[Cenotaph Road 04] - Iron Tongue Page 2

  He relied on his trusty sword. Steel flashed in the bright desert sun. A hard jolt rattled his teeth as his sword edge slashed into Silvain’s horse. The blade nearly severed the right front leg just above the knee. Horse and rider cartwheeled forward, but Lan lost hold of his sword in the maelstrom of flying bodies.

  Silvain hit on his shoulders and rolled smoothly, coming to his feet. He, too, had lost his sword, but not his dagger. Claybore’s henchman swiftly drew his knife, lifted a brawny arm, and lunged—straight for Inyx’s unprotected back.

  “Inyx!” screamed Lan, but even as the name ripped from his throat he knew the warning could never save her. Silvain was too close, too fast, too deadly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lan Martak felt as if the world turned in jerky motions about him. The heat of the battle seemed distant, the death and blood a product of a nightmare half-remembered. Helpless to intercede, he saw Alberto Silvain pull forth a gleaming silver dagger and drive it directly for Inyx’s kidney. Lan’s mind worked in a frenzy, but to no avail. No spell came to his lips quickly enough to stop Silvain. No weapon was at hand. The distance was too great. Inyx would die.

  “Inyx!” he heard, as if the warning came from another’s lips. The dark-haired woman started to twist about, but had only begun the motion as Silvain drove forward with deadly intent.

  Lan thought his own fervent hopes had caused him to see what he wanted to see rather than the reality of his lover’s death. With Silvain fractions of an inch away from his target, a blinding silver arc swept downward, deflecting the dagger. Even through the din of battle, Lan heard the harsh grating of metal against metal. Silvain’s dagger flew from his grip.

  Jacy Noratumi laughed delightedly at the sight of Alberto Silvain’s confusion and rage.

  “So, grey shit-eater, you think to rob one so lovely of her life? With a foul blow to the back? Meet me, face to face, and I shall show you true valor. For once in your miserable life you should witness it!”

  Noratumi’s blade swung at shoulder level, forcing Silvain to duck under or lose his head. The grey-clad officer dived, rolled, and retrieved a fallen sword. By this time, Inyx had taken in the closeness of her death and how best to prevent Silvain from again attempting it.

  She swung her own blade in a low arc. Silvain had to do a quick double hop-step to avoid losing a leg. As he moved, so did Noratumi. The sallow man dashed in, blade held straight in front of him like a razor-sharp battering ram. Between Noratumi and Inyx, they kept Claybore’s henchman stumbling, retreating, fighting simply to preserve his own miserable life.

  Lan heaved a sigh of relief at this and went to yank his own blade free from the downed horse’s leg. He planted his foot on the animal’s side and yanked hard. With a tearing, grinding sound, his weapon pulled loose. He spun about to see where best his talents could be used, but the battle was quickly winding down. To his left, Krek slashed and dismembered a half-dozen of the grey-clads. The others of Jacy Noratumi’s band fought with wild abandon, as if the thought of death had never occurred to them. This ferocity and selflessness forced Claybore’s troops ever backward.

  Amid the coppery tang of fallen blood, Lan inhaled and smelled the lushness of the oasis once again. This time it almost sickened him. The blood, the sweat of terror, the heated metal all ruined what had once been a soothing odor. He closed his eyes and let the tide of battle wash over him, past him, around him. The sounds decreased as Silvain’s soldiers mounted and fled, leaving behind only Noratumi’s gasping warriors. A hot breeze whipped at his tattered clothing and burned at his skin, but Lan didn’t mind that. He lived. Inyx and Krek lived.

  And so did Claybore somewhere on this world.

  “Inyx!” he called, opening his eyes and peering about. The warrior woman leaned casually on her sword, Jacy Noratumi nearby. The two talked earnestly, Noratumi moving slightly closer every few sentences. Lan Martak joined them.

  “Thank you,” he said to Noratumi.

  “For what? The battle? It ought to have done us in, but luck—or the Four Fates—were with us. I favor the idea of luck being on our side. The Fates have not been good to Bron’s legions of late.”

