But he loved Kiska. He had to listen to her wild rantings, even though he knew she probably lied. Or did she? Claybore played a complex game that confused Lan more and more. The other sorcerer was not content with only dealing lies. He delved into the realm of half truths and even cunningly told truths that sounded as if they might be lies.

Frustration rose in Lan. Since Inyx and Krek had left him, he had nowhere to turn for aid. Or even comfort. Brinke was lovely and adept enough with simple magics, but she was not Inyx.

Kiska? If he could, he would kill her. Instead, he took the woman in his arms and kissed her.

“I love you,” he said. “But this story-this fable-cannot be true.”

“But it is!” Kiska protested.

“I have spoken with Terrill,” he said.

“Lan!” Brinke’s eyes widened in horror at what the mage said. But Lan found himself unable to stop now that he’d begun. The geas wormed words from his lips that he had not meant to utter.

But this was Kiska k’Adesina, the woman he loved. He had to reveal this to her, even as he felt the spell working within his mind like a worm burrowing through the earth. Its power expanded and his own control diminished.

“Tell me about it,” urged Kiska.

“Terrill did not say anything about its being Claybore trapped within the Pillar. Indeed, he hinted that there is nothing within but rather under.”

“That Terrill stays near the Pillar of Night is proof enough that she lies, Lan. Do not listen to her.” Brinke pleaded with him now, but Lan fell increasingly under the power of the geas, in matters both physical and emotional.

“So you talked to Terrill at the base of the Pillar?” Kiska smiled slyly.

Lan’s mind turned to the possibility that Kiska spoke the truth. Terrill might have been driven insane by the power of his own spell. When learning the more complex incantations, Lan himself had teetered on the edge of losing control and being destroyed. With a potent construct like the Pillar of Night, he couldn’t say what forces had been summoned to create it.

“Claybore’s soul,” he mused.

“Yes!”

“No!” protested Brinke. “Listen to her and you will never defeat Claybore.”

“If I shatter the spells holding the Pillar together, I might play into Claybore’s hands.”

“His severed hands,” said Brinke. “Remember what you did to him just a short while ago. He cannot hold himself together. He already nears the limits of his power. Release that held prisoner by the Pillar of Night and Claybore will fall victim to you in short order.”

“He was here?” cried Kiska. “Claybore?”

Lan’s head began to hurt. He found it harder to concentrate and soon conjured a small spell to shut out all sound. He let the women argue while he sat in a magically induced silence.

“Inyx,” he said softly. “I need you. You always saw so clearly. Even you, Krek. Even you, I need now.”

He released the spell and tried to follow the ebb and flow of the argument between Brinke and Kiska. Nothing was settled. He would have to decide which of them spoke truly.

Which one?

Act against the Pillar of Night and release a god-the Resident of the Pit? Or act against it and release the single most vital portion contributing to Claybore’s power? Or do nothing?

Lan Martak had no answer.

Claybore swiveled about on his mechanical hips as he studied the softly glowing wall. If his fleshless skull had possessed lips, he would have smiled in satisfaction. As it was, the white bone took on a higher sheen and a tiny crack began to run from one eye socket up to the crown. Claybore didn’t notice. His full attention focused on the wall and the scenes beginning to appear.

“Good,” he said to his assistant mage. “You have done well, Patriccan.”

Patriccan hobbled over and propped himself against a table littered with charts, grimoires, and other magical paraphernalia. He, too, rejoiced in all that transpired on a dozen different worlds.

“Master, your scrying improves. None sees onto another world along the Road save you. And now you are able to maintain viewing ports to a full twelve worlds. Remarkable. I salute you.” Patriccan bowed as deeply as he could. His injuries had still not healed, even though he had ordered several of his junior sorcerers to use what healing spells they knew. It had come as a shock to Patriccan to find they knew very few-their expertise, like his own, lay in the field of destruction, not healing.

Claybore strutted back and forth like a partly mechanical, partly flesh, partly decayed rooster. From the pits of his eye sockets came a directing beam of pale red. The beams struck a spot on the wall and created a picture different only in detail. Like the others, this one also showed carnage and suffering.

“You have recovered the Kinetic Sphere for me?” Claybore asked. “I see my agents with it on this world.”

“Martak failed to hide it properly, master,” said Patriccan. The mage shifted his weight and forced away the pain he experienced. If he could not take full revenge on Inyx, Ducasien and the others on that backwater world, he would at least revel in his master’s scheme to humiliate and destroy Martak.

“He did not try. It came as a surprise to him that he was able to yank it from my chest.” A hesitant hand touched the putrescence around the gaping hole in Claybore’s chest. The hand shook uncontrollably; the arm had not been properly restored. New spells were required for permanent attachment.

“Look, master,” said Patriccan. “Our legions conquer still another world. Their king bows his knee to your supreme rule.”

“Pah,” snorted Claybore. “Who cares for petty rulers? Or even if they are led by mages of some power. They are ants. So what if it is an entire world coming under my aegis? The real battle continues here and here and… here.”

He pointed to scenes from the world where Ducasien and Inyx consolidated their power, to a scene with Brinke and Lan Martak and to the darkly towering Pillar of Night.

“Master, rest assured all will be ready when the final battle trumpet is sounded.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Patriccan. It ill becomes you. This will be a bloody fight, a good one. I relish the thought of Martak squirming, begging me for mercy.”

“He proved incapable of defending himself,” Patriccan said ingratiatingly, “because of your cunning geas.”

“I worry about that,” admitted Claybore. The death’s head craned about and faced Patriccan. “He is more powerful than I in some respects and knows how that compulsion wears down on his ability. If Kiska is somehow killed, he would be forced to mourn, but my control over him would be gone.”

“He cannot allow that.”

“And I work constantly to be sure she is not placed in jeopardy, but his friends”-Claybore tapped the glowing screen where Inyx and Ducasien toiled-“are not without their own quaint powers. They might eliminate Kiska before I can play her in the proper sequence.”

“You will let her slay Martak?” Patriccan’s surprise was real. Martak had proved Claybore’s most able rival since Terrill. To allow another, a mere soldier, to kill Martak struck the mage as sacrilege. “I will perform the task for you. I have no love of him, either. Do not let her simply drive a dagger into his back.”

“Why not? What worse fate for someone such as he? To be killed by the one you love.”

“He is being forced.”

“It won’t matter. But you are wasting precious time. Have you been successful in your experiments? I need complete outfitting before any major demands are placed on me.

“Master,” Patriccan said, bowing again, “all is in readiness. Careful research has shown me the way to pioneer new spells that will prevent the rejection of your arms.”

“Yes, yes,” Claybore said impatiently. “I know all about that. My legs. What about my legs?”