[Cenotaph Road 05] - Fire and Fog Page 9

  “Aieeee!” came the shrill cry. Inyx’s head almost split from the reverberation in the closed chamber, but her heart beat so hard it almost exploded in her chest.

  “Krek!” she called. “Here!”

  The mountain arachnid lumbered forward, mandibles clacking like a scythe against grain. Gnome after gnome perished. Krek cared little whether they were Tefize or Heresler; if they stood in his way, they died, but for the most part they were Tefize.

  “I’ve never seen a fighting machine like that,” muttered Ducasien, stopping to stare as Krek slashed his bloody way into the center of the room. Even though the spider stood hunched over, he managed to reach out with his legs and rake talons over exposed bodies. Gnomes by the score died before they could flee.

  Within the span of another frenzied heartbeat, the Tefize clan fell into disordered retreat, shrieking and pointing, dropping their crude weapons, and disappearing into minor corridors too small for Krek to follow.

  Looking aloof, the spider simply stood in the center of the chamber as if nothing had happened and shook off the sanguinary gore.

  “You are the mightiest warrior I have ever seen,” complimented Ducasien. “May I shake your hand?”

  Krek canted his head to one side and studied the man with a saucer-sized eye.

  “You are another of those silly humans unable to perceive I have no hands. But if you want to take my right front leg, you may do so. I feel it is a strange custom, but one with which I am not unacquainted, after enduring it on other worlds.”

  Krek lifted the indicated leg and held it out for Ducasien. The man took hold and shook solemnly.

  “It is my privilege to name you my friend,” the man said.

  “You defended friend Inyx quite well, from all appearances,” Krek said, looking over Ducasien’s shoulder at the pile of dead. “If for nothing else, that elevates you to the exalted position of my friend.” The spider bobbed up and down, then said, “Friend Ducasien, is she well? She still lies on the floor in a most unflattering pose.”

  “Inyx!” the man cried.

  “I’m all right,” Inyx said, struggling to sit up. Bodies piled across her held her until she managed to wiggle free. “I’m a little bruised, nothing more.”

  “Are you sure?”

  For an instant their eyes locked. Inyx uncomfortably broke off the gaze. It spoke too much of things she did not wish to pursue.

  “Of course I’m sure. Help me to my feet.” Inyx staggered slightly, then saw the cut along her upper thigh. “I need some help binding that, but otherwise I’m still in fighting trim.”

  “I’ll tend the wound,” said Ducasien, but before the man took a single step forward Krek pushed between the pair.

  “One moment. A bandage is required. I am most expert at such matters.”

  “I’ll…” started Ducasien, then fell silent. In fascination he watched as Krek reached out with surprisingly gentle strokes and cut away the cloth around Inyx’s wound. Inyx cleansed her own wound and then Krek spat forth sticky webstuff that pulled the jagged edges of the gaping cut together. The flesh held in place, the spider spun forth a cocoon of the finest silk. Inyx’s leg was neatly bandaged in less than a minute.

  “The silk will decay soon and fall off within a week. By then you should be well healed.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Ducasien. “How do you do it?”

  “I’m a spider,” Krek said indignantly. “The silk is meant to fall apart within a week so my hatchlings can get at the cocooned food, not that I consider friend Inyx in such a light, mind you. This is merely an application that occurred to me some time ago when I noted how often you humans damaged yourselves.”

  “Lan doesn’t need such bandagings,” spoke up Inyx. “He can heal himself—and us, too—magically.” Even as she said the words, the woman knew she’d made a grave error reminding Krek of how little Lan needed him, even for menial tasks like this. She reached out and laid a gentle hand on the spider’s nearest leg and said, “Krek, I need you. And I’m sure Lan does, also.”

  The spider turned away. Every footstep left a bloodied mark to show his passage down a side corridor.

  “Where’s he going?” piped up Broit Heresler. “We want to have a celebration. For all of you. You’ve saved our homeland. And look at the work you give us,” the gnome declared, looking at the bodies stacked about the chamber. “No shirking our jobs now!”

