Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

by Richard A. Knaak

  “And next time?”

  “Forget that for now, Aurim. Can you teleport us home?” She nodded toward Yssa, her eyes softening a bit. “All of us, I mean?”

  He checked. “I think I can.”

  “Then please do so at once. I need to speak to your father and the Gryphon. They have to know what happened in Wenslis.” Her expression grew grim again. “Everything that happened in Wenslis.”

  Aurim nodded. The wizard took his mother in one hand, his beloved in the other and, with a last glance at the dour realm of the Storm Lord, concentrated . . .

  He found the body exactly where he knew it would be. Reaching down, he dragged it out of the earth. Even in death, the face remained blurred, indistinct.

  Shade eyed his dead self, then laid one gloved hand across the face.

  The hand glowed gold. The aura spread over the face, the head, then the entire body of the dead Shade. Quickly the aura enveloped the corpse, absorbed it . . . and fed it back to the figure leaning over.

  When the last of his twin had been consumed, leaving no trace whatsoever, the warlock straightened. Turning, he surveyed the huge rock collapse caused by the explosion of the crystal. With a wave of his hand, Shade sent tons of rock and the corpses of dead drake warriors flying away, digging through the carnage until he came upon the one he sought.

  The Storm Lord lay motionless, but alive. His entire body had been seared by the powerful blast, but, thanks to his great power, the dragon would survive.

  One eye opened. It slowly focused on the figure before it. Hatred began to burn in the eye as recognition took place-

  “Time to sleep again,” Shade whispered.

  The eye struggled . . . then closed. The dragon’s breathing grew calm. The inner edges of the huge maw curled slightly upward.

  Shade drew his cloak around him. “Now I am whole,” he said to himself. “Now I can do what must be done.”

  And with that, he disappeared.

  The tempest covered the world. Wherever the Storm Lord focused his will, lightning struck and fierce winds blew. Rain poured and thunder crashed. No place was safe from his godly wrath and the people knew that. From Dragon Kings to Seekers to ground-dwelling Quel to elves to humans-all fell to their knees before his glory.

  And from the heavens, the Storm Lord looked down and smiled to himself. All was as it should be. All was perfection.

  Just as he had always dreamed it would one day be.

  THE STILL LANDS

  Beware Death’s shade . . .

  I

  Silence filled the gray land, but despite that, the young, cloaked woman sensed that she was far from alone. At a glance, the murky, shadowy place only gave hints of dour hills and macabre trees with empty, clutching branches, but whenever she neared any of those landmarks, they seemed to fade away like dreams at waking. Peering over her shoulder, she would see a different background than the one she had walked and yet, if she tried to go back even a step, everything in the direction that she had originally been walking would also change.

  Again, the hooded traveler sensed others around her. She focused her mind and what she saw in that brief moment caused her to utter a gasp that sounded like thunder in this still place.

  Gray figures, countless grey figures, milled around her, moving with no purpose that she could see. They were young, old, human, drake, elven-even an armored Quel briefly made an appearance. All had the same hollow look.

  And just like that, they were gone again-or rather, she could no longer focus on them.

  Shaken, she paused to sip from the thinning water sack at her waist. The water had taken on a brackish taste since her arrival, no surprise to her. The young sorceress forced herself to swallow it, then took a bite of a biscuit that, like the water, now had all the consistency and flavor of clay.

  As she retied the sack, she could not help but again look herself over. Her once-emerald travel outfit had, here, become a dull, faded green and the brown leather boots looked a dead black. Her skin, already pale, resembled that of a corpse and even her cascading rich, red hair had a coloring more akin to dried blood. Only the streak of silver running down the right remained as bright as ever. Everything else about her was a shadow of what it had been before her coming here, but while it disquieted her, it no longer surprised.

  What would one expect in the realm of the dead?

  She should not have come here alone. Her father and mother would have been horrified beyond belief that she had attempted this and they were not ones to shirk from danger. Cabe and Gwendolyn Bedlam were the most renowned of spellcasters, the former from a legendary line that had produced both heroes and villains. The two had become instrumental in transforming the collective lands called the Dragonrealm into a continent all but free of the once-sweeping tyranny of the drake lords. Humans now dominated, for good or ill, in most places. Her parents had faced dragons, warlocks, the avian Seekers, demons, and the incessant evil of the wolf raiders without hesitation, but here was one place that they and any sensible being avoided.

  But Valea had set herself upon a mission from which she felt no obstacle could deter her. From the dead, a figure had emerged again in the Dragonrealm and the crimson-tressed young woman was certain that she had been marked as the one who had to deal with him. It had begun with dreams and ghosts haunting her own ancient home, a collection of events that tied her to that resurrected danger as none other.

  Only she, Valea felt, could confront the warlock, Shade.

  He had lived a thousand lifetimes, his curse alternating him between good and evil. He existed somewhere between reality and imagination, his hooded features ever blurred, indistinct. Shade had been friend and enemy to all, with each ‘death’ shifting from one end of the spectrum to the other. Valea found him a tragic figure, but she steeled herself with the knowledge that if he had returned, surely that meant danger to those she loved. Whatever sympathy the young sorceress felt-and whatever other emotions had arisen since her ghostly encounter with his past-they had to be kept in check. She had to stop whatever it was he intended.

  That it had led to this place had stunned her, but Valea had persevered. She had fought her way to the realm of the Lords of the Dead and now she would cross their domain following Shade’s trail no matter what impediment rose before her.

  But so far, Valea had come across nothing. The unearthly realm was filled with phantoms all but invisible to her and a landscape that, despite its changing shape and murkiness, had held no dire threats. She sensed that Shade had been this way, but that was all.

