The Sorcerer's Skull (Cenotaph Road Series Book 2) Page 11

  “Come along, old spider,” he said, kicking Krek in the ribs. “Time to be walking. We’ve got a race on our hands, and Claybore’s only a few miles ahead of us.”

  Krek lumbered to his feet and began working his way upslope. Lan followed, with Ehznoll’s band behind.

  *

  Mount Tartanius towered in front of them. For three days they’d fought their way ever higher in the foothills of the Sulliman Range. Now only the soaring peak itself remained between them and its summit.

  “I can ‘see’ it,” said Krek, speaking his first words in almost two days. “It radiates immense power.”

  “I sense it, too,” said Lan. He closed his eyes. Floating in front of him was a brilliantly glowing ball of incandescent gas. It spun and turned and twisted, leaving misty strands of itself behind. He had no idea what this image meant; the Kinetic Sphere was solid. No doubt remained in his mind, though, that he now shared Krek’s vision of the gateway between worlds.

  “There is also evidence of those who passed this way before us.”

  “What? Where?”

  He knelt down to peer more intently at the hard, flintlike rock. Tiny scratches showed where a shod horse had trodden recently. The weather had yet to round off the edges of the scratch marks, to fill the grooves with dirt. The track led directly forward toward Mount Tartanius.

  “I cannot sense Claybore, however,” finished the spider.

  “Nor I,” said Lan. “I’ve been straining my magicsensing ability to the utmost, but either he hasn’t used any spells or they are so devious I’m not able to detect them.”

  “His powers are diminished by separation from the Kinetic Sphere,” said Krek. “His spells might be of such low-grade power they remain below your threshold of sensing.”

  “Our new god came this way? You are mages? You’re sure?” cut in Melira. “Ehznoll! They say our new god has come this way. Recently!”

  “Glory be to the top of Mount Tartanius!” shrieked Ehznoll. “I knew we did well allowing you to join our pilgrimage.”

  The six earth-lovers dropped to pray. Lan shook his head sadly. The cleaning from the inadvertent baths they’d all been subjected to hadn’t lasted long. The very first day on the trail away from the dam, Ehznoll and the others had taken to rolling in the dust, patting it into one another’s skin, matting their hair until it hung in greasy ropes. Melira, possibly out of deference to Lan’s sensibilities, hadn’t become quite as filthy as she’d been before. The difference between her state now and then was one of degree only.

  Lan cringed whenever he saw her eyeing him.

  He turned to Krek, saying, "How are you faring? I find myself increasingly winded.”

  "The air is fine, in the Egrii Mountains, we spiders inhabit peaks much higher than this lowly pass."

  "Lowly for you, high for me I’m used to sea level. Aren’t you the least bit tired?”

  “No.”

  As they moved on after Ehznoll had finished his new supplications. Lan wondered how much longer he could keep up the pace. The pilgrims were fired with religious ecstasy. Sheer enthusiasm kept them going forward. Krek had been born and raised at elevations much greater. His own lungs burned with every breath. He forced himself to suck in as much air as possible, hold it longer than usual, then exhale quickly. Even this didn’t supply his aching muscles the oxygen necessary for quick pace.

  “There's a hut.” he panted. “Let’s rest there.”

  "As you wish, friend Lan Martak,” agreed the spider. His mood lightened appreciably as they worked ever higher. He returned to the lands he knew best and slowly forgot his lapse of bravery when the dam had been sundered. “This rude peasant hut is old but serviceable for one of your species. If I understand the workings, the pipe emerging from the roof might be connected to a heating device inside.”

  Lan rubbed chapped hands together and felt a brief surge of warmth from the friction. To sit in front of a wood-fired stove seemed closer to heaven to him than the crest of Mount Tartanius.

  “Come on. I’ll bet the last party’s even left us firewood.”

  “The last party is likely to have been Claybore and his lackey,” pointed out the spider. That dampened Lan’s spirit and made him more cautious. While Ehznoll and the others collapsed to pray loudly after hearing Claybore’s name again, Lan circled the hut, critically studying it.

  “I don’t see any traps. I don’t sense any magical ward spells. Anything, Krek?”