  “Who can ever be thankful for a battle? No, I thank you for saving her life.” He looked at Inyx. The woman had never appeared more alive, more lovely, more desirable. The battle had brought a flush to her cheeks and a ripe fullness to her figure. If there had ever truly been one born to do battle, Lan knew it was Inyx. She had lost brothers and family and walked the Road and never once looked back on her misfortunes; she lived by her wit and quick sword. In its way, this fighting prowess had substituted for the lack of family by giving her something to count on.

  “I’ve already given my thanks, Lan,” she said. Her vivid blue eyes bored into his softer brown ones. “But thank you for the thought.”

  “Milady says you are something of a sorcerer. Can you bring back the dead?”

  “What?” Lan snapped out of his reverie. The tone Noratumi had taken in asking the question reminded him of the woman Margora’s when referring to Krek. “I’m no necromancer. The dead remain so. Why do you ask that question?”

  “We have no love for sorcerers, either.” Noratumi’s eyes lifted from Lan up and past his shoulder to where Krek meticulously wiped himself free of the blood on thorax and legs.

  “This place seems to be much divided,” Lan said cautiously. “You war with spiders. You have no liking for mages. You engage the grey-clads whenever possible.”

  “That is an adequate summation.” Noratumi moved a half-step closer to Inyx. “The sorcerers kidnap us and force us into slavery. The spiders eat us.” The distaste with which he spoke was obvious. “We have no love of either. And then come these interlopers, these grey butchers. The empire of Bron stands against all three!”

  Bravado, decided Lan, not answering the obvious challenge. The politics of the world did not interest him; finding and defeating Claybore was all that mattered.

  “What do you know of a tongue?”

  “A tongue?” From the manner in which Noratumi stiffened and moved his hand closer to his sheathed dagger, Lan knew he had touched a sore point with the man. As loath as he was to anger Noratumi, he had to find out quickly about the tongue Claybore so eagerly sought. That it was in this world Alberto Silvain had accidentally revealed; that the search went poorly for Claybore was also obvious. Lan Martak desired to aid any enemy of Claybore.

  “Claybore seeks his tongue on this world,” spoke up Inyx, increasingly uneasy at the tension between Lan and Jacy. “We would destroy it.” Lan watched Noratumi’s reaction and failed to understand the complex flood of emotions.

  “Iron Tongue,” was all the man said, then spun and stalked off, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

  “What produced such a reaction in our temporary ally?” asked Krek. The spider shook himself before burrowing down in a sandy patch and rubbing the last traces of gore from his legs. “He appears not to trust us. And after all we have done for him. Humph.”

  “You’re right,” said Inyx. “This world aligns itself strangely. The woman was frightened of you, not because of your size, but simply because you were a spider.”

  “All humans have this weakness. I cannot understand it myself. After all, we spiders do not instantly fear all humans. In fact, in less enlightened times, I rather enjoyed catching them in the high passes and feeding on them.” The spider gusted a loud sigh. “Those were such pleasant times. But unenlightened, as I said.”

  Lan ignored his friend’s bout with nostalgia.

  “The more interesting response came when Inyx mentioned Claybore’s tongue. Noratumi knows of it.”

  “Or,” put in Inyx, “where that information can be had.” Her eyes followed Jacy Noratumi as the man went from wounded to wounded, shaking his head from time to time and always trying to comfort even those with no hope of survival.

  Lan Martak felt himself pulled inside as he watched her. That Inyx was attracted to Jacy was
indisputable. Noratumi fought well, cut a fine, handsome figure of a man, and had an air about him that belied the obvious hard times he and his band had fallen on. None of this made the young adventurer feel any better. Lan was tired of fighting, tired of turning and seeing Claybore’s men seemingly multiply even as he cut them down, tired to the bone of the magics that turned him into something other than he desired.

  “Margora is dead,” came Noratumi’s quiet words. Lan snapped out of his stupor to stare at the man. While the simple sentence carried no inflection, the emotion underlying it ran as deep and clear as any spring-swollen river.

  “You loved her?” asked Inyx.

