He could hear the fluttering of many wings above him. A full flock of the bird people were trailing after him. Darkhorse estimated that there could be no more than twenty, including his guide. That seemed a fair combat to him.
Once again, his guide located a new perch. Darkhorse sighed audibly, hoping that the bird man would understand that he was tiring of this chase. The avian again pointed, adding an annoyed squawk to emphasize the importance of the situation . . .
. . . and then the trees were full of warring Seekers.
The eternal stopped and quickly gazed skyward. Through the tangle of trees, he watched in amazement as a second band of the bird folk attacked those who had been shadowing him. Claws raked across chests. Beaks strong enough to crack bone tore flesh. Now and then, a small but potent spell was unleashed and some combatant would wither, burn, or simply fall to its death.
A savage squawk brought his attention back to his guide. Despite the chaos above, the Seeker was insisting that he proceed.
Darkhorse, however, had decided that he would not. Things had become a bit too confusing. Seekers never fought Seekers. It was unheard of. “I think, perhaps, my friend, that I will decline your guidance from here on!”
As he began to turn away, the avian leaped for him. Out of the corner of his eye, Darkhorse saw that the Seeker now held something in one taloned hand. The shadow steed doubted that he wanted it to come any closer than it already was.
The bird man was swift, but still too slow in comparison to his attempted prey. Darkhorse dodged the grasping claws. Under other circumstances, he would have stayed where he was and laughed as the Seeker was trapped within him. Many over the endless centuries had described the eternal as a living hole from which nothing that was pulled in ever again emerged. It was a very accurate description. Drakes, humans, beasts, Seekers . . . how many there had been Darkhorse could not say. He did not care. Those who sought to harm either him or his companions deserved no mercy. They would fall forever into the abyss that was the shadow steed, who was very aptly called a child of the empty, endless Void, the place in which he himself had been spawned.
This Seeker, though, was a danger as long as he was able to wield the mysterious object. Darkhorse knew that no creature would be so foolish as to attack him unless they believed that they could defeat him, and while stupidity was a trait among many races, the Seekers had always struck him as a little more intelligent. That meant that whatever his adversary held, it promised nothing but harm to the shadow steed.
Rising up again, the lone avian eyed him. It was clear that things were not going as the Seeker had originally intended. He glanced skyward, where his companions were clearly losing, then back down at the shadow steed. At last, with a squawk that somehow relayed frustration and anger, the bird man turned and began to fly back in the direction from which he and Darkhorse had come.
His flight was short. The limbs of the nearest trees bent in a manner no wind could have made them bend, suddenly blocking the swift avian’s path. The Seeker, moving with the intention of quick escape, struck the heavy limbs head first. There was a cracking sound that had little to do with the branches themselves.
The limp form tumbled to the mossy ground, where it lay a twisted, still shape.
Darkhorse did not even wait for the Seeker’s body to strike the ground. He started to back away, eyes scouring the visible world and senses formed in the Void searching those worlds beyond. It occurred to him that he could no longer hear the combatants above, surely not a good sign. Still, the eternal was not fearful. It had been too long since he had been faced with a proper challenge.
“Come, come!” he roared, still unable to locate the foe by either set of senses. “You wanted Darkhorse and so you shall have Darkhorse! All the Darkhorse you could ever want!” The eternal roared with mocking laughter.
He felt something pass his way, but the sensation was brief. Darkhorse glanced that way, then turned his head the opposite direction as he felt yet another presence on his other flank.
“Skittering like mice, are you? Perhaps I can shake you from your holes, then!” The shadow steed raised a hoof and brought it down hard on the forest floor.
There was a crash of thunder and the land around him shook as his hoof struck the earth. Birds flew off in panic while Darkhorse laughed, taunting his foes.
Then . . .