  “The victory won’t last for long,” said Ducasien, “unless we can build some barricades to hold them back. With your depleted numbers another attack might be the last.”

  “We’re getting even with them,” the gnome said defiantly. “We’re not going to bury any of their bodies. See how that sits with Lirory Tefize! This'll be ample warning to the other clans, too, that we Heresler don’t fool around. We mean business.”

  “What Ducasien means is that you’re the ones going to be buried if the Tefize attack again. There’re only a few of you left.”

  “Us buried? Don’t be ridiculous. If all the Heresler are dead, there won’t be any more gravediggers.” As if this thought hadn’t occurred to the gnome before, he turned pale at the idea. “Great Yerrary, that’d mean chaos. Disaster. Dead bodies everywhere.”

  “Someone else would take over the job,” said Ducasien.

  “They can’t. Each chore is specialized, hereditary. Only Heresler bury. This might be the demise of Yerrary if they kill us all off. Oh, no!”

  Broit gathered the pitiful few survivors around him and they spoke hurriedly, gesticulating wildly. Fear began to show on their wrinkled faces as the full impact of what defeat meant penetrated.

  Ducasien and Inyx walked around the chamber and saw sleeping pallets placed in shallow depressions in the rock walls, a few possessions, odds and ends indicating living quarters rather than simply another corridor. They exchanged sad glances and walked on. This was no fit way to live, hidden under tons of rock and never seeing the sky. On their home world it had been different. The seasons were kind, game was plentiful, and all were able to live as they chose, free and in the soft lemon sunlight.

  The gnomes in Yerrary existed in conditions totally alien to Inyx and Ducasien.

  “We could block off this passage,” Ducasien said. “That leaves only those four ways in. A waist-high barricade would slow down a full-force attack.”

  “Better to string fang-wire and let the bastards cut themselves to ribbons if they attack.”

  “I didn’t see much evidence of metalworking,” said Ducasien. “Fang-wire requires at least low-grade steel to do any good.”

  “They must have wire around. When I found the source of their drinking water, the entire chamber was filled with glass and metal vats, tubes and pipes. I don’t remember seeing wire, but Eckalt must use it somewhere.”

  “Eckalt?”

  Inyx explained to Ducasien about the toad-being and his distillation plant. Ducasien shook his head in puzzlement.

  “This is a strange world, unlike any I have seen along the Road. I think I have seen enough of it.”

  “You’d move on?” Inyx asked, sudden fear clutching at her throat.

  “You want me to stay? For a while?”

  Again Inyx averted her eyes from his. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She only nodded.

  “Then I’ll stay. For a while. And to make that stay safer, we’d best get to work. Do you think the gnomes would take kindly to a few suggestions about defending their pitiful little fortress?”

  “Let’s see.”

  Inyx went and spoke at length with Broit Heresler and several of the surviving clan leaders. In time she convinced them to erect barricades as Ducasien had suggested. While they had no fang-wire or anything similar to it, Broit did show Inyx how razor-edged digging implements could be placed in traps along the corridors. The unwary might set off these devices and end up minus a hand or head.

  “Confusing,” admitted Ducasien. “No wire to speak of, but they use the best of steel for cutting edges. Draw
ing wire wouldn’t be hard and weaving it with the barbed points would be simplicity in itself.”

  “I doubt that,” said Inyx. “These folk have existed for centuries like this. Their culture is stable and any intrusion is looked upon as a catastrophe. That’s why this civil war is so upsetting to them. Lirory Tefize has been bitten by the worst bug of all—he seeks power.”

  “As I said before, I’ve had little contact with mages. It strikes me as peculiar a mage of such power would be found among them.”

  Inyx watched as Broit and the others bustled about dragging stones and digging pits. These were a people of physical attributes, not magical ones.

  “I agree, but magic stretches between the worlds. Perhaps Lirory Tefize tasted it on some other world.”

  “They don’t strike me as travelers, either.”

  “One walks the Road for many reasons.”

  “There is glory,” the man said.

  “Adventure is more like it. Who can know of your triumphs if you only pass through on your way to another world?”

