Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

by Richard A. Knaak

  Cabe materialized behind the leader just as the huddled form exploded at the dragon man’s touch.

  The drake went flying backward, stunned. The warlock’s simulacrum had not been created to kill; Cabe desired prisoners, not corpses.

  He reached out for the leader even as the explosion rocked the immediate vicinity, yet somehow the hooded man sensed him coming. With astonishing dexterity, the leader swung the blade behind him, almost severing the warlock’s hand from his arm. Cabe barely pulled back in time, yet still he managed to release his spell.

  The outline of the hooded figure flared white, but the man was otherwise unchanged.

  “Yes . . . I am protected against your little tricks, magic man, but are you protected against mine?”

  Still clutching the box in his other hand, the armored leader advanced on Cabe. This close, the warlock’s enhanced vision allowed him a better view of the armor beneath the robe. It was dented and worn, but there was no mistaking the familiar ebony armor. His foe was, or rather had been, a wolf raider.

  Their empire was all but a memory, but that did not mean that the Aramites, the wolf raiders, were also. They still held pockets of the neighboring continent and their ships now prowled the seas as true pirates. Even in the Dragonrealm, half the world away, there were remnants. This one might even have been part of the large force that had attempted to build a new powerbase on this continent. Those wolf raiders had been defeated, but more than a few had no doubt escaped the cataclysm that had befallen the army in the southwesternmost region of the Dragonrealm. Reports of survivors being captured in various places all over the continent had been verified. It was, therefore, not so surprising after all to find one here. Somehow the Aramites seemed to have a hand in almost every plot that touched the lives of Cabe and those he cared for.

  However this one had come to be here, Cabe knew that he could not let him escape. The warlock backed away as the raider advanced, but that was not something he could continue for very long. In fact, he did not have to. The surprise of discovering what his adversary was had finally faded and now Cabe was prepared to finish the task at hand. The Aramite could not be allowed to escape with the box.

  “I’ve not worked for so long to have you destroy everything!” snarled the wolf raider. Suddenly his sword’s reach was longer than it should have been. Although the blade missed the sorcerer by a good arm’s length, still there was suddenly a slash in Cabe’s robe. The raider’s sword had some limited magical ability. What other tricks did the man have hidden beneath his robe?

  Enough was enough. If he could not affect his adversary directly, then Cabe was prepared to work around him.

  The leader swung again, this time leaving not only a small rip in the sleeve of the warlock’s garment but also a thin, red line across Cabe’s lower arm that stung almost enough to make the warlock forget what he was doing.

  However, as the Aramite pulled back his weapon for another vicious cut, a tree branch suddenly got in the way of his sword arm. Cursing, the hooded attacker pulled his arm around, but his swing was ruined. He sidestepped the tree, but then another branch caught him in the face.

  “Dogs of war! What is-” The rest became unintelligible as yet another branch shifted, despite the direction of the wind, and struck him soundly in the unprotected throat.

  Upturned roots caused his advance to falter. As he stumbled, the raider almost dropped the box, but at the last moment, he managed to retain his grip. That was his only success, however, for now he could not manage to lower his sword arm. Worse yet, the blade itself was now tangled in a mesh of smaller, intertwined branches above the raider’s head.

  Cabe allowed himself a slight smile at the sight of his handiwork. His adversary had blundered directly into it. In fact, it had almost been too easy. The warlock had never truly been in danger. It was an odd sensation, so easily defeating the threat. Cabe kept expecting some last-second trick by either the trapped leader or some henchman still in hiding, but inside he knew that no trick would be coming. Each passing second left the raider more and more hopelessly entangled. Already he could no longer move.

  One time I garner a quick and easy victory and I can’t be satisfied with that! He tried to shake the doubts away, but failed. Sighing, Cabe decided to simply ignore them. The doubts could not take away the fact that he had won.

  Walking over to the imprisoned leader, Cabe reached out and pried the box from his helpless hand. “Thank you.”

  His prisoner said nothing.

