Deep down in his heart, his living, beating, flesh heart, Lan Martak did not believe he was immortal. Claybore had said he was and the Resident had intimated it, but Lan had to think otherwise. His powers still grew and would one day match Claybore’s, but that day was still in the future. He could not be immortal. Impossible.
“The visual part of the scrying is complete,” Lan said. “One more small adjustment and we can spy on him. But do not utter a word. The connection will be two-way. We can see while he cannot, but both Claybore and we will be able to hear.”
Brinke nodded understanding. She settled down into her chair, grey eyes fixed on the scene captured under the arch.
Lan performed the final spell.
“…send Patriccan immediately,” Claybore said. “It seems that matters on that world have reached a crisis stage.”
“Immediately, master,” said a uniformed officer. The woman bowed deeply and backed away, leaving Claybore. The mage sat at a table, elbows resting on the top and fingers peaked just under a jawless, bony mouth. Claybore held the pose for a moment, then laughed.
He rose and pulled out charts. Lan studied them over the mage’s shoulder, memorizing the details. Claybore’s headquarters were on the other side of the world and at a port city easily reached by either ship or caravan. For Lan it would be a month’s journey or more, but Claybore would never know his adversary crept up on him.
“Claybore!” came the shout. “Here!”
Lan spun and saw Kiska standing behind him. He had been so intent on Claybore’s map that he had not heard her enter the room. Lan tried to silence her, but the damage had been done.
The ghastly parody of a human jerked about on his clockwork legs. One spastic hand lifted and pointed toward Lan and Brinke. The kaleidoscope patterns returned to the doorway and then faded.
“As I thought. Welcome, Martak, Brinke. And my ever-loyal commander Kiska k’Adesina. How fare you all?”
“He sees us,” gasped Brinke.
“But of course I do, Lady Brinke. I am a mage second to none. Kiska’s outburst alerted me. I knew instantly that someone spied upon me. It required no huge mentation to decide that it had to be Martak. While your scrying spells are interesting, they lack subtlety.”
“Release me, Claybore. Do not hold me a prisoner to your magics any longer.” Brinke’s face reddened and Lan saw the beauty erased by the intense emotional storm wracking her.
“Release you from what, my lovely Brinke? That little geas I placed upon you? Don’t be silly. You have no idea what it will do. Or when.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Claybore’s mocking laughter filled the chamber. It penetrated like a knife and even sent one of the omnipresent demon-powered cleaning units scuttling away in fear. Lan had listened to the byplay and knew it was for his benefit. All the while Claybore boasted and taunted, Lan summoned his energies. He had thought to rest before this confrontation, but he saw now that he would never be more prepared.
The entire wall vanished as Lan hurled one of his fireballs. The green sphere exploded and melted stone and brick on Lan’s side of the spell gate. On Claybore’s side maps and papers strewn about the tables ignited and a superheated wind blew against the sorcerer’s skull. New cracks appeared, but Claybore seemed not to notice. Claybore’s quick hand gestures dropped Lan into inky blackness.
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.