Legends of the Dragonrealm Vol IV Part 81

"You're condemned by a dozen decrees from the emperor," Nathan retorted, a new attack already unleashed. He watched as the air solidified around the warlock --- --- and then softened again.

"I've been condemned a thousand times more by countless others." Shade shook his head. "Some of them succeeded in having those decrees carried out. You yourself was the tool twice, if you recall."

Recalling not only those battles but aware of so many of the other stories told about the hooded figure, neither of Nathan's attacks had been meant to slay this current incarnation of the warlock; that possibly unattainable goal he would this time leave to Lord Purple and the emperor.

While his mind raced over what spell would work against a legend, Nathan also strengthened his own defenses. In addition, another concern constantly demanded his attention.

"Where are my friends?" Nathan demanded, purposely not mentioning that one of them was his son. That might put unexpected focus on Dayn. "Where?"

"Following a false trail. Have no fear for them. I won't hold you long."

"You won't hold me at ---"

A chill coursed through Nathan as yet more of the darkness separated itself from the walls. This time, it took on a shape not at all humanoid, but rather equine. The shadow of an equine.

"The lord of the h.e.l.l Plains is aware of us!" the booming voice declared to Shade. "This is best done and done now, my friend!"

"It will be, but I need Master Bedlam here to understand."

"I understand that you'll never take me," Nathan promised, well aware of his chances against not just one being of myth, but two. "Neither you nor this demon . . . "

"I am merely Darkhorse, nothing more," the towering creature retorted, sounding very offended. "not a demon . . . well, not in the absolute true sense of the word . . . I think."

While Shade emitted a brief chuckle at the stallion's almost childlike response, Nathan found nothing to laugh at. Every tale concerning either of the pair raced through his thoughts as he sought some weakness or at least an avenue of escape.

Another roar echoed across not only the cave, but the region above. There was no doubt of the reality of this one.

Glancing at Nathan again, Shade sighed. "Too late. This was not how it was supposed to---"

Tremendous claws ripped open the gap through which Nathan had fallen. Fire immediately swept into the cave, washing over everything and everyone . . . including Nathan.

Darkhorse dissipated much the way shadows did in the light of day or the brilliance of a fearsome inferno. Shade, on the other hand, threw himself at the other spellcaster, enveloping Nathan in his cloak.

As that happened, for the first time the elder Bedlam sensed the nearby presence of his son. Nathan tried to contact Dayn, but a different force prevented him this time. He knew that its odd magical signature could only belong to Shade.

The ground shook . . . then all was quiet.

The darkness receded. Shade pulled away from Nathan, who instantly leapt to his feet . . . and paused as his new surroundings became evident.

They were still in the h.e.l.l Plains, that much was evident not only from the stifling heat, but also from the jagged craters in the distance. Nathan recognized one particularly ugly and active crater and knew that Shade had teleported them miles away from their previous spot.

But what caught his attention more and at least for the time being prevented him from renewing the battle with Shade was the ruined structure before the pair. Little remained but the foundation and a few bits of wall, but Nathan could sense strong traces of ancient magic . . . and among them a trace that for some reason that appeared naggingly familiar to him.

"We hoped that we could bring this about gradually, but matters are racing faster and faster toward utter calamity," the hooded figure casually commented. "He will probably be angry at me for this, but I think it best it done here this way."

"What is this place, Shade? What madness do you have in mind ---"

A gloved hand rose. "Please, call me 'Vadym' . . . this time."

I will call you nothing instead, Nathan warily thought to himself . . . then wondered if the warlock could hear that thought. Shade gave no hint that he did, but the many legends bespoke of the accursed spellcaster having a thousand and one abilities no one else could claim.

"It seems safe enough for now," Shade continued, the murky countenance turning briefly to the ruins. "No sign of their presence, either."

Nathan had no idea what the last meant, but it seemed to hint at someone other than those the wizard would have thought of. Not the rebels? Not the drakes or their servants? Who, then?

"The entrance is sealed by several wards. Allow me."

Before Nathan could protest, their surroundings changed yet again. Once more they stood in an underground chamber, their new destination --- illuminated by a small, emerald ball of light cast by Shade --- even more obviously hewn by intelligent means. Again, there arose not only disturbing, ancient traces of magic, but also that one hint of something so familiar.

"Where are we?" Nathan asked.

Shade c.o.c.ked his head. "Where last the truth tried to reveal itself . . . and did not. Even the Gryphon does not know about this. Only Darkhorse and I --- who were here, then --- would recall it." The warlock grunted. "Not even the current lord of the h.e.l.l Plains knows, despite this being the work of his sire . . . "

Nothing of what his sinister companion said made any sense to Nathan. He also kept wondering at his own hesitation. This was Shade, declared threat by the Dragon Emperor. Nathan understood that he should have not ceased trying to subdue the warlock for an instant.

