Legends of the Dragonrealm Vol IV Part 7

Shade, half lost in his thoughts, barely even noticed his "guest." He looked skyward, staring through the cavern ceiling to some place beyond, both in time and s.p.a.ce. "Do you know, monster, what it is like . . . to live so long . . . but to live in constant fear for. . . your very self?"

The scholar thought he had a fair idea of the latter portion of the question, but it would hardly have been to his benefit to mention who was presently the cause of that fear.

"Dru Zeree . . . " The dreaming warlock gestured. A vague apparition began to take form before him. "He always seemed to see so much, yet he could not see what was happening."

The apparition swelled and coalesced, gradually taking on a more distinct appearance. It was a man, one who swayed back and forth like a leaf in the wind. Wellen squinted, noting the height, the beard, and the streak of silver. Was this Dru Zeree? Was this truly what the legendary Lord Drazeree had looked like, or was it a stylized phantasm, an image borne of ancient but colored memories?

"Master Zeree . . . " Shade whispered. He met the gaze of the misty figure. "What did you finally become?"

Weller) could have told him, but he knew that Shade would never believe the legends. The warlock would refuse to believe that his companion of old had lived a long, fruitful life and that there were those, like the scholar himself, who had some claim that they might be his descendents. Shade would hardly care anyway; to him Dru Zeree had become a monster like all the rest.

Bedlam wondered if Shade had ever looked in the mirror to see what he had become.

Another form began to materialize on the warlock's other side. Shade barely paid any attention to it at first, caught up as he was in some one-sided conversation with the ghostly Dni Zeree, but when he did, he fairly buried himself in the depths of his cavernous cloak. His voice was barely a whisper, but Wellen, watching the new specter take shape, already knew who now haunted the spellcaster.

"Sharissa . . ." The warlock whispered.

The depths of his insanity were ever surprising the explorer. It was clear from Shade's reaction that even though he was responsible for conjuring up these apparitions of the far past, he did not entirely control them, at least, not on a conscious level. He had, in fact, succeeded only too well in haunting himself.

What price immortality?

She was tall, albeit not so much as the other conjured ghost, and slim. A magnificent robe of white covered her very female form and silver-blue hair cascaded down her back. She was beautiful, so very beautiful, this possible distant relation of Wellen's, that the scholar knew she must not be real. He was seeing her, and Dru Zeree, as the hooded spellcaster wanted to recall them, not as they had been. Still, there had to be some truth to their appearances. They were too distinct to be entirely fashioned from Shade's madness.

Rising, the warlock joined the shades of his past. As he moved and talked, they floated about him, taking in his words and responding in silent mouthings that the ancient spellcaster evidently heard.

"I did care for you, Sharissa," he told the female image, "though I knew you would never be mine."

Her smile brought sunshine. She said something that made Shade laugh, much to Wellen's astonishment. The laugh was young in direct contradiction to his deathly countenance and his previous, darker moods. "Yes, I think I knew that. I just did not want to admit it."

Fascinated, Wellen stepped closer. Now might have been the perfect time to seek escape, but he found he could not pull himself away from the fantastic tableau before him. That this scene confirmed the madness of his captor was not so important as what it revealed about the history of Wellen's kind.

Though it was not likely pretending to him, Shade took the insubstantial hand of the Sharissa image and pretended to pull her nearer. "I hated most of all to think of you changed. I thought you would be a physical horror, like my brethren . . . like my father. Now I see, though, that you of all of them could not suffer such a fate." The image put a hand to his cheek. He moved as if truly being caressed. "I see that you could only have become a G.o.ddess!"

Is this what near-immortality does to one? Wellen found himself saddened despite his own predicament. Is there a point where your existence becomes only a never-ending look back at your failures, your losses?

The Sharissa image wavered around the edges. The explorer glanced at the unmoving figure of Dru Zeree. It, like the other, was just beginning to grow indistinct. Shade was slowly returning to the present, Wellen a.s.sumed. Soon, he would recall his 'guest' and the questioning would begin again.

Then he looked closely at the warlock and discovered that he also had grown vague around the edges.

Wellen blinked and tried once more. If anything, Shade had become even more murky. What becomes of him?