  “A warrior second to none, she was,” he said. “Her loss will be sorely felt for a great, long time. But you do not need to hear of our sorrow. What do you do in this place? The Oasis of Billro is off the caravan paths normally taken—at least it is since the grey-clads destroyed Xas and Clorren last year.”

  “We walk the Cenotaph Road

  , fighting Claybore.” Lan didn’t wish to reveal more than he had to. While Noratumi opposed Claybore, mutual enemies did not instantly mean they were allies.

  “So does Iron Tongue, and look at how he and the empire of Bron fight.”

  “Iron Tongue?” asked Inyx, too eagerly for Lan’s comfort. He tried to silence her, to tell her that Noratumi ought not learn too much of their quest. He failed; the woman was intent on pursuing the meaning behind the name.

  “He is sorcerer-leader of the city-state Wurnna.”

  “And he enslaves your people.”

  “He forces us to work in the power stone mines! Curse him! Curse all sorcerers.” Noratumi’s eyes bored into Lan’s. It took the youth’s full control learned through the myriad battles with Claybore not to flinch under the burning, accusing intensity of that stare. “Though you do not appear to be of Iron Tongue’s ilk, you claim kinship.”

  “I claim nothing. I am not much of a sorcerer.”

  “That is true. He isn’t much of a mage, but he learns,” cut in Krek. “Why, he cannot conjure up even the simplest of meals. A grub or two would be appreciated now. Or mayhaps even a large worm. Nothing fancy, mind you, but certainly something adequate for a poor spider’s meal.”

  “I learn magics because fighting Claybore requires it.” Lan’s hand moved slowly upward until it laid over the hidden grimoire he had received on a mountaintop on a world many grave markers distant. That dying mage had entrusted the secret of creating the cenotaph roadway to Lan—and placed on him the burden of pursuing and defeating Claybore. What one mage had failed at, another must accomplish. Lan Martak had been given that task.

  “You do swing a sword over-well to be any necromancer I am acquainted with. Iron Tongue would never callus his hands with work,” Noratumi observed. Again came the intense hatred boiling from the man like froth from a cauldron. Noratumi whirled around and said, “This eight-legged horror offends my people, who have had relatives and friends eaten by those of his kind in the mountains. You are a sorcerer and the empire of Bron is at war with Wurnna.”

  “But we all fight the grey-clad armies,” cut in Inyx. She moved to Noratumi’s side and placed her hand on his upper arm. “Let us join forces,” she implored. “We are stronger united than fighting one another. Claybore is the enemy. Let us fight him and not each other.”

  Lan closed his eyes and allowed his small magical sense to expand outward. Inyx’s spell was more subtle, more human than any he had learned from a grimoire, but that didn’t stop it from being effective. He “felt” Jacy Noratumi’s resolve against them softening just as he and Krek “felt” the presence of a cenotaph pathway between worlds. Inyx continued to ply the man with honeyed words until he curtly agreed that they might accompany him and his remaining people back to Bron.

  After Noratumi stalked off, Inyx said, “He is an honorable man. I like him.”

  “He saved your life from Silvain. For that, I owe him eternal thanks.”

  Inyx frowned a bit, then turned and hurried after Noratumi. Lan trailed behind, moving more slowly. Krek clacked his mandibles together and muttered to himself, “Humans.”

  Lan Martak found the going difficult, but he worried most about Krek. The giant spider drank no water; all his moisture came from the insects and other creatures he ate. In the center of the burning desert, even tiny grubs were few and far between. For the humans it was a struggle but one bearable due to the casks of water filled at the oasis and carried on carts drawn by horses. The arachnid foraged constantly, but Lan saw the increasing shakiness in the long legs as Krek marched along.

  “Well, old spider,” he said through cracked lips, “are those shrubs worthy of attention?”

  “Those?” scoffed Krek. “They contain nothing of interest.”

  “They smell like creosote.”

  “Smell? Always you taunt me with this pseudo-human condition you term smell. There is no such thing.” The spider’s tone indicated he would have crossed arms in determination if he’d possessed them. “The few petty bugs crawling about on those branches offer little for me.”

  “Is there no other way for you to get water?”