It had the stink of Vraadish sorcery, as great a stink as the eternal had ever known. The shadow steed drew in just a little, slightly disconcerted at the intensity of it. Vraadish sorcery was a legacy of another world, battered, maimed Nimth, the place from which the ancestors of humans had come after nearly destroying it with that very power. Yet Nimth was sealed off, the barrier between this world and that one stronger than ever. Darkhorse had been there when the way had been closed.
The eternal sought to back away from the foulness, but found he could not move. Gazing down, Darkhorse stared in astonishment at his hooves, which were several inches deep in what seemed to be molten grass and earth. The land still retained the form of the forest floor, but it moved like quicksilver. Stunned, the ebony stallion still had the wherewithal to attempt to free himself. With effort, he pulled first one hoof free, then another.
A gleaming tentacle snared one of his free limbs. Horrible, shocking pain coursed through his very being. The stallion’s shape grew distorted as his control of it slipped. One leg grew too long. His head drooped as if melting. Ripples ran across his torso. Fighting the agony, Darkhorse regained control, but was unable to restore himself to his proper shape.
Another tentacle snaked around a second limb. This time, he saw what it was. It was not a beast of some sort, but rather a whip, a weapon. Darkhorse followed the length of the horrific weapon back to a slight shimmering in the air. Even as he watched, the shimmering coalesced into the form of a cloaked figure. The shadow steed’s first startled thought was to imagine that Shade had returned from the dead, but then he realized that this was not the warlock but some human minion, for a quick glance the opposite way showed that an identical figure had materialized there.
There was something familiar about the trap, but it took the struggling Darkhorse a moment to recall what it was. The whips! I know these whips!
They were toys of the Vraad. Darkhorse knew them very well, for it was with whips like these that the ancient sorcerers had guided him. These whips and other foul toys.
Had it been only the eternal and the whips, Darkhorse was certain that he would have been able to triumph easily. The molten soil, however, slowed his counterattack by seizing his limbs again and again. Darkhorse gave up trying to maintain his shape, deciding that he stood a better chance of success by returning to the amorphous form that had been his until the sorcerer Dru Zeree had stumbled into the Void and discovered him.
Like melting wax, the huge stallion’s form sagged and dripped toward the ground. His head became almost indistinguishable from his body as the two began to fuse together. His legs were twisted things with the consistency of molasses. Only the two icy orbs that were his eyes remained as they were.
He was little more than a blob of darkness when it became clear to him that even now the whips and the earth maintained their holds on him. Shock at last became tinged with fear when Darkhorse also discovered that he was now trapped in his present form. He could neither complete the transition to living shadow nor return to his equine form no matter how hard he fought to do so.
As the eternal fought futilely to regain control of himself, a third cloaked figure shimmered into being before him. Darkhorse saw the clawed hands of a drake emerge. His attention then became fixed on a small object cradled in the hands of the hooded dragon man. A box. An old-no, ancient-box with a pattern on the top that the shadow creature could not make out clearly from where he was trapped.
It was not until the drake opened the lid that Darkhorse recalled this particular toy of the Vraad. For all he knew, it was the very same box which the Vraad Barakas Tezerenee had turned on him
.
Although he no longer had a mouth, still Darkhorse roared. He struggled as he had not struggled since last he had seen such a box, since last the maw of such a monster had been opened wide so that it could receive him.
His struggling went for naught. He felt the pull and knew that the link between himself and the box had been made. Despite the inevitable, however, the eternal continued to fight. He could not go there again!
The box was stronger. A black stream, the essence of Darkhorse, flew toward and into the devilish container. All the while the shadow creature roared, but there was no longer any hope. Darkhorse continued to flow until all of him had entered the Vraadish device.
The drake shut the lid, silencing his scream.
XI
No trace of Duke Toma was found. The next several days passed without incident, save that specters of the Manor continued to appear in burgeoning numbers. Every member of the Bedlam family experienced at least one, with Cabe taking the brunt of the ghostly assault. Not a day went by that he did not witness two, sometimes three, manifestations. Most he was familiar with, but again there were the new ones. He himself experienced the unsettling sight of watching his image cut into his thumb.
