Legends of the Dragonrealm Vol III Part 74

Only she, Valea felt, could confront the warlock, Shade.

He had lived a thousand lifetimes, his curse alternating him between good and evil. He existed somewhere between reality and imagination, his hooded features ever blurred, indistinct. Shade had been friend and enemy to all, with each 'death' shifting from one end of the spectrum to the other. Valea found him a tragic figure, but she steeled herself with the knowledge that if he had returned, surely that meant danger to those she loved. Whatever sympathy the young sorceress felt-and whatever other emotions had arisen since her ghostly encounter with his past-they had to be kept in check. She had to stop whatever it was he intended.

That it had led to this place had stunned her, but Valea had persevered. She had fought her way to the realm of the Lords of the Dead and now she would cross their domain following Shade's trail no matter what impediment rose before her.

But so far, Valea had come across nothing. The unearthly realm was filled with phantoms all but invisible to her and a landscape that, despite its changing shape and murkiness, had held no dire threats. She sensed that Shade had been this way, but that was all.

A buzzing in her ears made her swat at it. With some frustration, Valea kept her hand in check. Now and then the buzzing arose and when she had listened close once, she had heard the voices of the shadows, the whisperings of lives long past. They were, like everything around her, a disturbing distraction, but nothing to concern the spellcaster.

The buzzing, however, suddenly increased in intensity. The whisperers sounded upset, fearful. They almost seemed to be warning each other . . . or even her.

Something fluttered among the dead trees ahead of her, moving so swiftly out of sight that Valea could not be certain that she had actually seen anything.

The buzzing grew more insistent. Now it became words that she could make out with some ease.

Coming . . . coming . . . coming . . . they said over and over.

A form flew overhead.

Valea reacted immediately, casting a spell upward. A flash of light illuminated both her and her surroundings and she heard a monstrous shriek.

Something with batlike wings darted from her view. She spun in the direction it had gone, trying as best she could to make out its shape.

Instead, a tall structure that Valea knew she had not pa.s.sed earlier perched atop a high, jagged hill overlooking her location.

It was a castle or, being this place, perhaps the ghost of one. Certainly it was no place that welcomed the weary traveler. Like monstrous claws, five towers rose above the outer wall, each one topped by sharp, toothy battlements. Flanked on each corner by four of the towers and using the fifth as its centerpiece, a broad, rounded building made up the bulk of the castle. Further details, Valea could not make out. In fact, there was little else of descriptive value where the castle was concerned. No banners flew from its heights and she could not make out any gates. The battlements were empty of movement.

And yet . . . Valea took a step forward, squinting. Was there a light of sorts in the main building? Something hinting of red flickered there.

Every nerve in her body taut, the sorceress reached out with her senses and sought the evidence she needed. Almost immediately, Valea received the answer she had expected.

Shade was there. She knew his magical signature as well as she knew her own. Since that fateful journey into the memories of the Manor, her home, Valea had come to recognize the traces of his spellwork. She suspected it was because the two of them shared a link that went beyond that one experience. Deep beneath the Manor, Valea had discovered the tomb of an elven maiden, Galani. She had been perfectly preserved, almost as if time itself had frozen. This was the same Galani who had been part of a ghostly vision seen more than once in the huge house above. This was the same Galani who had, in life, been cousin to the sorcerer Arak.

Arak had been friend to Shade.

Galani had fallen for the tragic figure, but, as was his curse, Shade had died without her knowing of it. When he had risen again, his mind twisted, he had used Arak and Galani to further his own evil goals. Only Galani's sacrifice had saved her cousin and the Dragonrealm from the darker side of Shade. She had killed the warlock again before herself dying. Arak had sealed her body under the Manor and it had been Shade's reappearance now that had stirred some part of the dead elf's spirit to contact the only one who could understand and accept her message, her warning.

Valea, it seemed, was the reincarnation of the elf. With but a few subtle differences due to their respective races, the two had been identical of features and form.

Yes, it had to be Valea who finally put an end to the curse of Shade. Whatever his good aspects, the evil could not be allowed to return. Valea felt certain that she held the key, although whether that key would lead to her success, she could not say in the least.

The enchantress reached into her blouse, pulling out a chain she wore around her neck. At the end, an unprepossessing, brutally chiseled stone hung. It was barely the size of her smallest fingernail, but Valea treated it as if she carried the weight of the world.

"Let us hope this works . . ." she whispered to it. "Let us hope I've planned right, Galani . . ."