  A ripple passed along the spider’s coppery-furred legs until the entire bulk of his body shook.

  “Water. It is almost as bad as fire. I do wish you would consider other conjurings, friend Lan Martak. You pull fire from your fingertips. Are you now deciding whether or not to bring down odious torrents of rain on my head? Oh why, oh why did I ever leave my precious Klawn and the sanctity of my web to wander?”

  “She wanted to eat you, that’s why,” said Inyx.

  “Of course she wanted to devour me. We had mated.” Krek heaved a human-sounding sigh and added, “Why must I be so weak? Staying and allowing my hatchlings to feed off my carcass is so… natural.”

  The crunch of sand under their boot soles was the only sound reaching them. Lan found it harder and harder to speak through his parched lips. Even swallowing presented problems. But what Krek had said triggered a line of thought.

  He held out his left hand, fingers spread slightly, lips barely forming the proper words. Tiny blue sparks danced from finger to finger as he conjured the simple fire spell he had learned so long ago. A small change in the magics and those sparks turned to intense jets of flame. He pondered the spell, examined the parts, and worried over the intricate fittings of one chant with another, one syllable with still another.

  “What’s wrong, Lan?” asked Inyx. “You’re not suffering, like Krek, from the lack of water?”

  “No, it’s something else, something he said. If I can bring forth fire, why can’t I also conjure the reverse?”

  “Cold?”

  “Cold,” he agreed. “That would condense water from the atmosphere. I’ve tried producing water wells or even bringing water to the surface where we could get at it, but that’s beyond my power. But cold—that ought to be possible.”

  “Work on it,” the woman said, her voice telling him that she held no chance for success. “Look, here comes Jacy.”

  The leader of the band walked up, stride sure in spite of the sun wilting all the others. He gave Inyx a broad smile and clapped Lan on the back.

  “I’ve spoken with my people. They have agreed to allow both you and the spider to remain with us until we reach Bron.”

  “I hadn’t realized there was any debate. You’d said we could accompany you.”

  “A leader always respects the wishes of his followers. Or rather, a wise man decides what the people want, then tells them that’s what he is going to do. They don’t disagree—they agree. And they follow, even when other matters arise.”

  “Our presence was one of these ‘other matters?’ ”

  “Correct.” Jacy Noratumi glanced up at Krek and said, “He was the point most debated. Some of the warriors have had relatives devoured by the mountain spiders.”

  “Tell me of them,” Krek interjected. “I must know if they are of my clan. Of all the worlds along
the Road I have seen, never have I encountered others directly related. Of course, there were those mere spiders who gave my good friend Lan Martak such a difficult time while we ambled up Mount Tartanius. They were…”

  “Krek,” Lan said sharply, silencing what might turn into a long and boring recital. “His point is well taken, though. What of these mountain arachnids? Are they exactly like Krek in size?”

  “A merest hair smaller, mayhap, but that is difficult to say. Certainly no larger.” Noratumi pulled forth his sword and thrust upward, stopping a hand’s width away from Krek’s thorax. “Yes, they are his size. I’ve killed enough of their number to know my distances.”

  “The others won’t harm him, will they?” asked Inyx. “You’ve given your word. Will they abide by it, also?”

  “Dear lady, I have given you my word, my bond, my surety. On my honor, none will break it, else they answer to me personally,” Jacy replied.

  Lan snorted dust from his nostrils, as much in reaction to the clogging as to Noratumi’s melodramatic words and gestures accompanying them. The youth recognized that Noratumi played to an audience of one: Inyx. And he did not care for it.

  The day dragged on; the burnished sun above seared skin and sucked precious moisture from their bodies. Lan idly played with the fire spell, altering it until he felt coolness rather than heat forming at his fingertips. Still not satisfied, he continued refining it until they took a break from their plodding across measureless desert sands.

  Seated under a canvas canopy, he and Inyx set up a small glass flask, its narrow mouth inverted over a shallow dish. He concentrated, did the chants in a low voice, and felt the coldness forming between his hands. Placing them on the flask, he sat with eyes closed, allowing the spell to do its work.