  The spider’s head swayed from side to side, indicating he “saw” nothing.

  “Here goes nothing.” Lan kicked open the door and stood, sword in hand, waiting. No demons raved outward to devour him. No spells turned him into a newt. Only the musty odor of a long-closed room came forth to make his nostrils twitch.

  He entered. The hut remained as it had been for decades. Piles of equipment left by prior expeditions littered the floor. Heavy furs dangled from pegs on the walls. The pot-bellied stove itself dominated the center of the room. Lan couldn’t imagine the work it’d taken to get such a heavy iron implement up the slopes to this point.

  “Firewood,” said Krek, disdain in his voice. “And do not light the fire while I am within spark distance. A tiny ember might ignite my fur.” Ripples passed up and down the legs.

  “Don’t worry, old spider. I’ll only use a small pyromancy spell. And it’ll be inside the stove.” Lan poked about the litter and found a grimy fur cloak long enough to barely drag the ground when he slung it about his shoulders. “This is going to be a great help. The nights are too cold for the clothing we have. There’s enough here to keep us from freezing to death.”

  “Speak for yourself. The weather is fine.”

  Lan ignored him and dug further. He touched a small wooden crate and felt electric tingles pass up his arm. Magic. He cautiously opened the lid and saw a dozen woolen caps inside, caps to be pulled down over the head with eyeholes and no other opening.

  “Guess we’re not supposed to talk or breathe,” he said. The feel of magic still persisted. He didn’t detect any hint of evil, only magic. He shoved his head into one of the caps, positioning the eyes so he could see. “I can breathe!” he exclaimed. “The magic spell does something to make breathing easier.”

  “Your voice remains muffled,” said Krek. The thick wool prevented Lan from hearing the softer “Good.”

  “And foodstuffs. Trail rations. Enough for us to make a good try at the mountain.”

  “Enough for all you humans. This spot is obviously popular with those scaling mountains. It is a shame you cannot leave behind for future travelers the masks and fur capes when you no longer require them.”

  It was true. No matter what the outcome atop Mount Tartanius, Lan Martak would never again pass this way. If he regained the Kinetic Sphere, that magical gateway opened a myriad worlds to him; he wouldn’t risk the descent to return this equipment. And if Claybore triumphed, Lan needed nothing at all — except the dirt around him that Ehznoll and the others worshipped.

  Lan didn’t seek a grave. He sought Inyx — and freedom to walk the Cenotaph Road.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Look out!”

  Lan Martak ducked, bent forward, and felt heavy rock cascade onto the pack he carried. His legs buckled and he teetered on the ledge, his fingers beginning to slip from the tenuous hold on loose stone. A strong hand pushed him back against the sheer rock face of the cliff.

  “Thanks, Ehznoll,” he said, his breath coming in short, quick pants in spite of the magical breathing device he wore. “I’d’ve tumbled over the edge.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” the pilgrim said firmly. “The good earth does not want you. Not yet. You have to fulfill your mission first.”

  Lan glanced down. The ledge they traversed was hardly wider than his boots, the drop beyond that six-inch width looked like miles. The valley so far below glowed a living green, distance fogging it over with a soft purple. He closed his eyes and turned to face the cliff. The journey was easier when he looke
d inward.

  “What mission?” he asked the fanatical pilgrim. “Getting off this ledge alive?”

  “Meeting once again with the new god.”

  “Claybore.”

  “Claybore,” the man affirmed. “You must be privileged beyond most mortals to have met him.”

  “What if I told you he wasn’t a god, but a devil? A demon sent to confound you and steer you away from righteousness?”

  Ehznoll laughed.

  “I’ve seen visions of Claybore. The good earth has spoken to me. He is a new god, and no blasphemy you utter changes that. Or do you only test me? Yes, that's it. You think to test my faith. No, fellow pilgrim, my faith is unshakable.”

  Lan swallowed hard as he inched across the ledge and found an open area in the side of the mountain. Mount Tartanius abounded with such refuges, for which he was dutifully thankful. He worried over Ehznoll’s single-minded belief that the vision he’d seen constituted godhood for the decapitated sorcerer. No amount of argument convinced Ehznoll that Claybore had tried to kill them. The man’s entire life had been geared to religious beliefs; when his first “vision” came, he misinterpreted it totally.

