And the dismembered mage had weaknesses. Lan' s surprise at learning this almost caused him to drop his guard. Claybore had seemed so powerful before, so dominant in all situations. Now, in a confrontation, his power seemed almost pathetically small.
Lan Martak reconsidered. It wasn' t Claybore' s power diminishing, it was his own prowess increasing. He had come a vast distance in ability from sensing magics and being able to work petty fire spells.
His ebon dragons sucked life out of the grey- clad soldiers, but did nothing against Claybore. Vultures with wings of fire formed above Wurnna, spat out their cries of rage, and launched themselves in fury at the renegade sorcerer. Only last- minute shiftings of his defenses allowed Claybore to disperse them and their beaks of the coldest steel.
" Materializations? Where did you find that conjuration?"
Lan had no answer.
" The mages in that pitiful little city cannot help you. You are alone, worm. Grovel before my might!"
The attack Claybore launched forced Lan to his knees. Needles of burning agony drove into his body from every direction. No nerve, no muscle escaped the mind- stunning misery. Focusing on the mote within allowed Lan to fight the pain scourging his body; he did not stop the anguish, but could ignore it. The surface of the luminous mote rippled and boiled, turning into itself and revealing texture and substance he' d never before noticed. And feeding its pseudo- life came power from the very bedrock of Wurnna.
In the distance, he heard hushed tones muttering, " He uses the power stone."
The power stone. The rock mined in the valley of spiders. It did more than provide heatless light. It fed his magics, gave them scope and range unlike anything he had imagined before.
Slowly, muscles protesting, Lan struggled to his feet. He countered every thrust Claybore made. The pain faded until only its haunting memory lingered. But Lan couldn' t renew his attack.
He and Claybore were deadlocked.
Then a new element entered the conflict. Quiet, subtle, Iron Tongue began speaking.
" You are a mighty sorcerer, Claybore. One of the best. But even you can show mercy. Now. You show the spirit of brotherhood so well known among all mages."
Lan realized the words meant nothing. Carried along with their seductive cadence came a magic that was irresistible. His battle with Claybore had weakened the mage adequately for Iron Tongue' s sorcerous suasions to work. A hesitation came to Claybore' s attacks. They lessened, even as Lan weakened under the onslaught.
" I will allow you to consider surrender, worm," came the mage' s words.
" Surrender is not the answer," Iron Tongue insinuated softly. The words carried no volume, no command, but the effect became increasingly dramatic.
" We: we will meet again. I will triumph!" In the distance Lan saw the fleshless jaw clacking. Mechanical arms and legs waved about, then carried Claybore away, as if into a dense fog. Soon only a dull glow from the heart- sphere locked into the armless and legless torso remained; then it, too, vanished.
Lan sank forward, hands resting on the cool stone battlement in front of him. Sweat poured in vast rivers across his face, into his eyes, under his arms and even down his legs. He controlled the trembling.
" You saved me," he told Iron Tongue. " Your magic worked on him. He gave up when he might have conquered."
" You held him," Iron Tongue said, his words oddly accented. " Such power as he commanded this day all of Wurnna could not turn away. You did it with no help. You will stay and aid us in our continued fight." The words softened, became lilting and seductive. " Wurnna has much to offer. We are friends. We can give you all you need. You are one of us. And there is Rugga, lovely, loving Rugga."
Lan Martak recognized the spell being woven about him by Iron Tongue' s words, but lacked the strength to fight it. Or did he? Even after the life- and- death struggle with Claybore, he felt more vibrantly alive than ever before. The young mage straightened and allowed his thoughts to lightly brush the surface of the brilliant mote dancing so deep inside him.
" Do not attempt to ensorcel me, Iron Tongue. Your chants are potent, but the wrong way of winning my further assistance." Lan bent and helped Rugga to her feet. The woman' s face was as white as flour and she had a wild, half- crazed expression. She had touched magics far beyond her abilities. Lan sent his mote dancing through her mind, burning and probing, touching and healing. In minutes, she shook as if she had a palsy, then collapsed.
" Get her to her chambers. She will sleep off this ordeal."
The expression on Iron Tongue' s at this feat of healing assured Lan that, even in a city of sorcerers, his powers had grown drastically and far outstripped the others- with the possible exception of Iron Tongue himself.
" Fully a thousand greys were destroyed by the dark dragons," came the report. Lan swallowed and found his mouth dry. He had slaughtered a thousand men and women with a single spell- and it had required no more effort than lifting a spoon to his mouth.
He pushed his still- filled plate away. He had eaten voraciously, but the death toll took the edge off his hunger more than the food had. The young mage did not enjoy the power growing within him, yet he had to learn to control it and use it against Claybore. Things had been so much simpler when he had hunted the forests, loved Zarella, and had never heard of Claybore or his grey- clad legions.
" Why me?" he wondered aloud.
" Lan? You said something?" Rugga sat beside him, her warm thigh pressed intimately against his under the table. Her hands had strayed many times during the meal, but he had tried to ignore the urgings.
Lan had become cautious of the woman' s attentions. Ever since entering Wurnna, he more clearly noticed motives in others. Hers hinged on more than simple lust for him. He shook his head. It took no mage to understand what Rugga wanted. The power struggle between her and Iron Tongue for control of the city was a thing of the pastbecause of Iron Tongue' s histrionic abilities. Any new element entering the game gave Rugga another chance at seizing power.
Power. It always revolved around control over others.
And Lan Martak was learning to play for his own ends.
" Such a lovely necklace," he said softly. Even softer he added, " And such a lovely neck."
" Only the neck?" she teased.
" And the face. And the regions: lower." He allowed his eyes to drink appreciatively of the woman' s lean beauty. As he did so, Lan realized that some portion of that beauty was magically enhanced. Rugga cast minor spells to soften her somewhat masculine angularity and enhance what was already present. At some other time in his life, Lan would not have minded, if he had even noticed. Now it angered him. Rather than assume she did it for his enjoyment, he decided she wanted to bind him through her body.
" All yours, my Lan. Let us go."
" Not yet," he said, glancing down the table at Iron Tongue. The mage sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark and clouded with suspicion. Lan had to defuse that suspicion enough to make use of it without fanning it into outright opposition.
" These dinners always become so insufferably stuffy. He never allows anything interesting. Like I offer."
" Rugga, my lovely, in a moment. First, tell me of that necklace. It appeals to me." The sensations racing up his arm as probing fingers lifted the baubles from silken skin seemed so tantalizingly familiar, yet he failed to put a name to them. Iron Tongue supplied it for him.