The Toma image reappeared only once. It followed the same pattern as before, then vanished. No one observed the blade Aurim had described in his notes.
The journey to Penacles was mere days away now. The short span of time between the visits to the two human kingdoms had been intentional from the first, but now Cabe wished that he could have another week to prepare himself. Toma’s mysterious invasion still bothered him. Worrying about the renegade drake and his continuing concern over the way Valea was acting around Kyl combined to make the sorcerer too weary even to think about the journey ahead.
Thus it was that when an emissary of Penacles arrived unexpectedly at the borders of the Manor grounds, Cabe Bedlam almost refused him entry. Only when he discovered who that emissary was did he agree to let him pass through the invisible barriers that protected his domain.
They met in the garden, the warlock immediately bowing in the presence of his old friend.
“I am no longer king, Cabe, so please stop that; it’s rather embarrassing.”
“Toos would be glad to turn the throne back over to you, Gryphon.”
“Too true,” the former monarch of Penacles returned. The Gryphon was, in his own way, as fascinating a being as Darkhorse. Manlike in his general form, he otherwise shared much in common with the Seekers, especially his countenance. The Gryphon, who had no other name, resembled the very creature of legend. His visage was that of a predatory bird, in this case a majestic eagle. Yet, the eyes were closer set, falling somewhere between bird and human. The lionbird, as he was nicknamed, also bore the aspects of the feline part of the creature he so resembled. His mane was thick and long and only at the bottom did it taper to feathers, although that sometimes changed depending on his mood. Underneath the cloak and loose clothing he wore, the Gryphon’s form was more animallike than one first suspected. His legs were jointed like those of a cat, and on his back were tiny stubs, vestigial wings. The Gryphon’s hands were more human than those of the Seekers, but his claws were as sharp as a cat’s, at least on his remaining eight fingers.
Cabe eyed the maimed hand out of the corner of his eye. It was a legacy, a magical wound from the war that the Gryphon fought overseas. The war had gained for him a bride and their two children; yet it had taken away so much as well, stealing from him the eldest of those children, the warrior-child Demion. All knew that the lionbird would have rather lost both hands or even his own life than his eldest child. As it was, he and the cat-woman Troia now doted on their second son.
“Your visit’s a surprise, but a pleasant one, Gryphon. I have to admit, though, that I don’t know why you’re here.”
One of the servants brought them drinks. The Gryphon thanked her for the goblet, then raised it to his mouth. As he did, his features blurred, becoming those of a handsome, somewhat older man with fine patrician features. The transformation startled the servant, who almost dropped the wine. She scurried off before the Gryphon could lower his drink and apologize. His features had already reverted to those of the eagle.
“I forget sometimes that there are so many outside of Penacles who are not used to me.”
“I think it was just the suddenness of the change. Drakes change, too, but it takes them more time.”
“Perhaps.” The Gryphon paced the terrace as he thought. Like the predator he was, the former mercenary could not sit still when disturbed by something. He did, however, manage to pause when he spoke. “I’m chiefly here because Toos wants to hear how things went in Talak.”
The warlock gave him a conspirational smile. “I’d think that Penacles would already know more than I could relate.”
“He was especially interested in your personal observations,” responded the lionbird, ignoring Cabe’s comment about the spies that Penacles no doubt had spread throughout the mountain kingdom. Of course, Talak had its own spies in Penacles just as they likely had them in Gordag-Ai and Zuu. Spies were a favorite pastime of rulers.
“About the entire visit or something in particular?”
“Both, actually. Let us start with your view of the stay itself.” The lionbird took another sip of his drink, again momentarily transforming his features.