  Cabe looked close, utilizing his enhanced vision to study the one before him. He did not recognize the man, but he had the look of an officer. Aramite officers were, to his bitter recollection, deceitful monsters with sadistic streaks. One of them had killed the Gryphon’s firstborn. That one was dead, but Cabe knew that the lionbird would find this one of almost as much interest.

  “Tell me about this box, wolf raider.” He held the offensive artifact up close to the Aramite’s scowling face.

  There was a peculiar look in what Cabe could see of that ugly visage. With a rough, humorless laugh, the leader replied, “You’ll have to find out about it on your own, spellmonger. It’ll be my last gift to you and yours.”

  It was too late by the time the warlock reacted.

  With a gasp, the imprisoned raider began to shake. His entire form convulsed, so much so that he almost shook free of the binding branches. That was not the man’s intention, though. Cabe tried to counter whatever spell was upon the raider, but the same defensive measure that had prevented him from directly attacking blocked these spells as well. What it did not block, however, was the thing killing his prisoner, which to Cabe meant that the source lay somewhere within the Aramite’s body.

  “Drazeree!” muttered the warlock, calling upon a legendary and possibly blood-related hero/god of the age of the Vraad. What Cabe witnessed now was worthy of the foul Vraad and possibly would have revolted even a few of them.

  The guards had spoken of the assassins literally crumbling to ash. He could only assume that this was the same spell, for it seemed unlikely that anyone would devise two such similar horrors.

  The Aramite grew ashen-faced. His clothing, with the exception of the cloak and the armor, appeared to crackle and break. The raider laughed, but the laugh quickly became a gurgle as first the man’s teeth and tongue, then his entire jaw, fell away.

  Without warning, the decomposing figure slipped free of the branches and slumped to the ground. A terrible mound of gray flakes formed around his diminishing body. Now, there emerged no sound from Cabe’s hapless prisoner. The appalled spellcaster doubted that the man was still alive. The graying skin crumbled off of the raider’s face, followed without pause by the skull and hair.

  Cabe turned away, too sick to his stomach to watch the final moments. In little more than the blink of an eye, he had watched a living creature be reduced to dust.

  By the time he had recovered enough to look again, all that remained of the leader was his cloak, partly tangled in the tree branches, empty bits of black armor . . . and an unsettling mound of dust. He forced himself to sift through the remains, but there was no sign of what had protected his adversary from his spells or what had finally killed the wolf raider. In fact, there was not much of anything. No clues. Nothing.

  Then it was that Cabe Bedlam recalled the other hooded figures. His stomach recoiled, but he had no choice. He suspected what he would find, but that did not mean he did not have to look.

  It proved to be as he had feared. Of the others, even the drake who had fallen for his trick, there remained nothing but bits of armor, metal objects, the mysterious cloaks, and foul piles of ash.

  Had they willingly let this be done to them? He could hardly believe so, despite what the leader had said, and despite the words that had given credence to the notion that the Aramite had been responsible for this entire plot. He was aware that he was grasping at straws, but too many things had fallen into place easily while others had not.

 
The warlock studied the carved exterior of the box as if it could give him some of the answers he craved.

  To his surprise, it gave the two most important answers of all. Both he desired, but one he would have preferred not to have known.

  The box was what he had feared it would be. An artifact so ancient but still capable of the evil for which it had been created. Exhaling, the weary sorcerer cautiously touched the front. At least it had not been designed to confound. Opening it would be the easy part, possibly the only easy part from this point on.

  Cabe turned the box so that it would open away from him. Then, taking a deep breath, he pressed the lock and lifted the lid back.

  The scream shattered the night and almost caused the warlock to drop the box. A black cloud burst forth from the box, a black cloud darker than night.

  “I am free! Free!” A mocking laugh followed, a laugh almost as horrifying in its own way as the shriek preceding it.

  The black cloud sprouted long legs and a tail. A head, at first twisted and unidentifiable, grew from the front of the cloud, while at the same time the tail rose in the back.