But the same misgivings constantly remaining with Nathan after recalling Yalak's lost cousin now stirred more than ever. Nathan's world was no longer as simple as he had once imagined it. Why it had suddenly become so complex, so full of unsettling questions, the mage could not say --- The chamber shook, but the tremor was mild in comparison to the last one, as if the epicenter were much farther away.

"The lord of the h.e.l.l Plains is persistent," Nathan's faceless companion murmured. "Let us hope he keeps his focus on Darkhorse . . . "

"I still have no idea why you brought me here," Nathan snapped, finally having enough despite his misgivings. In the Red Dragon's fury, the drake lord might cause harm to some of the party, including Dayn. "but my s--- my friends need me. Consider that the only reason I don't try to take your head . . . "

The spell he launched with those words should have worked. Certainly, Shade did nothing to stop him. So near, Nathan would have sensed the warlock's unsettling magical trace the moment the hooded figure cast anything. Yet, it was something else that nullified the wizard's attempt to depart even before it was finished.

"You will fail each time, Nathan Bedlam. The stone's matrix survives well. The spell is ancient. Cast by one of my kind, although not for this purpose." The hood tilted slightly to the other side. "I never have found out just how or where the previous Red Dragon discovered it. I should do that ---"

Mind racing madly, Nathan backed away. He wore a small dagger at his waist, but doubted that it would be of any use. Shade likely had a dozen different protective spells around him that would --- Nathan stumbled over something. To his dismay, he lost his balance. Worse, he could not even cast a minor spell to keep from falling back.

Much to Nathan's surprise, his drop abruptly slowed. As if held by giant invisible fingers, the mage gently dropped to the ground.

"You should really be more careful," Shade remarked.

With a glare, Nathan put a hand to the side in order to push himself to his feet --- Instead, he gripped a disturbingly long rock.

Shade chose that moment to better illuminate the chamber. The glow he created enabled Nathan to better see what it was he gripped.

It was what remained of a bone. That much, Nathan had already grimly a.s.sumed. What he had not expected was the blackened condition of the piece, nor that the bone was so fragile that it crumbled in his grip. An incredible heat had scorched the bone . . . and presumably the flesh upon it.

And what Nathan had taken for another rock --- the one upon which he had slipped --- had been another fragment. Indeed, as Nathan's gaze took in a larger view, the mage saw the full skeletal array . . . and knew without a doubt that it was human.

He quickly looked back at Shade.

"I would have saved him, if I could, but the trap was a cunning one and caught even me by surprise."

The sadness that Nathan heard in the warlock's voice surprised the wizard, but it did not answer a most basic question. "What does this --- what does he --- have to do with me?"

"Everything."

With little choice and hoping that it would somehow lead to his freedom, Nathan concentrated on the mysterious remains. Crouching near the burnt bones --- and noting how the entire area surrounding them had been likewise put to the flames --- Nathan saw nothing he could tell about the victim save that, as the warlock had said, it had been a man, not a woman. No garments remained, those obviously burning to ash with the flesh. A few solidified globs of metal marked what might have been a buckle or b.u.t.tons.

With Shade clearly offering only riddles, Nathan searched for some other clue. Only after staring for nearly a minute and seeing nothing new with only his eyes did he at last understand that it was with other senses with which he actually had to study the remains. This had been a fellow wizard, after all, even if one that had evidently been considered a traitor by at least one Dragon King.

He peered at the tableau before him as he did when casting a spell. Not only did Nathan see the lines of force coursing through everything, he saw the gathering of raw power here and there . . . a natural occurrence. It was not a spell that enabled him to do this; this was simply a natural ability of all those with power and thus not apparently affected by whatever dampened Nathan's ability to cast.

But all other thoughts vanished as Nathan's eyes once more swept over the bones and he saw what Shade had wanted him to see. This had been a wizard, yes. Although greatly fragmented, his magical trace still remained. That bespoke of a level of power comparable to Nathan's own, something not that common . . .

Yet, no sooner had the wizard delved a bit deeper than his heart skipped a beat. This was also source of the trace he had sensed both here and earlier. Despite the fragmentation, it was still much stronger than he had previously noted, enough that he finally recognized why it had seemed so familiar. Parts of the trace were akin to his own.

The scorched bones were those of a Bedlam.

THE Ja.n.u.s MASK.

(Available in Trade & ebook) It was, G'Meni had to admit, a handsome enough face by present standards. The nose was perhaps just a tad too big as far as he was concerned and the mouth had a mocking cast to it that still unnerved him after more than a decade, but those very features were considered aristocratic by the standards of most, the type that leaders and lovers wore. Eyes of forest green and a head of stark black hair would have completed the picture of the man and soon they would again, now that the baron had chosen at last to make use of his greatest triumph.