Somewhat belatedly, the sensation of possible danger returned.

On the dais, Shade was still caught up in his conversation with the two phantasms. Wellen found he could no longer hear the warlock. In fact, he could not hear anything. The scholar turned uncertainly and scanned the cavern chamber, his fears almost immediately justified.

It was not just the warlock who was fading, but rather the entire cavern.

Or was it Wellen himself?

"Shade!" he called frantically, hoping to stir the dreaming spellcaster. To his growing horror, the shout emerged as no more than a whisper, one that even he found barely audible. Wellen started forward, but despite movement, he drew no closer to the dais.

The domain of Shade dwindled without pause. Bedlam finally stopped running. The effort was futile and he was only expending his own energy. Yet, he could not just give up. There was no telling what had become of him. It was even possible that the dream-struck sorcerer himself has been responsible for the scholar's predicament, though Wellen was of the opinion that the source was from somewhere beyond.

A tiny gleam before him caught his attention. With nothing but emptiness now surrounding him, he focused on the gleam with the fervor of a starving man eyeing a crumb of bread. The gleam seemed to slowly grow in intensity, but Wellen doubted his senses at first. It seemed too much to hope that he would so quickly leave this oblivion. Not with the way his luck had turned so far.

I am destined to be some sort of human ball, forever being tossed or carried from one place to another! Despite that thought, however, he did not regret coming to the Dragonrealm. He had already seen and learned so much. His despair lay in the fact that no one else would ever hear of his discoveries. All he had come across would again sink into the mire of legend, especially if no one else in the expedition returned. Had the others turned around and sailed home? Did the dragon continue east and destroy the rest of his expedition? How many had died?

Wellen tensed as the gleam defined itself. Suddenly, he found himself staring at a medallion of gold. It drew his eyes as Shade's crystalline orbs had. He tried to turn away, not trusting, but this time his will was not strong enough. The medallion pulsated. . . at least, he thought it did. . . and pulled him closer and closer. Resistance was useless.

Shapes representing many things formed around the artifact. A scene grew around him. Wellen felt like a character in a painting who watches as the artist draws in the world around him. He saw trees and hills, but what he saw most of were a number of figures who surrounded him. Almost immediately, it was evident that they were not human. One of them was holding the medallion at chest level.

He made out wings on the still-vague images and knew then who had taken him from the very sanctum of Shade. The Seekers.

Beneath his boots, he felt the solidity of earth. The wind caressed his countenance. The sounds of birds and other forest life a.s.sailed his ears. A rich forest landscape surrounded him.

As, he reminded himself, so did the avians.

The one with the medallion lowered it and stalked toward him. Like the bird it so resembled, it c.o.c.ked its head to one side as it observed him. Wellen could not help but fix his own gaze on the sharp, predatory beak. It was quite clear that here was a creature who made meat part of its diet.

The Seeker leader, if that was what it was, came within arm's length of him and stopped. Wellen swallowed but tried to give no other sign of his uncertainty. He had no idea why he was here, but the feeling of impending danger was still with him, not that he needed to be told how precarious his position had become.

Gazing behind the human, the avian nodded.

Strong, taloned hands took hold of his arm. The talons dug into his flesh, but not enough to hurt.

Raising a hand to Wellen's face, the apparent leader displayed its own long, sharp talons. The captured scholar needed no one to tell him what those claws could do to his unprotected body.

It came as a surprise, then, when the leader stepped back, the threat of the talons receding with it. Bedlam doubted he was safe yet, at least not if his peculiar new sense was correct.

The tall avian turned back to the circle of winged figures. As if reacting to a silent command, the circle broke open. Through the opening stepped another Seeker, this one smaller than the others. A female?

It joined the first and turned to study Wellen. One clawed hand went to its leg as if it were trying to indicate something. The human's eyes widened as realization struck.

Before Wellen stood the young Seeker he had protected from the expedition. He breathed a sigh of relief, deciding that it had convinced the others to save the one who had aided it earlier. The Seekers were a strange, alien race, but grat.i.tude, it appeared, was a concept they shared with humanity.

The smile was just spreading across his visage when the talons of the young avian shot toward him.

Chapter Seven.

