Emerging from the stairwell, he found this corridor to be as unremarkable as all the rest, with the exception of a small window on the wall beside him. Gazing out into a restless twilight, he was a bit unnerved by how high he was. Below, on the sandy shore, the dark army swarmed about like tiny insects, their torches twinkling like distant stars.
Wincing from a blinding flash, Kazen turned his eyes to the sky. Soaring through clouds of shadow, black and silver dragons battled with fire and claws. And just as Shanks had guessed, the forces of shadow did not sit idly by, sending in their winged monsters to distract and tire the silver dragons. Like falling stars, both black and silver dragons fell from the sky, orange and yellow flames spilling from their jaws as they plummeted down to the elated cheers of the callous army below.
Kazen wondered, with a war of dragons on their doorstep, why the soldiers, both within and outside of the walls, seemed so indifferent. Smoking pipes, eating and drinking, they seemed to care less. No alert had been sounded, certainly no extra guards had been posted. Even the men on the beach hardly paid attention as errant dragonfire roared just over their heads. Perhaps, having drunk from the wells of shadow for so long, these men had lost love for all things that did not fuel their greed, even the warmth of the sun and their very lives. Still, it was an arrogant master who took no precautions with war so near his walls.
Pulling himself away from the window, Kazen pressed on. Rounding a corner, he saw a handful of soldiers standing at attention at the far end of the short passage in front of an ordinary wooden door. Dressed in what appeared to be some sort of ceremonial armor, they were the first of the dark army to show any appearance of ritual. They gripped tall spears, polished and adorned in red tassels. Bronze shields, round and smooth, were strapped on their backs, bearing the insignia of an eclipsed sun. Definitely guards. But what were they guarding? A treasure room, perhaps, but perhaps something more.
Tapping his trusty pail, Kazen took a deep breath and started down the hall, shuffling along in his practiced impersonation of a lowly drudge. With the eyes of six armed guards upon him, he could only cast a quick glance over the protected door as he passed by. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, just a plain door, no locks, no bars, and no light from under the crack, but there was clearly something, or someone worth protecting in there, and he needed to find out what it was. But there was no going in the front door. He would have to find another way.
“You there!” a sharp voice rang out, stopping Kazen in his tracks.
Looking back from beneath his hood, Kazen saw one of the guards making his way toward him.
“What are you doing up here?” the guard demanded.
Kazen held up his bucket and tapped it with his finger.
“Yeah, yeah, I see the slop bucket.” The guard scowled. “But there ain’t no privies on this level. Who’s your master?”
His hands beginning to tremble, Kazen shrugged. “I only just started, m’lord.”
“I asked you who your master is,” the guard rumbled, tapping his spear impatiently on the floor.
“My . . . my apologies for the intrusion, m’lord,” Kazen mumbled, slowly inching away, “I’ll just get myself outta yer business and be on my way, then.”
“Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you, scum!” the guard snarled, grabbing Kazen by his shirt and yanking off his hood. Gasping at the sight of his white locks, the guard reeled back with a hiss. “Wizard!”
Pulling free of the guard’s grip, Kazen spun around, knocking the startled man up the side of the head with his trusty wooden bucket. He wrestled with his sword, caught in the folds of his tattered shirt, as the other guards bounded toward him, bellowing and brandishing their spears. Unable to free his weapon from the accursed rags, he had no choice but to launch a fiery attack on his assailants. He sent forth a blistering wave of white flames, which engulfed the charging men. There were no screams of pain from the hapless soldiers, no writhing in agony, just immediate death. So incredibly hot had the flames been that their bodies were reduced instantly to smoldering black stumps.
Standing over what was left of his fallen enemies, Kazen stared down at his open palms. How had it happened? Why was this conjuration of flames so much more devastating than any of his others? Most importantly, how could he recreate it? Such potent magic would certainly come in handy when facing a dark wizard. However, the middle of the enemy’s stronghold was probably not the best place to be practicing one’s magic.