  “Knowledge,” said Ducasien. “It’s a portable wealth far transcending gold and jewels.”

  “Knowledge is two-edged and cuts the unwary. A better reason is curiosity. What lies beyond the next cenotaph? A better world? A world of jest or sorrow? One covered with oceans or deserts or mountains and paradise?”

  “You’ve seen them all, haven’t you?” Ducasien asked.

  They sat on a small ledge cut into the wall and leaned back, the green glowing moss soft against their tired backs.

  “I’ve seen more than my share. Ever since I met Krek and Lan, the worlds have become more deadly. Claybore’s influence stretches over most of them.”

  “But you fight well against the sorcerer,” insisted Ducasien. “You are the mightiest warrior I have ever seen. Your blade work is superb and your sense of tactic unparalleled.”

  “You’re just saying that,” Inyx said, feeling a blush rising.

  “I say it because it is the truth. You are a remarkable woman. That you are from my own world is all the more delightful.”

  Inyx swallowed hard when Ducasien reached out and placed his finger under her chin and turned her face to his. She felt as if her heart would burst from her chest. Hands shaking, she tried to push away. Ducasien held her firmly and moved closer. Their lips brushed in a kiss both gentle and electric. Inyx melted within and then remembered.

  Lan Martak. Somewhere in the bowels of this mountain her lover battled Claybore. He might be close to death; he might desperately need her fighting prowess of which Ducasien boasted.

  Inyx pulled away and stood, face flushed.

  “I’d best find Krek and make certain he is all right. The spider tends to mope.” She didn’t wait for the man’s reply. She almost ran away. But she couldn’t flee her innermost emotions.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Are you so taken by your new appendages that you let him remain alive?” Lirory Tefize looked back over his shoulder in the direction of the chamber he and Claybore left. “This Lan Martak withstood our combined assaults, but I felt his power seeping away. Another attack and he will perish. I know it.”

  “Do not be so certain. Martak draws on more than his own power. I felt that. No, Lirory, we must be more subtle.” Claybore swung about on his mechanical hips and waved his arms joyously. “They are wondrous,” he said. “After so many years I cannot describe the way I feel regaining my arms.”

  Tefize watched as the fleshless skull turned full attention to the air in front of them. Claybore’s hands gestured and the air itself began to boil and churn. The dual death beams leaping from his sunken eye sockets joined the turbulence. Even as inured as Lirory Tefize was to displays of magic, he cringed away from the beast Claybore conjured.

  Simply looking at it turned the gnome inside out. His stomach churned unpleasantly and thoughts both dark and vile rose within him. If a mere glance produced such an unsettling effect, what could the creature do if released?

  Tefize tried not to think of that.

  “Is she not a beauty?” Claybore cackled. Hands moving with dextrous skill, the sorcerer molded the very air. The ruby beams mingled intimately and gave substance to the creation until it stood on stubby legs tipped with vicious-looking talons.

  “What is it?”

  “There is no name for this fine little pet. It exists and yet it does not. Parts of it live on other worlds along the Road, while the majority of it rests here. The conjuration is one of the most difficult I know. It must be supported on all those worlds to be effective in this one.”

  Tefize glanced back at the chamber where Lan Martak stood. The gnome hated leaving unfinished business like this. Even worse, the human would soon enough regain his considerable power and seek them out in the maze of tunnels worming through the mountain. Tefize did not relish the idea of sleeping with guard spells fully in place to warn him of an enemy’s approach.

  “Send your beast against Martak,” he suggested to Claybore. “Let us see how deadly this ghostly creature can be.”

  “Nonsense,” said Claybore. “Martak is of no current concern to us. Let him wander about trying to do his odd jobs. We can finish him off when the time is ripe.”

  “You gloat. That is senseless.” The gnome tried to control his rising anger. “Do not think to play with him. I felt his power. He held both of us at bay—both of us. If I had not risked showing him the Pillar of Night, my excavators would never have retrieved your arms in time.”

  “Yes, showing Martak the Pillar did gain us time. I rather liked the idea, too. Let him see his destiny. Let him see the weapon of his destruction!”

