He panicked, remembering the whiteness between worlds. Then he found his light mote and used it to guide him from the pitch black hole and into the sun. Panic would destroy him; calm would allow him to prevail. The two mages fought constantly, striving for advantage.
“Let me help,” urged Brinke. “Use me however you can to destroy him!”
“Yes,” mocked Kiska, “use her. As if you hadn’t already.”
Lan dared not silence either of them. He needed full concentration to counter the increasingly devious spells Claybore threw at him. And his own grew in complexity.
Mere power would not suffice. There had to be artifice, also.
“You are not making any headway, Martak.”
“Nor are you, Claybore.”
“I feel no need to. After all, you are the challenger. You have to unseat me.”
“You’re no king and I’m no usurper,” Lan shot back. He molded his light familiar into a slender needle, the tip of which burned with eye-searing intensity. At the proper instant it would be launched directly for Claybore’s skull. Split that bone monstrosity and Lan thought Claybore’s power would fade.
“You misjudge our positions.”
“Lan!” screamed Brinke.
A rustle of velvet and leather from behind told Lan that Kiska had again tried to knife him in the back. He watched her carefully enough at most times, but when dealing with Claybore he left himself open. As much as he wanted to destroy her, swat her as he would an insect, Lan simply couldn’t. It seemed that, with every spell he cast, his love for the woman grew.
Claybore’s laughter filled his ears.
“Ah, darling Kiska has again tried and failed. She will succeed one day. But I am not too worried about that. I have other traps laid for you, Martak. You will enjoy them, I’m sure.”
“Goodbye, Claybore.”
Lan Martak launched the magical needle with all the power locked within him.
Claybore again laughed. Lan sensed rather than saw Claybore slip aside at the last possible instant. And Lan felt himself being pulled forward with the needle. He followed it between worlds and onto another. Only quick reflexes saved him from a nasty spill. He had emerged in thin air some ten feet off the ground. Lan doubled up and rolled and came to his feet.
Beside him stood a dazed Kiska k’Adesina.
He looked around. This was a fair world, but one he’d never set foot on before. Claybore had outmaneuvered him again. But why?
“Why do you fear this Patriccan?” asked Ducasien.
“I fear his magic, not the man,” Inyx answered. She quickly outlined the battles that had raged outside Wurnna on a faraway world and how Patriccan had taken part. “He is skilled and one of Claybore’s finest surviving sorcerers. Without him Claybore wouldn’t have been able to conquer nearly as many worlds as fast as he has.”
“We do not fear him,” Nowless said staunchly.
“You should,” said Julinne, speaking for the first time in days. “I see only snatches of the future and it is grim. Many, many die. I cannot tell individuals but the land is afloat in blood.”
“Now then, good lady, are you really needing the sight to predict that?” scoffed Nowless.
“Patriccan is responsible for many deaths,” Julinne said. “There are others, potent others. Mages whose power is so incredible I cannot comprehend it.”
“They oppose us at the fort?” asked Ducasien, worried for the first time. “We have adequate fighters”-he looked at Inyx for confirmation-“but spells are rare on this world. Julinne’s the only one with a talent worth mentioning.”
“Shork can conjure fire from his able fingers,” said Nowless. Even as the man spoke he knew how inadequate that sounded. “Perhaps he can learn to do more.”
“Before the battle? Hardly,” said Inyx. “We have the advantage tactically. Can we still assume we have the element of surprise on our side?”
“No,” said Ducasien. “With mages inside the fort? A scrying spell or some infernal ward spell would alert them to our attack long before the main body of fighters arrived. We will have to postpone the battle until they no longer have all these mages available.”
“I, for one, have no desire to be turned into a newt, don’t you know?” Nowless crossed his arms over his broad chest and glowered.
“I did not say we lacked sorcerers. I said there were many engaged in the battle.”
“Now what’s it you’re really meaning to say?” demanded Nowless. “Are you saying Shork’s going to give us the magical cover we need to sneak up on those barstids?”
“Wait.” Inyx took Julinne’s hand in hers. “Can you see the faces of the mages in the battle?”
A tiny nod.
“One is rat-faced and looks as if he’d just sucked on a bitter root?”
Another nod.
“And another has brown hair, is well built and is accompanied by a small, bright point of light?”
“You have the vision, too?” asked Julinne.
“Lan will somehow come to our aid,” she said to Ducasien. “How he found us, I can’t say. But he did!”
Ducasien turned and stalked off. Inyx said to Julinne, “Thank you. This is very important. It might mean the difference between success and failure.” Inyx bent forward and lightly kissed the other woman on the cheek, then hurried after Ducasien.
She overtook him just as he reached the spot where they’d pitched a small tent.
“Don’t be so crackbrained,” she said, grabbing his sleeve.
He jerked free of her grip and faced her. “It’s always Martak this and Martak that. If he’d been with us, the mage wouldn’t have been able to paralyze us. How do you know Julinne’s vision is accurate? We’ve never been able to verify a thing she’s said. I think you want Martak to be there. In spite of all he’s done to you, you want to see him again. So do it and be damned!”
“Ducasien, please, wait.”
She dropped to hands and knees and followed Ducasien into the tent. There was hardly enough room for the pair of them. It hadn’t mattered before.
“We cannot defeat Patriccan without a mage of surpassing power. Neither of us is able to conjure even the simplest of spells. Give us swords and we can fight the best Claybore has in his legion, but against a mage? Forget it.” Inyx slumped and rolled onto her back, staring up into the blank green fabric of the tent.
Ducasien said nothing as he lay on his pallet, similarly staring upward. Inyx soon felt his hand atop hers, squeezing gently. She turned and looked into the man’s eyes.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Ducasien said.
“You won’t hold me this way.”
“He…”
Inyx reached over and silenced him with a slender finger against his lips. “Don’t speak of him. Not now. The battle is set and we must be ready in an hour.”
Ducasien lifted himself up on an elbow and kissed Inyx. She returned it with mounting fervor and soon, in the confines of the tent, they made love.
But Inyx thought not of Ducasien. Her mind rattled with memories of Lan Martak.
“They have gathered just for us,” gloated Ducasien. “One swift thrust and they are ours. The power of the grey-clads on this world will be broken.”
Inyx wasn’t so sure. She looked down at the fort. They had successfully raided it before. Nowless’s poison had killed more than half the soldiers, but this victory was short-lived. The commander had called in troops from distant posts to recoup the lost position here.
“Nowless has everything in readiness,” said Ducasien. He smiled wickedly as he pointed out the traps and said, “The boulders will smash through the side of the fort and leave them vulnerable to the archers and slingers.”
“There’s no question that the boulders will do the trick?” asked Inyx. She spoke only to keep her mind off her true worries. Ducasien had had little contact with Claybore’s sorcerers and the power of magic. The woman had no desire to face the kinds of spells that might be thrown against their forces.
“The explosive Nowless uses in the pebble-slingers has been mined and planted in appropriate amounts. Fear naught. All will go well.” Ducasien put his arm around her in an attempt to be comforting. Inyx refused to allow herself to relax.
“They have gathered,” she said. A last company of grey-clads rode into the fort. “Their meeting begins.”