An eruption of loud voices and pounding feet suddenly rang out from either direction. The brief scuffle had apparently not gone unheard. There would be no more concealing himself from the enemy. Flinging open the wooden door, Kazen dashed in and slammed the door behind him. Finding a long wooden arm along the side of the door, he quickly swung it down, sinking it into its metal latch and barring the door.
Pressing his back against the door, he found himself looking into a vast and dimly lit room. He wrapped his arms around his chest, watching puffs of steam rise as he shivered from a bitter cold brought only when things of shadow were near. There were only a sparse few candles, set upon a high chandelier, which shed a pitiful glow over the prevailing blackness. Towering pillars, like stone giants, stretched from floor to soaring ceiling. Indiscernible shapes and shadows lurked behind the veil of darkness.
Sliding his hand over the wall, Kazen searched for a torch, instead finding his hand sloshing through a channel of cool liquid. Set into the wall, at a shoulder’s height, a narrow canal ran the length of the wall, continuing down the adjoining walls as well. Brimming with a pungent-smelling liquid, it was just what Kazen was looking for. Leaning over the cleverly engineered conduit, he whispered a few words and waved his hand over the liquid, sparking a flame in the incendiary fluid. With a quiet roar, fire raced across the length of the long channel, turning with the bend of the wall and continuing down its long path, bringing humble light to the vast chamber.
Taking a careful step into the room, Kazen was befuddled by the sight before him. Great statues, a hundred of them at least, crowded the otherwise empty room. Some as high as the lofty ceiling, others only a few heads taller than Kazen, were scattered across the room without design or reason. Marble and stone, gold and bronze, each one was a work of art. Though some seemed only half finished, and others lay dismantled in mountains of mismatched heads and torsos, they all held the likeness of the same man. Some younger versions, some older, but all with the same deep-set eyes and angular jaw. The most prevalent feature, and most disturbing to Kazen, was the familiar symbol etched onto every forehead of rock and marble: three intertwined circles encompassed within a larger circle, the mark of a wizard’s shame.
Taking another step into the room, Kazen paused for a moment and then returned to where he had entered. Propping his ear against the door, he listened for voices or shuffling feet, but heard none. Surely the bodies of the guards had been discovered by now. By this time, an army of men should have been trying to break the door down. Something was definitely not right.
Still, Kazen was drawn back to the strange statues. Stepping through the menagerie of sculptures, he gazed up at the many faces, which glowered imperiously down at him. This was him. This was the face of the man who had caused so much suffering and destruction. This was the man who had haunted his dreams and tortured his waking moments for so long. This was Gregore. Sneering back at the stone faces, Kazen almost smiled. The monster he had feared for so long was just a man.
Making his way through the maze of statues, Kazen eventually stepped out into an open space. Deliberately cleared, the area was completely surrounded by the looming sculptures, all arranged so their stone faces looked down upon the open area. A single object stood in the center of the space, but obscured by the shadow of the tall statues, it was difficult to tell exactly what it was. Tiptoeing forward cautiously, Kazen squinted through the dim light, circling warily around the mysterious thing. As the object began to take shape, it was an even more curious t
hing, just a chair, an ordinary wooden chair, high-backed, with tall arms. Peeking around the side of the chair, Kazen saw what at first he thought to be an old robe tossed onto the seat, and then he saw a boney hand resting on the padded arm.
Gasping, he staggered back, retreating into the cover of the forest of statues. He peered out on hands and knees from behind a marble robe, suspiciously eyeing the still figure hunched over in the chair: An ancient man, strapped to the chair by heavy chains. With his head slumped to his chest, his long white hair gathered loosely in his lap. A dusty silken robe clung to his skeletal frame, and from beneath the robe dangled his naked feet, curled into arthritic knots with thick yellow toenails grown grotesquely out of control. His body was adorned with many medallions, very similar to the enchanted one Kazen had been forced to wear. They hung from gold chains around his neck and wrists, while others were pinned to his robe or draped across his lap. Barely more than skin stretched over bone, there was little left here but the shell of a man. He did not move or draw breath. This man had obviously been dead for quite a while.
