[Cenotaph Road 02] - The Sorserer's Skull Page 8

  “A woman must defend her husband. You’re a dead man, Lan Martak.”

  He heaved a sigh. What to do with Kiska k’Adesina proved a problem. He could hardly kill her in cold blood. He hadn’t the stomach for that. Letting her loose only meant more trouble. Either she’d dog his trail trying to slay him or she’d report back to Claybore. The sorcerer wouldn’t make any mistakes this time. Lan was as good as dead if Claybore located him.

  “I can cocoon her, like the others, friend Lan Martak,” piped up Krek, as if reading the man’s mind. “She will free herself eventually.”

  “Before she died of hunger or thirst?”

  The spider quivered, giving his equivalent of a shrug. Lan wasn’t enthused with this solution, but it provided the most effective means of keeping k’Adesina out of his hair—and without wantonly murdering her. No matter what she thought, he wasn’t a killer. Fight in self-defense, yes, but not a cold-blooded murderer.

  In that respect, he wasn’t like her dead husband, Lyk Surepta.

  “Ready, Lan?” he asked. When he saw the spider’s answering head-bob, he released the woman. She rolled, got to her feet, and tried to flee. A long, sticky strand of web-stuff tangled her legs. In less than five minutes she hung suspended between two rocks, her arms and legs securely glued under copious layers of silk.

  “Leaving her thusly will prevent wild animals from sampling her flesh,” said Krek. “It works quite well in the Egrii Mountains. We often have food for our hatchlings stored away for months.”

  “You’ll die, Lan Martak,” she cried. “I’ll see your filthy heart cut out for all you’ve done.”

  “Let’s ride, Krek,” he said. Nothing he said to the woman would have any effect. Perhaps dangling in her silken prison for a few days—a week?—might lessen her hatred. But he doubted it.

  Lan Martak rode off, the feeling of Kiska k’Adesina’s eyes boring into his back. How long would it be before she managed to exchange a simple look of hatred for a steel dagger? Lan didn’t want to think about it. Too much lay ahead.

  Mount Tartanius.

  And Claybore.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Will she die, do you think?” asked Lan of his companion. He turned in the saddle to see the spider wiggling his head from side to side. That didn’t tell the human anything. The spider’s gait had changed as the terrain became progressively rockier. This might signify added effort in walking rather than an affirmative answer to the question.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  “You mean the woman soldier?”

  “Of course, I do. Who else?”

  “It is often difficult following your meaning. You humans have thought processes that are decidedly inferior to arachnids’.”

  “Don’t give me your half-baked philosophy. Give me your opinion.”

  “She will probably escape. The cords binding her were not unduly tight, nor altogether well wrapped. In my opinion, you should have eaten her.”

  Lan shuddered, thinking of spiderish mores. Such cannibalism as Krek so casually mentioned was a part of everyday life in the insect kingdom. Lan hadn’t even been able to bring himself to leave the woman with her throat slit, though she’d’ve done such a thing to him gladly.

  “The other three will be longer in getting free. I spun extra adhesive onto their bonds. They maligned me.”

  “Oh,” said Lan, interested and happy to get his mind off his problems and onto something else. “What did they say?”

  “I prefer not to repeat such vile calumnies.”

  “You didn’t do anything like fasten the cords around their necks, did you?”

  “That spindly stick holding up their heads? No, friend Inyx dissuaded me from doing that some time ago.”

  “Inyx,” said Lan aloud, then regretted it.

  “You miss her, friend Lan Martak?”

  “Yes. With her along I doubt we’d have gotten into half the predicaments we had.”

  “Her counsel is wiser,” agreed the spider. Lan felt no joy in hearing the arachnid confirm it, though.

  “Do you still ‘see’ the cenotaph atop Mount Tartanius?”

  Krek stopped, rotated his head until the human thought it might screw off, then bobbed up and down.

  “It is there. A very strong one. That is why I believe it might be the Kinetic Sphere rather than a simple cenotaph joining worlds. From such a vantage point, Claybore could survey the entire planet.”