  Darkhorse coalesced before him, the shadow steed’s hooves more than a yard from the earth below.

  “I am free!” he roared. The eternal looked down and the ice-blue orbs that were his eyes widened at the small figure below and before him. “Cabe!”

  “Darkhorse, I-” He had no chance to finish his statement, for the shadow steed was suddenly whirling about in the air, eyes seeking. “Where are they, Cabe? Where are those misbegotten vermin who have dared reintroduce me to my worst nightmare? I will draw them in and let them taste eternal emptiness! Where are they, Cabe?”

  “They’re dead.”

  At first the shadow steed did not believe him. He snorted and darted toward the nearest cloak, not yet realizing what it represented. Kicking it aside, the eternal studied with confusion the ash beneath. “What is this dust?”

  The spellcaster closed the box and placed it in the folds of his robe. He would deal with the box in prompt order, but first he had to calm the maddened stallion. “That’s all that’s left of them, Darkhorse. I saw it happen to the leader.”

  “No! I will not be denied! I cannot be!”

  He kicked at the cloak, then trotted to one of the other piles. Watching the huge form dart about in the darkness, Cabe was torn between letting things end here or voicing his beliefs. To him, the box was the deciding point between taking the struggle here at face value or seeing the wolf raider and his men as the pawns they might be. In the warlock’s eyes, the Aramite and his henchmen had died so that someone else would remain anonymous.

  Unfortunately for that someone, Cabe had not fallen for the ploy.

  Suddenly the eternal loomed over him. “It’s true, then? My captors are dust?”

  “All of them.” Cabe almost winced as he told the lie. “It wasn’t a pretty way to go, Darkhorse. I think you can be satisfied that they’ve paid.”

  The shadow steed snorted. “I will have to be, I suppose.” He cocked his head. “I wonder what they wanted of me. How long have I been a prisoner?”

  It had not even occurred to the sorcerer that his friend knew nothing of the dire deeds that had transpired since his imprisonment. Cabe swallowed. “There’s much you’ve missed, Darkhorse. Too much.”

  Some of Darkhorse’s fury abated. “Your tone is not one I find I like, Cabe. What is it? What’s happened?”

  The tale spilled out of the warlock’s mouth almost of its own volition. He described the foul spells that Toma had imprinted on the minds of his son and Ssarekai, then proceeded to tell of the tragedy that had befallen the kingdom of Penacles.

  Darkhorse was still when Cabe at last finished. The icy eyes glowed with much less fury but more frustration.

  “I am . . . sorry . . . about Toos. He was an interesting human, Cabe. Such an end was hardly fitting. So his assassins also are dead?”

  “By the same manner as their leader. He was a wolf raider, probably an officer.”

  “Wolf raider. . . .” Darkhorse glowered as only he could. “Even without an empire, they still manage to meddle. This explains such a fanatical mission. Only an Aramite officer would see to it that neither he nor his men would survive if the plot failed. Good in one respect, for it means less to hunt down afterward. May the Lords of the Dead have no pity on their souls. It’s over, then?”

  Cabe could not prevent a sigh this time. He hoped that his companion would not read too much into it. The warlock was not certain that he could maintain the lie if pressed. “This is. There may be repercussions, though. Kyl was quite shook-up.”

  “So I would think.” Darkhorse scuffed the soil, sending large chunks of earth flying. “I am still not certain about this matter, Cabe. I think someone else was behind this.”

  “You do?” He tried not to reveal his anxiety.

  The eternal dipped his head in an equine nod. “I would not be surprised to find the talons of Toma sunk deeply into this travesty!”

  Seizing the notion and turning it to his own use, Cabe agreed. “You may be right.”

  “We need to find that reptilian fiend and put an end to his misdeeds! I will not rest until that has happened!”

  This time, the warlock had no difficulty agreeing. Even if the renegade drake had not been involved in Darkhorse’s capture, which was still not a notion that Cabe could entirely dismiss, he had much else to answer for.

  “We’ll find him, Darkhorse. Somehow we will.”