They were displeased with her. Her masters were displeased with her. Xabene shuddered. The Lords of the Dead had never found fault with her skills before. She had seen others fall victim to their displeasure, but the thought that she now balanced on a precipice . . .

For the first time, she began to regret her pact with them. They had always given her what she had felt the world owed her and in return she had given them absolute loyalty. The enchantress had never had cause to wonder what would happen to her if she could not fulfill her end of the bargain. Now that thought was ever in her mind, reminding her that those dismissed by the demonic lords did not merely ride off into the distance.

It was a combination of things that had brought about the fall from favor. One had been the suspicion that her watchdog spell, the one she had sacrificed a Necri for, had failed. Her masters were of the opinion that the gnome had tricked them again, that he knew he was being watched. The other thing that had endangered her was the loss of the man called Wellen Bedlam, the one who evidently had led the ill-fated expedition. He had survived the dragon, but somewhere in the hills, both she and her monstrous companion had lost him . . . and to that mysterious personage whom the lords refused to discuss . . . but clearly worried about.

To her right, the Necri she had been paired with hissed in consternation. A sick joke, the beautiful sorceress decided. A sick joke that she and the beast were allies in spirit, too. They were bound by their mutual failure and now they had only one chance.

A dozen other Necri stood scattered around them. Here to aid the two, supposedly. Yet these monsters did not treat either her or their counterpart as superiors. Rather, they seemed more like executioners awaiting the signal to swing the ax and put an end to their predecessors.

"Be silent!" she warned them. Let them think that they were the cause of her lack of concentration.

She would have preferred to work her spells at night, when she was more comfortable, but the masters had deemed time of the essence. Her only bit of satisfaction lay in the knowledge that the band of Necri found the sunlight far more distressing than she did. Had her own existence not been at risk, Xabene would have stretched the working of the spells for as long as possible, just to watch the pale horrors squirm.

In her smooth, deceiving hands, she held a tattered notebook. It was her special prize, the one thing that had redeemed her so far in the eyes of the lords. She had suspected that some object of the expedition's leader might remain in the field. The dragon that had attacked the column had not been particular about clearing away the carnage. A search by the Necri and herself had brought this item, evidently something that had fallen out of one of the saddlebags on Bedlam's unfortunate mount.

The notebook was well used. His trace was strong. Given a little time, she would be able to locate him.

Given a little room, too! The Necri were starting to cl.u.s.ter together, trying to draw comfort from one another in the revealing light of day. Unfortunately, that meant that they were crowding her.

"Away from me, you decaying misfits!"

They gave her a little breathing room. She sighed. Now there were no more excuses. This time, Xabene knew that she had to succeed.

Sliding the notebook so that it rested on the palm of one hand, she stroked the top of the foreigner's journal as a child might stroke a beloved puppy. Love had nothing to do with this, however. Rather, the constant, active contact stirred the trace, made her connection with it stronger. The stronger the contact, the better her chances of reaching out and finding the notebook's owner.

What is your own world like, Wellen Bedlam? she wondered as she concentrated on the spell. What wonders exist over there? From what she had glanced at in his journal, he was an intelligent if somewhat isolated man. A knowledgeable scholar, but one lacking in practical experience. Still, someone closer to her own ways than most of those she had encountered during her service to the lords. For them, Xabene had generally had one of two purposes, both designed to put them into the debt of her masters.

A pity that we may not have time to talk, Master Bedlam.

There came a tugging in her mind. She forgot all else as she opened herself to the link. An image slowly formed before the raven-haired enchantress, an image of a forest and . . . and . . . the view was being blocked by whatever or whoever was with the man. There were several figures, however. Xabene tried to delve into the mind of her target, but found a very impressive wall blocking her probe. The spellcaster pondered her dilemma for a moment, then used her link to pick up peripheral information about the region.

She recognized the place, which in turn answered the other question. Xabene smiled, an entrancing yet chilling sight that, this time, did not involve humor in any way. She knew who was with the man, even though she did not know how he had come to be in their talons rather than the grip of the cloaked warlock. You are very popular, my scholar. I look forward to meeting you face-to-face . . . should the Seekers leave anything left of yours by the time they're through with you.