Then, undaunted by her tremendous doubts, Valea replaced the stone against her bosom and started for the castle. The whispering continued, the same word repeating over and over. The young spellcaster ignored the whispering, already wary of her surroundings. The winged thing that had almost fallen upon her had finally reminded Valea just what unnatural realm she walked. Every step meant danger. This was, after all, the kingdom of the Lords of the Dead.

And she doubted that they would long suffer a living soul in their midst.

HE PEERED OUT the window as he did every moment of his existence. It was both his only salvation and his greatest torture. Out there, he sensed the countless shadows flittering about, existing only because the masters of the realm desired them to do so. The scene was always the same . . . the grayness, the lifelessness . . . the eternity.

And then something so extraordinary that it made him leap to his feet appeared in the distance, a shock of life and color such as he could only dredge up from his most ancient memories. It moved with purpose, moved with an animation so foreign to the still lands surrounding the castle. Pushing his hood back slightly, he pressed his face against the bars, trying to make out more detail. It was as if he had been given a glimpse of paradise, so wondrous was this unexpected vision.

But as the figure neared and he made out exactly what it was, his expression grew both dumbfounded and fearful . . . the latter not for himself. He shook his head, blinked, and stared again, disbelieving the sight. His tormentors had finally begun the new, s.a.d.i.s.tic game that they had promised . . .

"Sharissa . . ." he murmured. "Sharissa . . ."

II.

THE MOST DISASTROUS trait running through his family, Cabe Bedlam decided, had to be its members' tendency to thrust themselves into dangers despite common sense. He had done so far too often. So had Gwendolyn, his wife, and their son, Aurim, who insisted on wooing the daughter of one who had betrayed the parents.

But now his daughter had outdone them all, literally stepping into a nightmare without apparently any sane regard for herself. She had gone where even Cabe in his wildest dreams would not have dared, a place that made even Darkhorse wary.

"She has come this way," bellowed the huge, ebony stallion despite their silent, ominous surroundings. "There is no doubt about it."

Cabe eyed the ruins of the castle through which they now journeyed. Under the hood of his gray travel cloak was a face that would have seemed more appropriate on a farmer or blacksmith. His broad, clean features and una.s.suming eyes hid power of which few could even dream. Average of build and clad in simple deep blue pants and shirt and high leather boots, he would not have garnered a second glance by most if not for the wide streak of silver in his otherwise plain, dark hair. That silver marked him as a spellcaster and one of skill. Cabe was a wizard from a long line of wizards that included the famous and the nefarious. His grandfather, Nathan, had been the leader of the Dragon Masters, mages who had sought to free the lands from the rule of the Dragon Kings. His father, Azran, had been a black knave who had betrayed Nathan and the rest for his own sinister designs.

And now Cabe and Darkhorse had entered what remained of his dire stronghold in the midst of the volcanic lands of the Red Dragon.

Memories of his captivity in his father's sanctum made the vein in Cabe's neck throb. The castle had been brought down during a battle between the previous drake lord and Azran, with the former losing both the battle and his life. Azran, however, had gone mad in the process, the evil power of his creation, the sword curiously and ominously called The Nameless, usurping his mind. Cabe's father was long dead and The Nameless had vanished down a bottomless crevice in a cavern, but the legacy of his father remained strong in the wreckage left behind. Generations of dark sorcery and ties to otherworldly forces had left what still stood of the castle a place even drakes shunned.

"She should've never come to this place," the human murmured not for the first time. "Valea knew the stories."

"But stories are just that to the young, who have not experienced the true terror," replied the blue-orbed steed. That Darkhorse spoke was not the most astonishing thing about Cabe's companion, for he was not a horse at all. The huge stallion had chosen his form centuries prior when first coming to the Dragonrealm from the empty dimension called only the Void. He was a creature of pure magic able to transform at will or become insubstantial if necessary. Darkhorse had a fondness for his present shape, though, and rarely altered his appearance. He had befriended many humans over the centuries, but was feared by many, many more.

Cabe kept in check the remark that came to his lips in response to his companion's words. While Darkhorse sounded as venerable as a creature that, if not slain, could live forever should, he had himself a childlike habit of running into trouble headfirst.

Jagged pieces of stone still stood here and there, testament to the gargantuan size of Azran's citadel. In truth, much of the edifice had fallen quickly because it had been held together by the sorcerer's own magic. That any of it still stood amazed Cabe.

A skeleton half-buried in rubble caught his attention. The ribs were almost human, but the skull was quite avian, like that of a man-sized bird. The Seekers, the ancient predecessors of the Dragon Kings, had been forced to serve Azran and many had perished fighting the forces of the Red Dragon. This was not the first set of bones the pair had come across. The landscape surrounding the ruins still offered glimpses of the scores of creatures from both sides who had died fighting for two megalomaniacs. Cabe had even briefly caught sight of the gargantuan, telltale skull of the Dragon King himself, left half-buried by dust and molten earth by his successor.