  “I don’t think he’s up there. The Kinetic Sphere might be, but not Claybore.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’d use the Sphere to come after us. We’re the immediate danger facing him. I think, when I knocked it out of his hand between worlds, he was thrown elsewhere on this world. Something about the summit pulled the Kinetic Sphere, but the rest of us were strewn about.”

  “This is the tallest peak on the planet.”

  “We might be in a race to recover the Kinetic Sphere.” Lan felt grim satisfaction in that thought. If he recovered the Sphere, that took away much of Claybore’s power. The decapitated sorcerer still retained a potent store of magics, but the ability to shift worlds at random, without the use of a naturally occurring cenotaph, might stop his immediate plans for conquest. If the loss of the Kinetic Sphere didn’t stop him, it slowed him drastically.

  “If we are in a race, the track becomes more and more crowded. Look ahead.”

  Lan glanced up and saw a small encampment. Rude tents were pitched in a haphazard fashion, some of them even opening into the cruel wind blowing off the mountains. No drainage had been provided; a rain would wash the encampment down the slopes and into oblivion. Even elementary sanitation had been ignored.

  “They’re not much in the ways of roughing it. Think it might be some of Nashira’s friends from Melitarsus?”

  “They are too plainly dressed for that,” said the spider. His eyes proved more acute than Lan’s in the gathering gloom of evening.

  “It’s not going to do us any good trying to skirt them. They’ve spotted us. Look.”

  High atop a rock overlooking the camp stood a man dressed in a simple brown robe, the cowl tossed up to conceal his face. He flapped his arms like some giant, coarse bird unable to fly. Lan guessed he signalled them to approach.

  They entered the camp amid the deathly silence of the gathered people. The only sound to be heard was wind howling through crags too distant to see in the darkness. A man tried to light a fire using steel and flint. He held both wrong; the sparks skittered into the night rather than onto the firewood. Lan felt the eyes peering at him, evaluating him. Whoever these people were, they weren’t Claybore’s troops. None of the grey-clad soldiers set camp in such slovenly fashion.

  “Greetings,” called out Lan. “We’re travellers. Heading into the Sulliman Range.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Lan tried to figure out which of the grim, brown-black figures had spoken. They remained anonymous under their hoods.

  “We climb Mount Tartanius.”

  A sigh of relief passed through the throng. One by one, they slipped away until only one man remained. He tossed back his cowl and stared up at Lan. A tingle of dread passed through the mounted man. The eyes burned with an eerie inner light that made him uneasy.

  A sputtering noise, followed by a loud hiss, frightened Lan’s horse. By the time he’d controlled his mount, the firemaker had done his job, more by accident than design. A small campfire blazed, pushing back the velvet shadows. The new light did nothing to erase Lan’s uneasiness about the man confronting him.

  “I am Ehznoll,” came the simple words.

  “Am I supposed to know you?”

  “I am a pilgrim.”

  “We are, too, in a way,” explained Lan.

  “We?”

  Lan glanced around. Krek had sunk into the shadows of a nearby rock and merged with them.

  “My friend is a bit shy. You don’t hold anything against spiders, do you. Large ones?”

 
Ehznoll shook his head. Lan got the impression that nothing frightened this man. Not that courage had anything to do with it; fanatical intensity surrounded his every movement.

  “Come on into the light, Krek. You don’t have to get too close to the fire.” To Ehznoll, he quietly explained, “My friend hates fire and water both.”

  “Welcome, pilgrims,” intoned Ehznoll when Krek joined Lan. “You are entitled to a meal with us. If you desire, you may accompany us for we, too, are journeying to the summit of Mount Tartanius.”

  “For what reason?”

  “For the holiest of reasons!” shrieked Ehznoll. He thrust his fist skyward. His followers stopped their activities and dropped to one knee, heads bent, wrists crossed and pressed to their breasts.

  “I see,” muttered Lan. “Our purposes are likewise noble.”

  “We go to look down upon the world that has created us. We worship the planet itself. The sky enfolds us, we hunger for dirt beneath our feet. Rejoice, pilgrims, we seek the dagger of the earth ripping asunder the enemy sky!”

