claybore had not been able to keep himself intact.

“Perhaps I shall lift the madness, give the promise of rescue-after letting him know what his life has been like for ten thousand years-and then cast him back into insanity.”

“A fitting end for him, master.”

“Don’t patronize me, fool.” Claybore jerked free of Patriccan’s fumbling examination. He stormed into the journeyman mage’s laboratory and perched on the edge of the green-tiled table, waiting impatiently.