  Lan had seen Claybore. The magics used by the sorcerer projected images, nightmares, that could be seen as clearly as Nashira’s magic eyes had watched Lan back in Melitarsus. Lan recognized the visions for what they were. Ehznoll, in his haste to believe, erred. Mistaking evil for good had been done before Ehznoll. It would be done again by a myriad others, after this lapse of skepticism proved his undoing.

  “Hello, friend Lan Martak,” came Krek’s voice. The spider walked down the side of a rock and crouched beside him. “Enjoy your jaunt along the mountain face?”

  “Loved it,” Lan bed. The arachnid cantered off to let the humans make their own way. Lan didn’t doubt Krek’s abilities could take him to the summit in only a few days. Only friendship and the need for companionship kept the spider from racing ahead.

  “These smaller lumps give way to real hills farther in.”

  Lan glanced nervously down the sheer face of the mountain. A mile, maybe two, of empty space before the green valley amounted to more than “small lumps” in his opinion.

  “The way is easy for several miles. This crevice broadens, goes inward, and provides a nice path even a cripple can navigate,” the spider went on. “Even a human cripple,” he added in a smug, superior tone.

  “Any sign of Claybore?” Lan asked in a soft voice. He didn’t want to stir Ehznoll again.

  “None. The man carrying the wooden case containing the skull is not to be seen, either. Most mysterious. I doubt any but a spider is able to scale Mount Tartanius so quickly. I am at a loss to explain it.”

  “Maybe he knows a secret way up.”

  “If so, he will arrive at the crest before us.”

  “Tell me something cheerful.”

  “There is another party of humans ahead.”

  “What? Who? Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “I commented first on Claybore, as you requested. Then I proceeded to report on the man thought to be supplying transport to the skull. I now arrive at the news of another party of five humans, less than a mile distant. They struggle along, one of their number being very old and infirm.”

  “Five of them. Could one of those five be Claybore’s legs?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Why?”

  “None has a pack animal with him.”

  “But, Krek,” moaned Lan, “look at the slopes we’ve been climbing. No pack animal can make it along those ledges. He’d’ve left it behind. He would be walking, just like I am.”

  “You walk because the scorpion killed your horse.”

  “I … never mind.” Lan shook his head. The spider’s logic — or lack of it — defied analysis. Because the man aiding Claybore had a pack animal once, he had to have it now, or so thought Krek. The terrain proved too treacherous for any but the most agile now. Something in Krek’s mind didn’t make the jump that any pack creature remained behind.

  “Shall I ask those ahead to slow so we can join them?”

  “Let’s approach them cautiously. If they’re only another group of earth lovers, Ehznoll will be happy.

  For my part, I’m not so sure if I can handle more than a handful of them at a time.”

  Ehznoll, Melira, and the other four performed their noonday prayer service, kneeling and rubbing what little dirt they found over one another. Lan wondered if he ever wanted to meet others of this sect, especially now. He had no clear feeling for Ehznoll’s position in the earth church. If Ehznoll proved to be an important figure venerated by others, his estimation of Claybore’s godhood boded ill. On the other hand, Lan might approve of a divergent sect challenging Ehznoll’s devout belief in the new god.

  “Let’s catch up with them as soon as we can.”

  “By nightfall,” Krek assured him.

  Hard walking over loose stone brought them ever closer to the other group throughout the afternoon. Lan knew the others had sighted them. From their attitude, it mattered little whether Lan, Krek, Ehznoll, and the others overtook them or not. They kept moving at their slow, deliberate pace, neither stopping nor speeding up. Just as the sun set in the west, casting bloody light over a small mesa, the two groups met for the first time.

  “Greetings,” called Lan to the old man who appeared to be in charge. “We’re pilgrims. Scaling Mount Tartanius.”

  “Good thing you don’t think you’re swimming a damn ocean, then,” the old man said sarcastically. One clear eye surveyed Lan critically. “They look like pilgrims. You don’t.”