  A cheer went up from the twenty or so pilgrims. The few whose faces Lan could see had a transcendent expression. Whatever the tenets of this religion, they were totally devout. He didn’t doubt for an instant they’d kill if either he or Krek voiced the slightest skepticism.

  “You’ve come far?” asked Lan, hoping to keep Ehznoll talking. That seemed the least risky of his choices. As the man began a long tirade against the sky and for the planet, Lan dismounted and sat beside the fire. A tiny rabbit roasted. He hoped it wasn’t intended to feed all those in camp.

  “Across the face of this wonderous orb, spinning through hideous void, I’ve trekked with dirt under my feet, revelling in the sensations of our worshipful host.” Ehznoll sat, pulled off his sandals, and displayed his feet for Lan’s approval. It was all he could do to keep from gagging. Ehznoll’s feet were festered with open, running sores. The dirt fell off in small cakes, and the man’s jagged toenails rippled black in the faint campfire light. Lan turned away so that the smell wouldn’t completely sicken him.

  “These are my banners of piety. My feet have caressed the holy host and made it part of me.” Ehznoll began putting on the sandals again. Lan finally chanced a quick breath. Only the cold, crisp mountain air reached his lungs.

  “You venerate all dirt, then?” he asked.

  “All,” solemnly affirmed Ehznoll.

  “Mount Tartanius is certainly a tribute to, uh, dirt,” Lan said lamely. He found himself more and more at a loss to carry on the conversation. He knew if he said the wrong thing, Ehznoll would turn on him. The gleam of fanaticism in the man’s eyes ensured that.

  “You journey to the very summit, also?”

  “We do.”

  “You are privileged.”

  “I know.”

  Ehznoll said nothing more. He went to the nearest tent, pulled back the tattered flap, and crawled inside. Lan shook his head in wonder. The brief glimpse he’d gotten showed no blanket or padding. Ehznoll slept next to the cold earth.

  “The tent’s to keep off the sky,” supplied the man roasting the rabbit. “We have to stay close to the earth, especially during the hours of darkness. ’Tis easy to become subverted from the True Faith in the black pit of night.”

  “I can imagine,” Lan said uneasily.

  “Food?”

  “If it’s of the earth,” Lan said.

  The man shrugged, passed over a charred haunch of rabbit. Lan took it and ate slowly, the grease remaining running down his chin. He wiped it off, rather than wait until after he’d finished. The mere thought of dirt caking to his chin offended him mightily now. He’d have enough filth to contend with the next days as they climbed higher and higher up the slopes of Mount Tartanius.

  His eyes turned to the towering mound of rock. It reached to the very vault of the diamond-studded night sky. Up there rested a cenotaph, either a properly consecrated grave without a corpse inside or the Kinetic Sphere, able to shift at random from world to world. Either way, a path to Inyx existed—and a way of stopping Claybore beckoned to him.

  Lan finished gnawing on a slender bone, tossed it aside, then curled up next to Krek’s hind legs. The spider gusted a sigh, twitched, then went back to sleep. Lan found the furry berth more reassuring than the spare tents pitched randomly across the slope of the foothills. In seconds, he slept.

  “This seems like a poor idea, friend Lan Martak,” complained Krek. “I do not know if I can tolerate another moment with these bigots.”

  “Just because they called you an unbeliever is no reason to get so belligerent.”

  “I enjoy swinging through space on the end of a properly spun strand. Nothing appeals to me more than to be up on a web, away from the foot-wearying dirt, relishing the freedom of emptiness all about me. How dare they claim I am the child of the demons?”

  “Nothing personal, Krek,” said Lan, trying to keep from laughing. Try as he might, he failed to hold back a broad smile. “They love their dirt.”

  “They are filthy.”

  Lan’s nose twitched as the spider said that. Ehznoll had moved upwind. His body odor only accentuated the spider’s opinion. Bathing violated the tenets of Ehznoll’s religion. The removal of any sort of dirt from the body lessened one’s touch with the godhead. Lan wondered if the spider and these zealots were of a common heritage; without a sense of smell, cleanliness took on a different connotation. Still, Krek valued a clean set of legs, a highly polished abdomen, neatly trimmed mandibles, the entire array of arachnid hygiene.