"Turn west," he suddenly told Darkhorse. Valea's magical trace, albeit much faded, led that way. Other than her mother, Cabe was probably the only one who could have still sensed the remnants of his daughter's pa.s.sing. Unless they worked hard to mask it, spellcasters often left a trail of sorts, a hint of their distinctive magical signature. Fortunately, Valea had not decided to hide hers, likely because she knew that one or both of her parents would surely follow.

And why not? When Gwen had summoned him back, her mental call filled with anxiety, he had known that the news would be dire. His wife had refrained from telling him just what it was about, fearing the slight chance that some other spellcaster might be able to eavesdrop. The Dragon Kings were always monitoring their enemies, awaiting the chance to regain some of their lost power.

But what the enchantress had told her husband had stunned him beyond belief.

Shade had risen from the dead again.

It should not have been. Darkhorse had witnessed what should have been the warlock's final, absolute demise. Cabe and everyone else believed it so, especially after the most doubtful of them, the black stallion himself, had spent years fruitlessly searching for some sign that Shade had once again been resurrected. Eventually, even Darkhorse had admitted that the warlock was surely no more.

And now . . . and now they knew that they had been wrong.

Terrible enough were the events that Gwen had relayed upon his return concerning her encounter with not only the Storm Dragon, but a number of variations of Shade. But worse was his wife's discovery of the note left by Valea announcing that she, too, had uncovered evidence of the enigmatic figure's return. For reasons her parents could not fathom, Valea had left every indication that she believed that only she could put an end to the curse of Shade.

With the vast knowledge and power available to them, the Bedlams had quickly followed her path-and found, to their dismay, that their daughter had journeyed to her grandfather's citadel. Gwen and Aurim had wanted to go with then, but Cabe insisted that only he and Darkhorse make the trip. Someone had to remain behind in case the worst happened . . . and nothing could be worse than finding out that Valea had crossed into the otherworldly realm of the Lords of the Dead.

Both he and Darkhorse knew where to find the entrance to the infernal realm. It had been buried under tons of debris, but someone-not Valea from what Cabe sensed-had cleared it again.

The smell of decay and rotting flesh invaded his nostrils. Even Darkhorse snorted with distaste. The pit bubbled and oozed. What exactly the greenish gray muck was, Cabe neither knew nor wanted to know. In his mind, he could hear the calls and cries of the dead and a few of those voices were familiar to him. When last he had stood in this place, Cabe had even sensed Azran seeking him out, but, fortunately, that malignant spirit seemed not about.

Darkhorse had tried to explain to him that the realm into which Valea had traveled was not truly the afterlife, that the Lords of the Dead were nothing more than monstrous necromancers who managed to steal slices of dying souls. Their domain was a mockery of death. Even the spirit of Cabe's father had only been a reflection of the true Azran.

On one level, the wizard understood and accepted the explanation. On a more base level, though, Cabe recalled what he had sensed when Azran's evil had invaded his mind. Mere reflections of the dead the inhabitants of the foul realm might be, but they had varying strength, depending upon their wills.

But his daughter, however foolishly, had dared enter and so Cabe would, too, even if he had to face the combined might of the ageless spellcasters.

And according to Darkhorse, they very likely would.

"But why here?" he asked. "Why to this place of all places?" This was the last spot that they would have expected any search for Shade to end. If there were those who hated the warlock more than anyone, it was the Lords of the Dead.

"They are his kin, his blood," Darkhorse muttered in a surprisingly subdued manner for his boisterous self. "They are, in fact, his cousins . . ."

Such a statement sounded so ludicrous when speaking of either Shade or the legendary necromancers and yet it also made terrible sense. It somewhat explained the power that both the hooded figure and the dread lords wielded.

Of the same blood . . . and willing to spill one another's gladly. Cabe understood that all too well.

"How do we enter?"

The stallion prodded the muck with one hoof, snorting again. "We dive in, of course."

"I was afraid you'd say just that."

"The entrance is not guarded, Cabe."

The wizard nodded. "Either they want us to come in or someone's forcibly removed the gate keeper." The macabre creature, a grotesque compilation of countless dead beasts, had served its masters since time immemorial. To find it absent boded ill. "I suppose it doesn't matter."

Darkhorse nodded. "Shall I, then?"