  The nightmarish stallion again pawed at the ground. The spark in his eyes rekindled, becoming a blaze. Yet, his form noticeably wavered, as if he still did not have complete control over it. The pupilless eyes peered down at him. “Do you intend to return to the Manor now?”

  Cabe gently touched the box in his robe. He hoped his own presence shielded the artifact from Darkhorse’s senses. Despite the shadow steed’s manner, it was clear that he was weak, which was the only reason that the warlock hoped he could keep the box concealed. Darkhorse would want to destroy the box and, in truth, Cabe would have been hard-pressed to prevent him from doing so without revealing just exactly why it was necessary to keep it in one piece. The mage himself was not exactly certain why; he simply felt that the sinister device would prove a damning bit of evidence when he faced the one responsible. “Yes. I want to look around here a little first, then I’ll be returning to the Manor.”

  Again the shadow steed’s form wavered. This time, when Darkhorse spoke, his voice was muffled, as if someone had in part succeeded in gagging him. Yet, his tone was still one of unbridled self-confidence. “Then I shall trust to your safety since all the villains are dead. In the meantime, there is a hunt that I must begin. Toma must needs be taught a proper lesson for this!” The eternal began to turn away. “If I find anything of significance, I shall come to the Manor; I promise you.”

  “Are you . . . are you certain that you’ll be all right, Darkhorse?”

  The ebony stallion swung his head and chuckled. “Of course, I will be! I am Darkhorse, am I not?”

  Cabe could only smile and shake his head. No matter what dire straits the shadow steed faced, it seemed that there were some character traits forever ingrained in his rather eccentric personality. On the one hand, the sorcerer would not have wanted Darkhorse to change, but on the other hand, it likely would have been better for all concerned if the shadow steed was better able to restrain himself when it came to certain matters. Certainly, Cabe would sleep easier. Unfortunately, Cabe was aware that nothing but imprisonment or destruction would sway the injured stallion from his chosen path.

  “Fare you well, Cabe, and my thanks. . . .” The massive equine began to trot . . . and was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Swifter than the wind was a phrase that failed to describe the eternal’s speed.

  He doesn’t realize, the master mage thought as he stared where his companion had stood not a breath before. Hopefully, it’ll remain that way.

  Alone, Cabe finally t
urned and gave the dusty remains of the conspirators one last cursory glance. Already Cabe knew that there was nothing to be learned from these. Even the leader’s empty armor and cloak left no secrets. After a minute or two of futile searching, the warlock turned his attention to the horses, but a thorough examination revealed that the saddlebags contained only some food, water, and a few other necessities for travel. The contents told him only one interesting thing; the sparsity of food meant that either the hooded figures had planned to locate supplies elsewhere, or they had not expected to ride much further after this. Cabe knew of nothing nearby. They could not hope to catch sufficient game in this area, either.

  The evidence would have been circumstantial to most, but to the uneasy spellcaster, what he knew was sufficient to condemn. He dared not deal with the matter this night, though. Best to return home and face this when I’ve rested. Maybe I’ll still find another answer. Maybe.

  He remained long enough to send the horses through a blink hole, one of the large, magical portals a spellcaster could create, that would leave them in the royal stables of Penacles. One of the animals carried a note on its saddle, a missive from the warlock to the Gryphon explaining what had happened. As with the explanation to Darkhorse, it left some things unsaid.

  Satisfied that the Gryphon would know best what to do with the dead assassins’ things, Cabe prepared for home. A good night’s sleep was what he would need, especially if he planned to go through with his accusations. He would need all the strength he could when it came time to reveal what he knew.

  Even then, Cabe was not certain that he would be strong enough.

  XVII

  Despite his determination the night before, the new day found Cabe ensconced in his study, his mind a raging maelstrom of doubt and contradiction. He had been there since his return from tracking down the assassins. Neither Gwendolyn nor the children had been able to stir him from the emotion that bespelled him, and they had finally resigned themselves to allowing him to find his own way back.