There was no time to lose. It might already be too late to save him from the avians, but she had to try, if only for her own sake. Xabene broke the link and leaped to her feet, the notebook crushed in one slim hand.

"I've found him!" The Necri stirred, at last able to do something. Her own demonic companion hissed a sigh of relief and almost looked thankful, although the savage visage of the batlike creature was hardly designed for such expressions. "We must hurry! Even now the bird folk might be finishing with him!"

Xabene revealed to them the image she had conjured and where it was located. The Necri, to their d.a.m.nable credit, wasted no time. In rapid progression, the horrific bat creatures took to the sky, a line of unreal terrors that scattered the few birds nearby and brought silence to the forest with their sudden activity. The sunlight did not deter them, for they knew that the responsibility was now as much on their bone-white shoulders as it was on Xabene's.

The enchantress watched them vanish into the distance. Alone, for even her Necri companion had joined in the flight, she contemplated her own plans.

The Seekers would meet her masters' servants with all the power they had. Chaos would reign. If the outsider was not already dead, there was a good chance that he might die in the madness of combat. For some reason, a dead man was of no use to the Lords of the Dead. They had made it clear that they wanted him alive if at all possible. That in itself interested Xabene, who began to wonder at this sudden limit to their power. Why had she not noticed it sooner?

For now, that did not matter. WeIlen Bedlam, explorer and scholar, did. Which meant that Xabene herself would have to join the battle . . . and enter the very thick of it. She hoped that the man was worth the trouble.

If not, she would make certain he knew that before she was through with him.

Wellen gasped as the talons came at him. He prayed that at least the attack would finish him quickly, else he would suffer horribly. It seemed that fate had stopped toying with him at last. He almost looked forward to death, if only because it might mean an end to his being tossed and chased about the Dragonrealm like a cat's prey.

The talons, when they touched his flesh, were astonishingly gentle. He barely even felt them.

Was this a test?

A vision a.s.sailed his mind. Wellen was so stunned, he tried to back away. The avians holding his arms tightened their grips, preventing any escape. Unable to resist, the scholar gave in and allowed the vision to take root.

He saw a world in which everything was slightly distorted. Odd men came forth and, with a start, he realized that he was the foremost of them. The others were various men from the column, including a menacing, much more avian-appearing version of Prentiss Asaalk. The group was surrounding something and the blue man looked ready to pounce on whatever it was.

It was the young Seeker, the explorer realized. He was seeing the event as the feathered creature had. It . . . were there different s.e.xes among the race? . . . was trying to explain something.

He felt a touch in his mind, a feeling of acknowledgement. The concepts being revealed to him almost made Wellen gasp. Communication through images in the mind was not unknown, but not with such efficiency, such skill. Yet here was a race that did it on a daily basis!

Gradually, the entire scenario unfolded. Most important was the last part, where Wellen Bedlam had refused to allow the hatchling to die and then had healed the deadly wound.

Healed it? He tried to think in the negative, to deny that he could have ever performed such a feat. Magic was not for him. He pictured himself casting a spell and failing, hoping the meaning got across. It did, but the bird creature sent back another image, one of him casting a series of spells, each progressively more successful. The Seeker was of the opinion that the ability was there. In its mind, Wellen had already proved that.

It was useless to argue. Moreover, the tantalizing thought that he might yet become a sorcerer of some skill appealed to him. There were so many things he could have done if magic had been there to aid him. So many things . . .

An urgent touch by the young avian informed him that there was more. Wellen opened up his mind to the link. This time, he saw the hatchling returning to the flock. It was well received, for there were few young in this aerie, a magnificent old castle that the Seekers had taken over and made their own after the unknown builders had abandoned it. The birth rate among their kind had been at a low since some ancient disaster. It had happened long ago, but the Seekers were still trying to recover. What it was Wellen was not told. He sensed fear in the mind of the adolescent being before him and knew from contact that this fear touched the adults as well.

The Seekers had noted his deed, but little more. It was not until the devastation of the column that they tried to aid the one who had proven his worth to an otherwise proud race. Wellen had the suspicion that the Seekers looked down on the other races, but his act had raised him almost to their level. He did not feel insulted by that; humans could do worse.

