The Pillar of Night, Claybore had called it.

The memory blurred for Lan, something quite unusual. The magics bound within that towering spire of the blackest stone provided the key to destroying Claybore. All Lan had to do was learn the secret of the Pillar of Night. He snorted and shook his head. Simple. Or it ought to be for one who had pretensions of becoming a god.

Lan swung his crude stone hand axe and clubbed a second animal. He carried them back to camp, where Kiska had laid a small fire.

“Clean them,” he said, dropping the animals at her feet.

“Later,” she said in a husky voice. She stood and approached him. Lan couldn’t move. He needed her. He had to have her.

She came into his arms and they kissed deeply. The revulsion welling inside Lan made him want to gag. He didn’t. He felt her hot breath against his lips, his cheek, his ear, his throat, lower. Lan’s heart almost exploded as Kiska coaxed even more from him. They sank to the soft turf together and made love.

Weakness boiled inside the man. The invincible mage felled by a woman he hated-and had to love. Lan drifted off to sleep, wondering where Inyx and Krek were. And if Inyx were locked in Ducasien’s arms. The sleep, when it came, was not restful.

Lan Martak awoke, hand on sword. The darkness cloaking the tiny glade told him that it was well after sundown, perhaps as late as midnight. The stars wheeled through the sky in unfamiliar patterns and sounds totally unique told him of strange beasts stalking and being stalked.

One sound echoing through the forest brought Lan to his feet. He recognized the whisper of metal against leather, the feet marching, the movement of soldiers.

“Kiska,” he said, shaking the woman awake. He wanted to leave her, but the spell forced him to warn her. “We have company.”

“Ummm,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Those brown eyes snapped wide open when she saw Lan with sword already in hand. No fear showed through, but Kiska tensed. “What is it?”

He silently motioned for her to follow. She gathered their few belongings and trailed behind, making no attempt to move quietly. To Lan and his forest-trained senses, she made more noise than all of Claybore’s grey-clad soldiers.

Lan fought down the urge to use a simple scrying spell. To know the troop numbers, their movement, their positions, would make eluding them so much easier. But he dared not betray his position. In the far distance he “saw” magics stirring, a dim, unsettling sensation for him. Lan had yet to identify the source as Claybore’s magics, but if Lan spotted the use of arcane lore this easily, Claybore would be able to “see” him, also.

Surprise, Lan thought grimly, was his only ally. And a fickle one it was, at best.

He peered around the charred bole of a lightning-struck tree and saw the broken formation of soldiers advancing. They crept forward in waves, the soldiers behind protecting those advancing. Only when the new terrain was adequately scouted did those behind move forward to reconnoiter further.

“They’re armed with bows,” Kiska said. “An odd choice for this world.”

“What do you mean?” Lan demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” the woman said. Even in the dim light filtering through the forest’s canopy of broad green leaves, Lan saw the smirk on Kiska’s lips.

“Make any sound to attract their attention and I’ll kill you,” Lan said.

Kiska laughed at him, the laughter drifting through the forest and alerting the man on the closest end of the combat line. The grey-clad soldier spun and motioned to the man next to him.

Lan gripped his sword hilt until his fingers turned white. He shook himself and then started off through the forest at a breakneck clip. The mage hardly cared if Kiska kept up with his pace or not. He wanted to eliminate her with a single sword thrust-and he couldn’t. The fires of the geas burned the brighter within him now as his anger grew. The spell laid upon him always proved more powerful than his own will. Cursing, damning Claybore for doing this to him, damning Kiska and all the grey-clads, he found a rocky knoll poking up out of the gently grassed forest on which to make his stand.

“They come for you, Lan my love,” mocked Kiska.

“Go on, kill me now,” he said. He stood, sword point lowered. Kiska k’Adesina pulled forth her dagger and started to obey. She wanted to kill him; with all her heart and black soul, she would!

The dagger danced about in her trembling hand. She swallowed hard and sank to her knees. “I can’t,” she muttered. “I can’t!”

Lan looked at her and, in that moment, shared the frustration. The spell Claybore had wrought bound them both. Whatever the disembodied mage had in mind, the time was not yet right for the trap to spring. Lan Martak recognized the deadliness of having Kiska beside him and could do little to prevent it. If anything, knowing Claybore’s spell would suddenly erupt into violence and death-and not knowing the exact instant-made the waiting all the more excruciating.

“Defend yourself,” Lan said. “These grey-clads will kill anyone with me.”

“No, they… won’t,” she said, unsure.

The first arrow barely missed Kiska’s right arm. She jerked back and stared in disbelief at the feathered shaft buried in the soft turf.

“Fight or die,” Lan said. His heart raced now, as much for his own safety as for the woman’s. Damn Claybore!

A flight of arrows from the shadows caused Lan to drop behind a stump for cover. He reached out and pulled Kiska flat. The second barrage from the soldiers was instantly followed by six men with drawn swords.

“A spell!” Kiska cried. “Fry them with a fireball!”

Lan’s blade slashed across the first man’s eyes, sending him reeling back into the ranks with blood fountaining. Another thrust to the throat slipped under a sergeant’s gorget and penetrated the Adam’s apple. A heavy boot broke another’s wrist.

“Fight!” Lan cried to Kiska. “Would you see me slaughtered here and now?”

“Yes,” she hissed, but the woman was on her feet, dagger seeking target after target. Claybore’s spell still cut both ways. Lan and Kiska might hate one another, but they were tightly bound together. Until that indeterminate time arrived when Claybore’s diabolical trap would be sprung, Kiska had to fight to save her “lover,” just as Lan fought to save Kiska.

Another half-dozen arrows winged toward Lan. Reflex action caused him to use a fire spell; the arrows burst into flame and turned to ash inches from his chest. He lunged and caught another soldier on the upper arm, putting him out of the fray.

“How many of them are there?” moaned Kiska. She was covered with blood-Lan couldn’t tell how much was hers-and obviously weakened. She had retrieved a fallen sword and used it, but the greys still swarmed from the safety of the woods. Only the slight rise gave Lan and Kiska a fighting advantage.

“Too many,” said Lan. He didn’t want to use another spell, but he had no other choice. Alerting Claybore of his presence was not as immediately dangerous as dying on the sword point of one of Claybore’s soldiers.

Lan’s lips moved imperceptibly, the spell forming. The full power of the tongue resting within his mouth would be sent forth at the proper instant.

“They all attack!” cried Kiska.

“Die!” Lan commanded, using the Voice.

Fourteen of the grey-clads stopped, stiffened, then dropped their weapons. For the span of three heartbeats not a single soldier moved. Then they slumped to the ground like rows of wheat being harvested.

“Such power,” Kiska said softly, looking at Lan. “Claybore’s tongue is mightier than all their swords.”

Lan tried forming the spell again, this time directed at Kiska. He failed, as he had known he would.

“Claybore now knows I have come after him,” said Lan. “I had hoped for more time to study this world.”