Gritting his teeth and holding tight to his mount, Cabe nodded. "Do it."

Without hesitation, the magical steed leapt up over the huge, bubbling ma.s.s-then dropped like a stone into it.

Cabe held his breath, expecting a ma.s.sive wave to engulf both of them. Instead, the pit seemed to part and he and Darkhorse suddenly plummeted through a gray emptiness. Voices a.s.sailed the wizard, the words of centuries of the dead repeating endlessly the stories of their lives. Shadowy forms appeared in the corner of his eye, but when Cabe sought to focus on them, they were no longer there.

Their descent slowed, then halted. The two drifted in a hazy limbo.

Then, without warning . . . a dour landscape formed around them.

It was muted, silent. Cabe felt a slight chill, but not the kind one experienced from moist or cold weather. Rather, it resembled the unsettling sensation that had touched him when first entering the ruins. Here was a place of the dead, but dead who were not completely at rest.

"Where do you think she headed?" Only Darkhorse had any inkling of what existed in this realm where even color seemed to die.

In fact, even the ice-blue orbs of the stallion looked faded. Darkhorse peered around warily, then replied, "There is a castle . . . so he told me once. If you can still follow her trail, I suspect it will lead there."

Shutting his eyes, Cabe concentrated on Valea. Her trace was fainter, almost invisible, but he managed to get just enough of a grasp on it to point ahead. "Go that way."

The shadow steed trotted along. Both remained wary of their surroundings. The Lords of the Dead had to be watching, plotting. No one entered their domain without their knowledge.

Which meant that they had long ago noted Valea.

Time was an immaterial concept here, but still it seemed as if every step took an hour. The bleak sameness of the landscape added to that effect. Cabe quickly felt his impatience growing and sensed Darkhorse reacting much the same. It was dangerous, though, to fall victim to the emotion; even the smallest distraction could leave them open to an attack.

"I like this not," the stallion finally remarked. "They know we are here. They would not wish us here. Why do they not make some challenge?"

The wizard opened his mouth to answer, but another responded before him.

"Because they await me."

Darkhorse reared and Cabe's left hand flared with a ready spell.

But the hooded figure with the blurred face took their reactions in stride, simply repeating his words.

"Because they await me," Shade said without the slightest care. "Because my cousins have been waiting for me to take the bait."

THE ELEVEN STOOD in the pattern of the pentagram, each knowing his place, each maintaining the power that made them masters of their realm. Ten stood so as to form the design with the final one, the focus, directly in the center. Through him was all cast, through him was all sensed.

"He is coming . . ." rasped the focus. "He is here . . ."

"At last," murmured another voice, nearly identical to his own. Others repeated the response, they also sounding almost like copies of the first. For so long they had worked in sync with one another until they were as if of one mind.

They, the Lords of the Dead.

The chamber in which they stood was devoid of any trappings. No tapestries, no banners, no weaponry. Only an arched, open window out of which none of them ever looked gave the room any life . . . that and the thick, bronze door upon which the insignia of a dragon could just be made out at eye level.

The light that futilely illuminated the chamber originated from a crystal buried just below the lead necromancer's booted feet. The faint glow was misleading; the crystal was anything but weak. It was the only new addition to their sanctum since its creation . . . and had been set there specifically because of one being. One hated being. It gathered and amplified their work, fed more wholly the magic they cast into the one who would wield it.

The figure in the center raised a black, gauntleted hand. In his eyes, the arm within the mail was as thick and st.u.r.dy as it had always been. He did not see that the armor and glove hung loose and rusted and that what glimpses of the form within could be seen were dry of flesh and bony. "His ka is strong. He is much himself . . ."

One at the high point of the pentagram stirred. Like the others, he wore a partially concealing helm with the stylized image of a dragon atop it. The black armor and dark cloak in which he was also clad hung as loose as that of the leader. The cloak was tattered and unlike the first figure he wore no boots-and had no feet or lower legs to speak of. They had long ago rotted away, just as had various bits of the rest of the necromancers.

But in the eyes of all, they were still the same eleven who had, long ago, discovered this path and by unanimous vote had forever changed themselves. They were strong of sinew, determined of eye, the blood of the dragon, the blood of Clan Tezerenee.

They were Vraad, the race of sorcerers who were the predecessors of more than just the humans of the Dragonrealm.

"But he is not completely himself, is he, Ephraim? All depends upon that, doesn't it?"

Ephraim shifted one foot from near the crystal, a slight movement with vast overtones. The other necromancer also moved, his reaction one more submissive.

"We are one in this as we are in all else, are we not, Zorane? You question my work, my search?"