He opened the top of the small gla.s.s case and removed the face from its container.

The mouth opened and closed once, a reflex that the squat, mustached alchemist was long used to seeing. All of the faces moved when one touched them. Sometimes the mouth worked or the nostrils flared. Once in a while, the eyelids opened, revealing the empty s.p.a.ce behind them. G'Meni had made a long study of the properties of the dormant faces, determining what made one more mobile than another. He had come to the conclusion that it was the personality of the one from whom the face had been cast that dictated the random movements. The more vibrant the life, the more active the face.

Ten years had done nothing to render this particular face pa.s.sive-but then, Viktor Falsche had never been what one would have called pa.s.sive. Bloodthirsty and impetuous, yes, but never pa.s.sive.

Still holding the face in his hands, G'Meni looked about the chamber, long oily mustache whirling wildly. "Where are they? They are late again! This will never do!"

His view took in walls overburdened by half-completed experiments, notebooks, jars of samples, and, on one side, the special ceiling-high case, normally locked, from which the container holding the lifelike mask had been drawn. it was a pleasant enough place, to his mind, but it revealed no answer to his question. Before he could repeat his query, however, there came the sound of marching, boot-clad feet. The pace with which the newcomers moved indicated that they knew very well that they were late.

G'Meni scratched the scarred wreckage that was all that remained of his nose, the end result of long ago leaning too close to one of his more explosive experiments, and chuckled at their evident fear. Their fear was a triumph, a major one, in his constant war of bickering with General Straas. To put fear into the minds of the general's men was to put a trace of fear into their commander's own mind, for were they not an extension of the bearded, arrogant soldier himself?

Yes, indeed, they were. Very much so.

There was a knock on the door. G'Meni rose to his full inch below five feet, used one hand to straighten his black robe, and tried to look as menacing as possible. "Enter and be d.a.m.ned quick about it, you slow-witted zombies!"

The door swung open and a soldier clad in the blue and gray half-armor of the Guard stepped inside. He saluted. His pale features were rough-hewn and, save for the sleepiness hinted in his eyes, the clean-shaven face was that of a butcher, a methodical killer. But for the lack of a beard, he perfectly resembled General Straas as the general had looked some fifteen years earlier.

A second soldier clad like the first entered. He, too, saluted. His features were identical to those of his companion. Only the color of their eyes differed, one man having blue and the other hazel.

"Well? Did you bring the one I asked for? He must be just right for Baron Mandrol, you know! This is a special occasion."

"Someone put him in the wrong cell," answered the first, in a tired drawl that was typical of his kind. "It took us several minutes to find out just which one, Master G'Meni."

The face in the alchemist's hands began to twitch. "Well, don't just dawdle, then, you idiots! Bring him in!"

The first man snapped his fingers. Two more guardsmen, copies of the rest, entered the laboratory with a third, much abused figure stumbling between them.

"Be careful with his arms, dolts! He won't be much good if you break them just yet! Save that for the masque!"

Looking rather chastened, the two soldiers loosened their hold a bit on the prisoner.

G'Meni eyed the four members of the baron's Guard. Perhaps it was time to ask the general for a new fitting. These men were becoming sloppy, not at all like the warrior whose visage they wore. It would require some work with the special acid he had prepared for such eventualities, but the wounds would be minor. He would broach the subject with the baron first. Straas was not going to be at all pleased to be forced to shave his beard after five years. He had grown it specifically to erase some of the unsettling resemblance between himself and his drone soldiers.

"But that can wait," the alchemist mumbled. With his chin, he indicated a long, angled platform fitted with manacles. "Put him on the table. Quickly, now! Your inept.i.tude means that I will be preparing him nearly up to the time of the masque!" He shook his head at the need for such rushing. G'Meni was a believer in quality workmanship where such a task was concerned. He wanted this to be the crowning masterpiece of his career, the focal point of the greatest of the baron's masques.

"And who better than you?" he whispered, gazing down at the flattened visage. The mouth worked again, followed almost immediately by a flaring of the nostrils. Eager for life again, Viktor Falsche? Enjoy it while it lasts! If you only knew of the revenge I have taken . . .

"He is ready, Master G'Meni."

"Then step back so that I can take a look at this one."

The prisoner, some peasant from the cells, was of the right height and build and his hair was only slightly lighter than desired. A little dye would take care of that. The eyes were green, but more emerald than forest. Still, they would do, too. The man looked and stank of several days in the company of the other refuse that populated the baron's dungeons, but a thorough cleaning would deal with that. The cleaning could take place after this part of the process.

