“Your leg, master. Is it all right?” Patriccan asked anxiously.
“It is crooked.” Claybore awkwardly slid off the table and stood on his legs. The one attached by the demon was inches shorter and bowed outward.
“Shoddy material, as I said,” spoke up the demon.
“Shoddy workmanship,” said Claybore. He placed his hands against the blazing bars of the cage and began squeezing. At first the demon only leered. Then it began to show more agitation as the bars closed in on it. Claybore continued to squeeze and the cage became ever smaller.
“Wait, stop. Don’t!” the demon pleaded. “Perhaps I erred. Your legs are the finest I have ever seen.”
Claybore’s anger was not to be contained. He continued squeezing. The cage collapsed until the demon was held in a space less than an inch across. The keenings of outrage and fear filling the room now came solely from the demon.
“You thought I jested when I said I was a god. Know this, lowborn one. I am Claybore. I rule every world along the Road. And I rule you. You!”
“Y-yes, master,” squawked the demon. “I see that now. Oh, the bars. They cut into me so cruelly! I hurt!”
“You’ll hurt for a thousand years.” Claybore conjured the world-shifting spell and exiled the demon to a distant place far from any civilized life.
“Is it cold there, master?” asked Patriccan.
“Very cold. The demon’s punishment will be extreme.”
Patriccan bowed low, smiling.
“And the punishment of the two who spoke, saying I deserved such torture…” Claybore hobbled about and directly faced the two miscreants. They dropped to their knees, pleading. From deep within Claybore’s eye sockets boiled the ruby death beams. Both mages died in fierce convulsions, their bones breaking and their inner organs rupturing in the process.
“The Kinetic Sphere?” asked Claybore. “I want it now. With it I shall again be whole.”
The parody of a human hobbled to where Patriccan opened a small cabinet. Inside lay the pinkly pulsing Kinetic Sphere, the sorcerer’s heart. His shaky hands reached out and lifted it to the yawning cavity in his chest. Claybore thrust it into his body.
“The power again flows within me,” he said. “I shall take a short rest to examine the additional powers that again having legs gives. Then,” the mage said, fleshless skull catching the light and reflecting it whitely, “then Martak shall perish.”
“Hail, master,” cried Patriccan.
Claybore almost fell as he spun about, his bandy leg betraying him. With as much haughtiness as he could muster, the re-formed sorcerer strode from the room. Only when he reached the hall did he tend to his left arm, which had again fallen from his shoulder.
He was not as powerful as he had been before Terrill had dismembered him with the help of the Resident of the Pit, but Claybore knew he was strong enough. For Inyx and Krek and Brinke and even Lan Martak.
“What is he doing?” Lan Martak worried at the lack of contact. “We cannot make the scrying spell work. He must be maneuvering into a position of power.”
“My couriers report at least four worlds along the Road where his grey-clad legions have made their final bids for power-and have succeeded.” Brinke stared at Lan, worry etched onto her fine face. “Physical power means little. He must seek other items, other powers, on those worlds.”
Lan rubbed his tongue against dry lips. The metallic tang of that tongue reminded him of the energy and driving spells locked in each of Claybore’s parts.
“He must have been prodigiously powerful when he met Terrill,” Lan said. Fear began gnawing away at his confidence. He had been so certain that he and only he could defeat Claybore. Now he doubted himself. Had he the training, the power? What of experience? Claybore had tens of thousands of years of cunning to draw upon. Lan had succeeded this far only because the sorcerer had still been disassembled and strewn along the Road.
No longer was that an advantage. Lan tried to be realistic about Claybore’s enhanced abilities-he assumed the sorcerer had regained the Kinetic Sphere. Lan had hardly known what he did when he ripped it from Claybore’s chest. Even less did he know where he cast it. There had been no planning such as that Terrill employed when originally scattering Claybore’s parts.
“The Pillar,” said Lan. “The secret is there. If I only had some inkling as to what it was.”
“No, Lan my darling,” said Kiska, grabbing his arm and tugging hard. “You cannot return there. The spell holds Claybore’s soul. He will become invincible if you meddle.”
The woman’s words started a different chain of thought. Lan said, “You argue for Claybore. He doesn’t want me going to the Pillar because of what I might find.”
“I have only your welfare at heart, Lan,” Kiska said.
Brinke laughed derisively but Lan almost believed. He loved her, even as he saw the lies she told him. The geas chewed away at him and made him less than a man. He feared now, as much for Kiska’s safety as his own. This robbed him of decisiveness.
Hands shaking and face pale with strain, he said, “I go back to the Pillar of Night. I must, if I am to discover the truth.” He expected the Resident of the Pit to quietly concur. No phantom voice sounded within his head. He had made the decision. Now he had to act upon it.
“I’ll go with you, Lan,” said Brinke. “We… we make a good team.” She flushed and smiled almost shyly.
“Bitch,” snarled Kiska. “You lead him astray. Claybore will strip the flesh from his bones and fry him throughout all eternity for this. I love him!”
Lan prevented Brinke from using her silver dagger on Kiska. The blonde relented and said, “We must hurry, Lan. Claybore uses his time well. We know that from our inability to use the scrying spell. Before he is ready to attack, you must launch yours.”
Lan nodded. He thought about the long journey using the demon-powered flyer. That had hidden any slight uses of magic he had performed, but the luxuries of time and seclusion were no longer his.
“We go. Now.”
His dancing light mote swung in crazy orbits about his head. With a few simple spells, he elongated the dot of light until it once more encapsulated him and Brinke.
“Lan, you can’t leave me!” pleaded Kiska, trapped outside the sphere of magic. “I need you!”
“She is a dagger at your throat, Lan. Leave her,” urged Brinke.
“I…” Lan made an impatient gesture and breached the bubble so that Kiska could join them. She shot Brinke a look of pure venom as she rubbed seductively against Lan. The mage tried to ignore her and failed.
Magical bubble again intact, he used his transport spell to whisk them half a world away to the edge of the forest.
The bubble popped audibly and sent the trio tumbling to the ground.
“We are on the wrong side,” said Brinke. “The Pillar is on the far side.” She canted her head upward, trying to catch sight of the towering column of black.
“There is something about the forest that prevents you from seeing the Pillar,” said Lan. “A few miles away, out on the plains, it is visible, immense, awesome. Move closer to the periphery of the forest and it vanishes.”
“We walk?” asked Kiska. “I do not like this. Let’s return to her castle, Lan. You can prepare for any battle there.”
Lan did not answer. Swallowing the words of agreement, he walked briskly into the dead forest. Again he was struck by the deathly silence, the lack of bugs, the sterile odor, the sight of stalking plants and trees intent on encircling and killing.
The journey was rapid and without mishap. Before, Lan had hesitated to use his spells for fear of alerting Claybore. Now he felt time more precious than secrecy. The climactic battle neared with appalling rapidity, and Lan had to be armed with all the knowledge possible concerning the Pillar.
“You’ve returned, young man. How good of you to come see me,” said the white-haired mage emerging from a clump of bushes. “But you were naughty. You ran off before we had our celebration. Rook hunted high and low for you and-but you have friends. How nice. You brought them for our party. Welcome,” sad Terrill.