“A pitiful sight, isn’t it?” a deep voice rumbled from somewhere in the cold room.
Leaping to his feet, Kazen once again wrestled with his sword. Finally freeing it from his ragged shirt, he spun around, tripping over stone pedestals as he tried to locate the origin of the echoing voice.
“Come now,” the voice chided, chuckling, “are you so eager to draw blood?”
There, just beyond the stretch of statues, began a familiar shimmer of light and color, which Kazen had come to recognize. The layers of magic and deception were lifted away, revealing the shinning scales of a great silver dragon. The stretch of leathery wings and the sound of cracking bones sounded through the vast hall as the dragon rolled from its back onto its rounded belly. Stretching its long neck over the tops of the tall statues, it peered down at Kazen with familiar eyes.
Dropping his sword to his side, Kazen nearly fell to his knees. “Valduron?” he choked, practically weeping the word.
“Bah!” the dragon scoffed with a toss of its head. “I am insulted! And to think of all the time we dragons have spent studying the subtle nuances of your fleshy folds that we might tell one mortal from another! However, I suppose you cannot be held accountable for your poor breeding.” Holding his head up high, the dragon proudly smoothed the immaculate scales on his chest with his front talons. “I am Scull, prince to the throne of Enterra, and the most handsome of King Valduron’s brothers.” Pausing for a moment, the dragon thoughtfully tapped his chin. “I never realized how dreadful my name sounds in your tongue. Well, you’ll just have to take my word that in the language of dragons it’s quite a handsome name.”
Completely baffled, Kazen stood gaping at the silver dragon. “Please, m’lord,” he begged, “what is this place? Are you a prisoner here? Who is this man in the chair?”
“So polite!” Scull chuckled again. “It’s good to see a mortal with a healthy humility before a dragon. But you ask questions you must already know the answers to. Surely, Kazen, you must recognize your own nemesis.”
Turning his gaze to the lifeless form strapped into the wooden chair, Kazen stumbled out into the clearing. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “It cannot be.”
“You sound disappointed. But I suppose I really can’t blame you.” With his sharp claw, Scull lifted the old man’s head, revealing his branded forehead. “He’s really not much to look at, is he?”
“This cannot be Gregore,” Kazen insisted weakly. “He is the reason I’m here. I have come all this way to destroy him and end this madness. But he is already . . . dead.”
“At least as dead as I will allow him to be.” Scull grinned.
Suddenly feeling his heart sink, Kazen slowly turned his gaze back to the silver dragon hovering so close over his shoulder. “How did you know my name?”
“My dear boy,” Scull crooned, “I know everything about you. Why, I even know how you’re going to die.”
Gripping his sword in his hand, Kazen took a deep breath and darted back into the maze of statues, hiding in the shadows.
“Come now,” the great dragon snickered malevolently. “You didn’t really think it would be as easy as all that, did you? I mean, sneaking into your enemy’s stronghold and expecting to right all that is wrong with the world with a swipe of your sword? How very mortal of you.”
Skulking through the shadows, Kazen tiptoed from one sculpture to the next, desperately searching for a way out of the trap he had so foolishly walked himself into.
“Is this how you pictured your last hour?” Scull growled with a grin. “Cowering in the shadows? You should come out and face me! Allow yourself the final dignity of dying a hero’s death!”
Kazen slid to the ground, hugging the pedestal of a tall statue. “What have you done here?” he bellowed angrily, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “You are a silver dragon! You are supposed to be a friend to mortals!”
“What use does a dragon have for the friendship of mortals?”
“You have the knowledge of all the ages! You have the power to close the shadowgate!”
“Close it?” Scull snickered. “Why would I want to close it when it has served me so well over the years?”
“No,” Kazen whispered, dropping his head into his hands. “You are not supposed to interfere!”
“Do make up your mind. Close the shadowgate, don’t interfere, you can’t have it both ways, you know. I really must say, I don’t understand what my brother ever saw in you.”