  “You peer into the future?” asked Tefize. His skeptical tones caused Claybore to whirl about. Mechanical legs grated and gears snapped, but the organic upper portion of his body moved with sinuous grace. The only unnerving part was the fleshless skull still perched atop the torso. While Claybore had never mentioned it, Lirory had discovered that Martak and the others were responsible for the destruction of Claybore’s face and other skin.

  “I cannot see the future. That is perpetually closed to me, but I know the present. You worry overmuch about Martak.” Claybore’s fingers wove a set of glowing interlocked triangles in the air. The shadow creature he had conjured snarled and started for Lirory.

  The gnome stepped back, felt cold rock against his spine, and began defensive movements. He had walked myriad worlds, seeking knowledge. Alone of all those populating Yerrary he had accumulated vast magical lore, but even his most potent spells failed to stop the inexorable advance of Claybore’s beast.

  Lirory Tefize stared at it in wonder and horror. His vision went through its pseudo-flesh and stared out onto a thousand other worlds, yet the substantial fangs and talons ripping gouges in the rock floor were all too real. Eyes of black blazed with strange emotion.

  What did such a beast feel? Tefize only guessed it had to be frustration, anger, hatred at all living beings existing on only one world.

  The eyes opened onto all those worlds and, at the same time, remained curiously flat.

  Tefize straightened, trying to avoid the claws as one misty paw raked outward toward him. The lightest of touches on his belly sent chills racing to his very soul.

  “It cannot be killed because it does not live. Not exactly. Let Martak conjure his elementals. They exist only on one plane. My friend crosses over into many!”

  Tefize heard the insanity in Claybore’s tone, but did not respond to it. The deceptively small magical creature hunkered down in front of him, gathering strength for a leap at his throat. Tefize muttered continual protective wards now. It seemed that each was sucked into a bottomless vortex and only the creature remained. Unharmed. Raging at all material life.

  “Do not harm him, my little one,” soothed Claybore. “Lirory is our friend. Aren’t you, Lirory?”

  “Friendship is a word too strong to describe our relationship, Claybore,” said the sorcerer gnome. “Let us say our
relationship is based on mutual distrust and personal greed.”

  “Greed? No, not you, Lirory. Not I. We are beyond greed for material things. We seek power, that heady wine of which there is no fill.” Claybore cackled and motioned, leaving red and green streamers behind from each fingertip. The shadow hound backed away, eyes still boring into Tefize.

  “We deal for mutual gain,” said Lirory, his uneasiness fading now. He still had what Claybore desired most in all the universe. Without the legs, the sorcerer would never come close to realizing his ambition. The magically powered mechanical contraption holding torso, arms, and skull would break down all too soon. Even the most casual of observers could see the bent struts and rusted gearwheels.

  And beyond mere movement, his real legs contributed to Claybore’s magics.

  “It will require some time to retrieve your legs,” said Lirory Tefize. “After I found the arms, I took great care to place them in the pit where no casual seeker would stumble over them. With your legs, I exercised even more diligence in hiding them.”

  “Really?” said Claybore. The sorcerer spun around on mechanical knees, the ruby beams seeking forth from empty eye sockets. The death rays launched themselves through rock in an upward direction. “My legs are along this path.”

  “Of course you can sense their presence,” Tefize said suavely, hiding his consternation at Claybore’s easy discovery. “Getting them free without damaging them is something else again. I assure you the spells are intricate.”

  “The legs cannot be destroyed,” said Claybore.

  “You lie,” snapped Lirory. “But even if that were true, they can be hidden along the Road. My spell will throw them at random onto another world. You can seek them out, yes. But have you the hundreds—or thousands—of years to do so?”

  “I am immortal.”

  “You claimed Martak was, also. Will he give you the chance to go hunting?” Lirory Tefize shrewdly discerned the reaction in the dismembered sorcerer and saw he had struck a nerve. “Martak’s power grows daily without need of retrieving his bodily parts. If you desire more magics, you must recover other segments of your original self.”