Shade had reached him first, much to the consternation of the Seekers. The warlock and the birds were old acquaintances. It said something about Wellen that they had attempted a rescue. Shade was both respected and feared; to the Seekers he was almost a demon. His madness was his only weakness, at least so far as they knew, and they had dared exploit it this once. They had instigated the visions from the past, drawing them from the warlock's drifting mind in a rare moment of strength. Still, the spell summoning Bedlam had barely succeeded. There had even been a point where the Seekers had almost lost their target to the Void.

The scholar shivered, happy that he had not known that then. He had wondered why the bird folk had foregone their advantage and not attacked their adversary. But now Wellen knew that they barely had had enough strength to free him. Entrancing Shade for a brief time and actually doing him harm were two different things. Many avians in the past had learned the folly of a.s.saulting the warlock. If left alone, he generally left them alone. If disturbed . . . the images that flashed across Wellen's mind stunned him. Never had he heard of a spellcaster with power of such magnitude. Even the mysterious Dragon Kings feared him, if what the images indicated were true.

And all that power in the hands of a madman! What would Shade do when he discovered his "guest" missing? The young Seeker rea.s.sured him that they could protect him from the threat, but he was doubtful.

At last, contact was broken. Wellen looked at his inhuman companions with new respect and hope. He still had no idea where they hoped to hide him, but he was willing to go along with their plan. What choice did he actually have? Whether they lied or not, he was definitely helpless before them. Yet, where once he had revealed magical skill, could he not again?

If given time . . .

"What happens now?"

Though contact had been broken, he was certain they understood him. The young one pointed skyward. Wellen looked up, but saw only clouds and blue. He turned his gaze earthward again, focusing on the hatchling. "I don't-"

The two Seekers who held his arms rose into the air, taking their prize with them.

It took a moment, but Wellen regained his composure. He was certain he was safe in the claws of the avians, not only because the sensation of danger had vanished but also because the Seekers had had too much opportunity to prove themselves his enemies. He was helpless, something that seemed to be the pattern of his life since coming to the Dragonrealm. Admittedly, Wellen was not so certain that Shade had meant him harm, but with as unpredictable a force as the shadowy warlock, he preferred not to find out.

Fears and doubts fell behind him as he and his two guardians rose above the trees. Flight was something new to the explorer and he marvelled at the experience. The sights below could certainly not compare to his excursions with Shade, but Wellen much preferred this method to standing and shivering on the top of a chilling, inhospitable mountain peak.

Other Seekers joined the trio. He saw no sign of the young one. Likely they had not wanted to take any risks with it. It? Though contact with the adolescent had not lasted that long, he had come away with the vague notion that the young one had been female. It was hard to say and he had noticed that, to his eyes, the adults all looked more or less alike. Wellen scanned the small flock fluttering around him. They were probably males, if only because what little he had learned about their history made that seem more likely. With births so few, a race would be mad to waste its females on a task such as this. Wellen had no misconceptions concerning his own worth; he was probably fortunate that the young Seeker had been female. It explained even more why the avians had finally chosen to rescue him.

They flew for what was probably two or three hours, with periodic stops to allow different pairs to take control of the wingless human. The avians were strong, but carrying so much dead weight-not a term Wellen liked to use for himself but true nevertheless-would tire anyone after a short while. As time progressed, the sun slowly moved on a downward arc on the scholar's right side, which meant that the party was heading more or less straight south. He hoped they would reach their destination before nightfall. While not a child afraid of the dark, Wellen did not care for the thought of flying blind or coming to a rest in some mysterious wood. It was a foolish fear, since the avians obviously knew what they were doing, but Wellen had already gone through enough for anyone. He only wanted a safe and secure place in which to rest and hide from the world for a time.

His head began to pound. Wellen grimaced, thinking that a headache was mild in comparison to what he had already suffered.

As if taking umbrage with that thought, the pounding grew incessant. Had it not been for its intensity, which was becoming staggering, Bedlam almost would have thought that it was-a warning.

He quickly glanced around, almost dislodging himself from the grips of his guardians. One of the Seekers squawked at him, no doubt reminding him that humans did not fly and so he should stop squirming. Wellen shook his head and tried to indicate that something might be wrong. The avian blinked and turned its attention back to the flight.