  “Oh, but I am. We climb Mount Tartanius to worship the earth’s attempt to gut the sky.”

  “Earth worshippers, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the arachnid?” the old man asked. Lan scowled slightly. Krek had remained back, out of sight, as they closed with this group. Creatures of his size only brought unwanted and unwarranted response. If the scorpion proved any indication, arachnids might be very unpopular in this locale. Even worse, he felt as if gossamer wings brushed his mind: magic use.

  Lan looked at the old man more carefully. No doubt remained in his mind that the man questioning him created the spells he sensed. Tiny twitches of the lips betrayed continual mutterings. The old man used a scrying spell to find Krek.

  “Krek stays out of sight — to avoid unwanted fright on the part of less enlightened men.”

  The old man smiled, yellowed teeth showing between his chapped lips. A scraggly white beard had frosted from his breath and the cold, and the few wisps of hair on the top of his head lay in a tangled mat. Deep furrows ran over the face, indicating more years than Lan cared to guess at. The rest of the man’s body was hidden by thick, ankle-length brown and green robes and heavy mittens.

  “You know.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Lan, more boldly now. “You’re having no trouble breathing. You don’t wear any sort of apparatus or spell-driven mask. I’m young, in trim, and I still gasp. You unerringly located Krek. Need I go on? You are a sorcerer.”

  “I make a pilgrimage. To the summit.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Don’t question me, youngling,” the man snapped. His brief good mood evaporated as quickly as fog in the hot morning sun. “My business is my own.”

  “I’m sure,” said Lan. “At least allow me to introduce the others in my party.” He went around the small circle, starting with Ehznoll and finishing with Krek, now come from behind a large rock. “And you are?” Lan probed, fishing for an answer.

  “I told you. A pilgrim.”

  “Then you are as we,” said Ehznoll, his eyes glowing. “We can combine forces, share services. My friends and I were readying evening prayers. Come, join us in praying to the generous earth.”

  “Fall off the mountain,” the old man said bitterly. “I need none of you. Be on your way. Leave me alone.”

  “We camp here for the n
ight,” said Lan. “If you don’t like it, then you can leave. But we stay here." The firmness in the young adventurer’s voice caused the old man to stop and glare.

  “I am Abasi-Abi.”

  “Well, Abasi-Abi, welcome. If you and your party wish to share our meager rations …” Lan left the invitation dangling. Abasi-Abi spun and stalked off, his stride springy for one so old.

  “You humans fluctuate in mood so,” commented Krek. “Some are overly friendly. Take Melira, for instance. She certainly desires an opportunity to engage you in your curious mating rituals. This Abasi-Abi, on the other side of the web, is quite surly.”

  “And I suppose spiders don’t have such wide variations in attitude.”

  “No. Either we view one another as food, or not. Mostly we exist high in our webs, swinging, swaying, reveling in the ways of nature.' Interaction is held to a minimum. For which I am glad. If we arachnids ever came into closer contact, why, we might begin acting like you humans.”

  “A tragedy,” Lan said sarcastically.

  “Yes,” agreed Krek. Again, sarcasm had been wasted.

  Lan Martak turned away from Abasi-Abi, saying to Krek, “Let’s prepare some food while Ehznoll and his disciples toss dirt on one another. I’m hungry.”

  He’d taken only a few steps when he staggered, fell to his knees, and held his head in cupped hands. If a berserk woodsman had taken an ax to his head, the pain wouldn’t have been much different. His eyes closed, the pain building in a saw-toothed wave that threatened to drive him crazy, Lan “saw” Claybore.

  The fleshless skull floated a few inches in front of him, the ruby beams from the eyesockets lashing out in a slow motion that allowed him ample time to feel fear surge inside. The ends of the ruby lances came closer, closer, ever closer. He tried to dodge. He was frozen to the spot. Lan knew that if those beams touched him, he died. Helplessly, he watched the inexorable advance of death.

  A new element entered the nightmare vision. A presence, a force, came from behind him, welled up from within. The ruby gaze from Claybore’s skull still inched forward, but the beams bent, curved away, and passed harmlessly to either side of Lan’s body. The sorcerer’s skull turned in midair, jaws clacking ominously.