“Gwendolyn should be here for this.” The warlock looked around, but there was no sign of his wife. He projected a summoning, but the only response from her was that she would come when she was able. Cabe decided to leave it at that. The Lady Bedlam and the Gryphon were old comrades of a sort, both being survivors from the days of the Turning War, although they had not met then. If the enchantress chose not to be here, it was not because of any lack of love. The Gryphon and his wife were as dear to her as Erini.
“My visit must be necessarily short, Cabe. I understand if the Lady Bedlam cannot be here. She could never cause me affront.”
The lionbird had always struck the warlock as the sort of monarch that he had hoped Kyl would become. Sadly, the young drake had chosen among his own kind for guidance, but fortunately he had at least chosen the Green Dragon as one of his mentors.
Cabe launched into a detailed description of the journey and their stay in Talak. Mention of the Seekers made the Gryphon’s mane ruffle in concern, but the emissary asked no questions. The lionbird was visibly surprised at Kyl’s handling of the untrusting Melicard, especially the request for the private ceremony acknowledging to the lords of Talak the travesties performed in the name of the Dragon Emperor.
Cabe was about to point out Grath’s influence in most of those situations when he felt the presence of his wife’s mind within his own.
Cabe. I tried not to disturb the two of you, but would you please come to Aurim’s chambers?
What’s wrong?
I am really not certain. She broke the link.
“Something is amiss, Cabe.”
The warlock eyed his guest. “You know?”
“You grew slightly distant and your gaze drifted. I have studied sorcery for far too long not to recognize that you were communicating with someone, likely the Lady Gwendolyn. If she feels that something is important enough to create the need to summon you, then I can only assume it is nothing good.”
Rising, the warlock could only marvel at the Gryphon’s guesswork. “You assume right. I’ll explain later, but for now, if you’ll excuse me-”
“Nonsense!” The Gryphon also rose. “If there is something wrong, Cabe, I don’t plan to sit by.” He unsheathed the claws of one hand. With his regal bearing and his polite manner of speech, it was sometimes easy to forget that the figure before him could be every bit as savage as his namesake.
“All right, I won’t argue. You could be right.” The warlock took hold of the Gryphon’s arm. “We’re going to Aurim’s chambers.”
“Lead on.”
The transfer was immediate. Cabe and the Gryphon looked a
round, searching for any sign of danger. The room, though, appeared completely normal, save for the pensive expression on the face of Gwendolyn Bedlam.
“Always a pleasure to see you, my lady,” the Gryphon said, bowing as gracefully as was possible for him.
“I apologize for not greeting you, Gryphon.” The emerald enchantress continued to look slightly anxious. Every few seconds, her eyes would turn from them to gaze at some random location in the chamber. “I’d planned to, but first I had wanted to talk to our son.”
“Aurim?” Cabe noticed that their son was not in the room, but before worry could overwhelm him, his wife shook her head.
“He’s all right, Cabe. I haven’t summoned him, yet, but I do know where he is.”
The warlock relaxed. “Then what’s the danger?”
She put a hand to her chin and stared into space. “I am not absolutely certain if there even is any danger, but . . . but when I stepped inside, I noticed something that unnerved me.” Gwen blinked, then spread her arms. “Tell me what you sense. Both of you, if you don’t mind, Gryphon.”
“Not at all.”
Cabe cleared his thoughts and sent out a probe. At first, the room seemed no different. Aurim’s presence was everywhere, which was to be expected in a place that he frequented so much. There were other, older traces, but they were so faint as to be inconsequential. Besides, the sorcerer recognized them. They could not be what his bride had wanted him to notice.
He briefly touched the presence of the Gryphon, vaguely noting the differences in their magical signatures. Since that, too, was quite obviously not what he was hunting for, Cabe moved on. He wondered again what exactly it was Gwen had noticed and contemplated asking her, if only to better aid his search.
Barely had the warlock thought that when he discovered the answer. It was an answer he could have done without.
The trace was barely noticeable. He had to concentrate hard to keep from losing the tenuous trail.
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III Page 54