  “Noonday prayers, noonday prayers!” bellowed Ehznoll from ahead.

  “We must have located still another hog wallow. Perhaps it was Ehznoll that Kiska female mistook you for. There are definite porcine comparisons to draw between an unclean human and a pig in—”

  “Quiet, Krek. Don’t let them hear you. They’re touchy enough.”

  “Let us push on. Why do we need to remain with such disreputable wights?”

  “It’s good camouflage for us. If the grey-clad soldiers come by, they’ll only give this crew a passing glance. We become part of the pilgrimage, we get ignored. And since Ehznoll is heading in the same direction, to the same destination, it’s ridiculous not to join forces. These are dangerous mountains. A group stands a better chance of survival than a mere pair.” The spider began to bristle. Lan hurriedly added, “Even when half of the pair is a renowned Webmaster from the Egrii Mountains.”

  Krek calmed a little, but remained aloof while Ehznoll’s band dropped to the floor of a small ravine and rolled about, rubbing the sand over their bodies. Lan hoped it might cleanse them; if anything, they emerged even more filthy.

  Lan sat and rested. Much of the day he’d had to walk beside his mare instead of riding her. The path upward became more and more hazardous. Many times he’d almost twisted an ankle on loose stone. The horse walked more sure-footedly than he did but still had difficulty picking a solid path.

  He closed his eyes and let his mind range wide. He drifted, almost falling asleep. In that half-and-half state, he saw a dim figure, a ghostly figure. He reached out. Inyx came forward, fear obvious in her expression. As his hand touched hers, she exploded in an actinic glare that blinded him. Left in her place, just above eye level, floated a skull.

  Claybore’s fleshless skull, eye sockets blackened and teeth chipped. The fleshless head turned and sought out Lan. Twin beams of ruby death flicked forth, tentative, unsure, seeking. Lan danced away in that nothingness. Neither he nor the sorcerer was supreme here.

  The eye sockets blazed more vividly. Lan averted his gaze to keep from staring directly into the hollows. Instinctively he knew to do so meant death—worse. To be trapped and subjugated to Claybore’s will ranked far worse than death.

  “Lan,” came the faint voice. “Where are you, Lan? I need you. Please come. Please!” The voice faded away. Inyx spoke to him, and he failed her.

  “Inyx!” he cried aloud. “Where are you?”

&n
bsp; “What?” came Krek’s voice. “What is wrong?”

  “I… nothing.” He leaned back against the rock, feeling its cold massiveness sucking his body’s warmth now. Sweat ran down his face. He had seen Claybore in that nothing world. Inside his head, a pressure had built until it felt as if he must burst like the overheated steam boiler on one of the demon-powered cars. Power was—almost—his. He had felt the magics flowing around them, had touched some of them.

  And Inyx. Inyx remained lost between worlds. She hadn’t escaped into this world when he’d batted the Kinetic Sphere from Claybore’s grip. Only the sorcerer, he, and Krek had left the white limbo.

  “Krek, we’ve got to get the Kinetic Sphere. Inyx is still trapped between worlds.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My… my magic sensing.” He almost stuttered, so great were the emotions wracking him. Lan knew things that he couldn’t explain. The excursion through the ghostly whiteness had given birth to twitching, crawling things inside his head. “Inyx can’t survive much longer.”

  “But Claybore has the Sphere.”

  “No,” said Lan slowly. “I don’t think he does. We truly are in a race to reach the summit. The Kinetic Sphere is up there.” He pointed upward to the top of Mount Tartanius. “It landed there when it left the whiteness.”

  “How does Claybore travel? He lacks a body.”

  “But he’s a powerful mage. Remember how he used Waldron? He must be using others. Or maybe…”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe his powers are materially weakened by the shift between worlds. Maybe he needs the Kinetic Sphere for more than interworld travel. If he sucks power from it, being distant from the globe might sap his strength.”

  “Possible,” conceded Krek, “though it is more likely he sits aloft and waits, like a proper spider in the center of a web.”