“Keep the rotors turning,” ordered Lan, seeing that the demon was slacking off again.
“I… I can’t. Something drains my strength.”
Lan started to argue, then felt the waves striking him. Power diminished and he wanted to fall asleep. Only through will power did he keep going.
The Pillar of Night rose up from the plain, a black digit defying him.
“The spikes atop the Pillar,” he muttered. Tiny discharges leaped from one to the other. With every spark came new weakness. The closer he flew to the Pillar, the less able he would be.
“I hurt!” complained the demon. “My fingers are blistered and my muscles are over-tired. And I… I feel trapped. I must escape this steel prison!” Loud ringings came from the chamber as the demon began scratching at the plates in a vain effort to escape. The binding spells were too adroit.
“Be calm,” Lan said. “There’s nothing we can do about it. That column frightens me as much as it does you.”
“Impossible! I piss on myself in fear! Gladly will I piss on you!”
Lan stared at the Pillar, then pushed down on the flyer’s controls and landed at the edge of a forest ringing the base of the magical construct.
“You will stay here,” Lan said. “No other can command you.”
“You will die in that forest,” said the demon. “I’ll be lost in this iron pot forever. You can’t do this. Oh, you cruel, cruel monster!”
Lan pulled what supplies he had left from the flyer and hoisted them to a pack on his back. The forest disquieted him. Lan tingled as magics began growing. The tree limbs whipped and swung for his face, thorny vines raking his flesh and drawing bloody streaks. The temptation to use his light mote familiar to clear a path dogged his steps, but he fought it down. These were not natural woods; they were Claybore’s creation. Any spell used within the perimeters of the woods would alert the sorcerer instantly.
Lan wanted to examine the Pillar of Night carefully before betraying his presence.
But the forest became denser and the plants more aggressive. When Lan camped for the night in a tiny clearing, he built a larger than normal fire to keep the creeping plant life at bay. Even this had little effect; he noticed the trees themselves beginning to circle him, their roots painfully pulling out of the soil, only to burrow back in a spot just a few inches closer.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he said aloud. The words seemed to hold back the encroaching plants, with their gently waving spined pads and powerfully coiling and uncoiling shoots. Lan put another small log onto the fire; the dancing light both attracted and pushed the plants back. He guessed the warmth and need for photosynthesis drew the trees and smaller plants, but the fear of being burned held them at bay.
“Fear?” he wondered aloud, sitting up and hugging his knees in to his chest. Sleep refused to come. “Do they fear? Do they love? Or are their movements instinctual and only in response to a stimulus?”
He dozed off, only to be awakened by a cold, slippery vine stroking over the back of his neck. Lan came awake instantly, a spell forming on his lips. He caught himself and drew forth his dagger, slashing frantically when the vine began tightening around his left arm. The severed vine pulled back and Lan imagined he heard a piteous howling of pain.
The rest of the night was spent wary and half asleep, no real rest being gained.
Seldom had he been so glad to see sunrise.
He stood and stretched cramped muscles and wiped away an ichorous substance left by the vine when he’d cut it. Lan pushed through the tight circle of trees, some of which were less than two feet apart, and used his sword to hack away the bushes.
He ate a trail breakfast as he walked, not wanting to spend any more time in the forest than necessary. He had only just penetrated the forest; he didn’t cherish the idea of spending another night within its boundaries.
Finding a meandering stream of muddy water allowed Lan to make better progress along the banks. Branches formed a canopy above and shut out the cheering sunlight, but the added speed more than made up for the dreary landscape.
“I… I can’t breathe,” Lan gasped out after walking for more than an hour. “The air. Gone stale. No breath. So hard.” He started to fall forward when a long, slender vine dropped down and wrapped itself tightly about his right wrist. Long needles shot into his flesh and the pain rocketing into his brain pulled him out of the fog. He screeched in anguish and tried to jerk free. He only succeeded in losing his balance on slippery rocks.
Crashing down to the stream bank, Lan struggled in the vine’s grip. He found his knife and slashed awkwardly at the green rope until he cut it in two. The pain kept him working until the sucker pad that had already sampled his blood and the sharp, hollow spines were removed from his wrist.
“Air,” he panted, then wondered. The shock of pain had kept him breathing. “There’s nothing wrong with the air,” he said to himself. “It’s a guard spell. That’s all it can be.”
He hunkered down and forced his lungs to suck in deep draughts of air as he gently probed for the source of the spell. He didn’t find it, but took the chance of using a counter. Chanting, softly at first and then with more determination, he worked out a magical pump that would force air into his lungs, even if his chest refused to expand to accept it. In this way Lan hoped to attract little attention to himself-he wasn’t opposing the spell but rather working on himself to counter the effects of the spell.
Just as he thought all was again serene, a bloodcurdling scream ripped apart the stillness of the forest.
Lan heard heavy crashing through the thick undergrowth and drew his sword, ready to fight. Without an instant’s warning, a heavy body surged through the air directly at him. Lan dropped to one knee, braced the hilt of his sword on the ground, and felt the impact. The blade twisted mightily and almost left his grip, but he held on grimly.
A man-or parts of what had been a man-had perished on his carbon-steel blade.
“Who are you?” Lan asked, pulling his sword from the man’s chest. The grotesquely misshapen head belied any claim to humanity. One arm was missing and the legs bent at curious angles. The sword had found the proper spot between ribs to penetrate through to the heart.
Lan could hardly believe that the creature still lived. One torn eyelid waggled up and down to reveal a glassy, bloodshot eye. The other eyelid opened to reveal a gaping cavity where the eyeball had been plucked out.
“Who are you?” asked Lan, kneeling beside the creature. “Let me tell your people where you died.”
The raucous laughter welling up from the creature’s throat chilled Lan. He stepped away, then used his sword to put the thing out of its misery. The wound started under one ear and deeply cut to the other. Lan Martak felt unclean even seeing such a parody of humanity.
“You have this much more to answer for, Claybore,” he said. “This foul work has your imprint on it. I know that.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course it is his handiwork. Who else strays into these woods, eh, tell me that, tell me that?”
Lan spun, dropping into an en garde stance at the words. A man with arms three times normal size hung from a tree. He had no legs. Swinging back and forth, the man built momentum and reached for another tree limb and moved closer to Lan.
“Who are you? Who by the lowest of the Lower Places was he?” Lan indicated the pitiful creature sprawled on the ground, still feebly twitching as if life refused to flee even after having heart pierced and throat slit.
“We’re all having fun, ever so much fun, yes, fun, fun, fun!”
The half-man whirled and capered about, swinging skillfully from limb to limb and then dropping to the forest floor. He stared up at Lan.
“You’re not one of us. You’re an interloper. I know all of us. And you’re not. One of us. No, no you’re not.”
Lan swallowed hard and gripped his sword even tighter. He had seen madness in his day. This was a classic case and he had to deal with it. Had the loss of his legs driven the man insane?