G'Meni blinked, leaned a little closer, and studied the battered countenance of the peasant. "Give me a little more light."

One of the guards seized a lit oil lamp and brought it forward. In the increased illumination, the prisoner's features became clearer. The alchemist chuckled. He would have recognized those features anywhere. The long face, the broad, flat nose, the extended cheekbones . . .

One of your earlier trysts, my baron? He has to be one of yours with a face like that. An idea formed, one that the bent figure quickly quashed. He dared not risk such a feat; it could very well undo all that he had accomplished these past several years.

The guards would have noticed the resemblance to the baron, but they knew Mandrol's feeling toward his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. The children were a symbol of mortality to him, a symbol that he, too, must pa.s.s. The baron did not like being reminded of that, and so such children were to be removed when discovered. No one in Viathos Keep would think it amiss to make use of this one for the coming masque. In fact, the more G'Meni thought about it, the more it would be the crowning touch to the event. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.

He realized that the peasant was staring back at him, cold fear evident in those green eyes. "What is your name, my boy?"

The "boy" was in his mid-twenties, a tad too young for G'Meni's preference in this, but old enough to make do. He hesitated, as was not surprising in the presence of the baron's most trusted adviser and the land of Medecia's second most feared name, then finally croaked, "Emil."

"Emil." Typically dull peasant name. "Well, dear Emil, you have been chosen for a great honor, you have. You are going to be a guest, a very special guest, at the baron's great ball tomorrow evening, isn't that wonderful?"

From the shudder that visibly coursed through the peasant's rank body, G'Meni gathered that Emil knew some of the tales that surrounded the monthly masques held in the grand ballroom of the castle everyone still insisted on calling Viathos Keep. It was to be expected. Had he not received such a reaction from the peasant, then the alchemist would have truly been surprised.

"Yes," he continued, holding up the unsettling visage in his hands for the chosen one to see. "You are going to attend the ball just like the n.o.bles and courtiers. You will even have a special place of honor, one reserved for only the greatest of the baron's a.s.sociates."

As if in response, the face twitched. The nose wrinkled and the mouth opened and closed. The chained prisoner could not help but be attracted by the movement. His eyes bulged as he watched the mask continue to make a pretense at life.

G'Meni allowed him to gape for several seconds. "It is fascinating, is it not? You have heard stories about this, haven't you?"

The peasant managed to nod, his eyes still fixed on the horrific thing his captor held so gently.

"I cannot take credit for the design, although I can take credit for the perfection. The baron himself is to be congratulated for this creation. It is, I can easily say, his crowning achievement." All knew of the baron's lifelong delving into sorcery and alchemy. "The synthesis of two astonishing schools! The power of magic and the knowledge of science combining to create this."

His audience did not seem as admiring of this marvel as G'Meni was. In fact, the peasant muttered something under his breath. At first the stooped figure could not make out what it was. He had the frightened Emil repeat the words, encouragement given in the form of a slap by one of the gauntleted hands of a guard.

"Death . . . mask. . . the death mask . . ."

The words were an offense to G'Meni. "Death mask, indeed! This is a symbol of the continuance of life, not death! This is, in its own way, an honor!" Balancing the face in one hand, G'Meni indicated the great case. "Each of those slots contains the perfect reproduction of the baron's most worthy adversaries through the years. Each of those faces was taken with great care and respect from their dead or dying forms in such a way that there remains a reflection, a hint of personality, of the original! Do you know the intricacy involved in such a feat? All of our work through the years!" The alchemist shook his head at the sheer ignorance of the ma.s.ses. "It is ever the fate of the learned to be misunderstood and misjudged by those who do not know better."

His audience did not seem convinced. G'Meni looked up at the guards and saw little more comprehension despite the fact that they of all people should have understood the complexities of what he and his patron had accomplished. He wondered why he always tried to explain to such obviously unfit audiences as this b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of the baron. Better to get on with the process. Time was already slipping past.

Still, he could not help talking as he proceeded. It was the part of him, G'Meni always believed, that desired to educate and illuminate the ignorant despite their never seeming to appreciate his efforts that made him do it. That and his affection for the sound of his own voice.

"The highlight of the ball is a morality play of sorts, you must understand. A retelling of events in the great life of our baron. You have been given the honor of portraying a central figure in that play, one who certainly has earned a place of respect in my heart."

The prisoner shook his head, his eyes unable to turn long from the otherworldly object resting in G'Meni's palms.

"You do not feel up to the role, I am sure." The alchemist raised the wrinkled face to the horrified visage of his subject. "Rest a.s.sured, it will seem more like a dream. The mask will guide you. I believe you may even sleep through it. I've never been quite certain of the extent. Depends on the personality of the mask, you know."