“I don’t believe you are Valduron’s brother! No dragon so close to the throne would be so foolish as to open the shadowgate!”
“Let us give credit where it is due. It was your friend Gregore who originally opened the shadowgate all those centuries ago.” With gleaming eyes, the devious dragon scanned the labyrinth of statues, patiently searching as he prattled on. “What the fool didn’t realize was that once the gate between light and shadow had been opened, it could never again be closed, at least not all the way. Even after he had been banished to the shadows, a tiny crack between the two worlds remained, just wide enough that the demons could look upon our unspoiled lands with envious eyes. That is why the demons struck their bargain with Gregore. It was the promise of freedom that granted him his escape, not the trading of his soul, although the demons did require his soul as collateral on his promise. However, once released and unburdened by his mortal soul, Gregore found new and greater power than any wizard had ever wielded before. He quickly disregarded the pact he had made with the demons, opening the shadowgate, but only enough for a handful of lesser demons to slip through, ones he could easily control. And that, my dear boy, is where I came in.” A hideous grin stretching across his scaly lips, Scull tapped one of the giant statues with his pointed talon, tipping it over and sending it crashing to the ground. “You see, the demons were quite anxious to be freed from their dark prison, and I just happened to be in the market for a mortal soul. And so here we are! I have given the demons rein to come and go as they please, and in return I get to be the only being in all of creation to posses the true gift of immortality! No more fear of one day turning to dust and being forgotten! Now that I, an immortal being, have bound myself to this mortal soul, I never need fear death again! Strike me down with your dragon’s claw or pointed spear, and I will be reborn! I will outlive time itself!” He paused, regaining his composure. “In any case, as a special gift to my new shadow-dwelling allies, I have kept their good friend Gregore locked in this chamber, alive, but very miserable, I assure you.”
“Alive?” Kazen gasped aloud, biting his tongue and shrinking back into the shadows.
“Oh, he’s quite alive,” Scull snickered, sniffing in the direction of Kazen’s voice. “I know he looks a bit pale and undernourished, but for someone who hasn’t had food or drink in over a decade, well, I think he’s holding up rather well. You see, Gregore is learning a valuable lesson, that everything, even immortality,
has a price. I wonder how many times a day he wishes for death? You could ask him yourself, you know, he can hear and see perfectly well. That is why I had all of these statues erected here. I know how fond he is of his own likeness, so I thought, what better company to keep him in for the rest of eternity? I know what you’re thinking, it sounds a little dramatic, but given Gregore’s overstated reputation, I figured his fate needed a bit of flare.”
Sliding on his belly, Kazen peered through a break of statues at the still figure slumped in the wooden chair. How could such a wretched thing live? Staring closer, he still could see no breath being drawn, no color of life beneath thin, translucent skin. And then there it was. With a painful moan, Gregore’s chest rose a single time, his breath gargled and constricted as he fought against the immortal bonds that forced life into his decrepit body. His head rolled across the back of his chair, revealing colorless eyes that stared blindly up at the stone sentries watching over him. With his mouth agape, his lips moved as though to speak, but no words could slip from his shriveled tongue.
Horrified, Kazen turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of something even stranger from the corner of his eye. As Gregore’s chest fell and his body wilted back to its lifeless state, Kazen was certain he saw a thin wisp of shadow escape from his chest. Even now, did the demons still mock him? Did even a man so evil and cruel as he deserve such a fate? Pulling himself away, Kazen could not find it within himself to afford pity for this wretch of a man. Gregore had forged a path to this doom with the blood of countless innocents. Let him serve his penance.
“So there you have it,” Scull rumbled. “You have learned the fate of the mighty Gregore! Now, let us discuss your fate, shall we?” With a quiet hiss, the dragon sank to the floor, sliding on his belly up to the wall of statues. “Your quest is over! You are alone, Kazen. Your entire purpose for being has been negated. So come! Let me end your suffering!”
The Flame Weaver Page 38