  A buzzing in her ears made her swat at it. With some frustration, Valea kept her hand in check. Now and then the buzzing arose and when she had listened close once, she had heard the voices of the shadows, the whisperings of lives long past. They were, like everything around her, a disturbing distraction, but nothing to concern the spellcaster.

  The buzzing, however, suddenly increased in intensity. The whisperers sounded upset, fearful. They almost seemed to be warning each other . . . or even her.

  Something fluttered among the dead trees ahead of her, moving so swiftly out of sight that Valea could not be certain that she had actually seen anything.

  The buzzing grew more insistent. Now it became words that she could make out with some ease.

  Coming . . . coming . . . coming . . . they said over and over.

  A form flew overhead.

  Valea reacted immediately, casting a spell upward. A flash of light illuminated both her and her surroundings and she heard a monstrous shriek.

  Something with batlike wings darted from her view. She spun in the direction it had gone, trying as best she could to make out its shape.

  Instead, a tall structure that Valea knew she had not passed earlier perched atop a high, jagged hill overlooking her location.

  It was a castle or, being this place, perhaps the ghost of one. Certainly it was no place that welcomed the weary traveler. Like monstrous claws, five towers rose above the outer wall, each one t
opped by sharp, toothy battlements. Flanked on each corner by four of the towers and using the fifth as its centerpiece, a broad, rounded building made up the bulk of the castle. Further details, Valea could not make out. In fact, there was little else of descriptive value where the castle was concerned. No banners flew from its heights and she could not make out any gates. The battlements were empty of movement.

  And yet . . . Valea took a step forward, squinting. Was there a light of sorts in the main building? Something hinting of red flickered there.

  Every nerve in her body taut, the sorceress reached out with her senses and sought the evidence she needed. Almost immediately, Valea received the answer she had expected.

  Shade was there. She knew his magical signature as well as she knew her own. Since that fateful journey into the memories of the Manor, her home, Valea had come to recognize the traces of his spellwork. She suspected it was because the two of them shared a link that went beyond that one experience. Deep beneath the Manor, Valea had discovered the tomb of an elven maiden, Galani. She had been perfectly preserved, almost as if time itself had frozen. This was the same Galani who had been part of a ghostly vision seen more than once in the huge house above. This was the same Galani who had, in life, been cousin to the sorcerer Arak.

  Arak had been friend to Shade.

  Galani had fallen for the tragic figure, but, as was his curse, Shade had died without her knowing of it. When he had risen again, his mind twisted, he had used Arak and Galani to further his own evil goals. Only Galani’s sacrifice had saved her cousin and the Dragonrealm from the darker side of Shade. She had killed the warlock again before herself dying. Arak had sealed her body under the Manor and it had been Shade’s reappearance now that had stirred some part of the dead elf’s spirit to contact the only one who could understand and accept her message, her warning.

  Valea, it seemed, was the reincarnation of the elf. With but a few subtle differences due to their respective races, the two had been identical of features and form.

  Yes, it had to be Valea who finally put an end to the curse of Shade. Whatever his good aspects, the evil could not be allowed to return. Valea felt certain that she held the key, although whether that key would lead to her success, she could not say in the least.

  The enchantress reached into her blouse, pulling out a chain she wore around her neck. At the end, an unprepossessing, brutally chiseled stone hung. It was barely the size of her smallest fingernail, but Valea treated it as if she carried the weight of the world.

  “Let us hope this works . . .” she whispered to it. “Let us hope I’ve planned right, Galani . . .”

  Then, undaunted by her tremendous doubts, Valea replaced the stone against her bosom and started for the castle. The whispering continued, the same word repeating over and over. The young spellcaster ignored the whispering, already wary of her surroundings. The winged thing that had almost fallen upon her had finally reminded Valea just what unnatural realm she walked. Every step meant danger. This was, after all, the kingdom of the Lords of the Dead.

  And she doubted that they would long suffer a living soul in their midst.

  He peered out the window as he did every moment of his existence. It was both his only salvation and his greatest torture. Out there, he sensed the countless shadows flittering about, existing only because the masters of the realm desired them to do so. The scene was always the same . . . the grayness, the lifelessness . . . the eternity.

  And then something so extraordinary that it made him leap to his feet appeared in the distance, a shock of life and color such as he could only dredge up from his most ancient memories. It moved with purpose, moved with an animation so foreign to the still lands surrounding the castle. Pushing his hood back slightly, he pressed his face against the bars, trying to make out more detail. It was as if he had been given a glimpse of paradise, so wondrous was this unexpected vision.

  But as the figure neared and he made out exactly what it was, his expression grew both dumbfounded and fearful . . . the latter not for himself. He shook his head, blinked, and stared again, disbelieving the sight. His tormentors had finally begun the new, sadistic game that they had promised . . .

  “Sharissa . . .” he murmured. “Sharissa . . .”

  II

  The most disastrous trait running through his family, Cabe Bedlam decided, had to be its members’ tendency to thrust themselves into dangers despite common sense. He had done so far too often. So had Gwendolyn, his wife, and their son, Aurim, who insisted on wooing the daughter of one who had betrayed the parents.

  But now his daughter had outdone them all, literally stepping into a nightmare without apparently any sane regard for herself. She had gone where even Cabe in his wildest dreams would not have dared, a place that made even Darkhorse wary.

  “She has come this way,” bellowed the huge, ebony stallion despite their silent, ominous surroundings. “There is no doubt about it.”

  Cabe eyed the ruins of the castle through which they now journeyed. Under the hood of his gray travel cloak was a face that would have seemed more appropriate on a farmer or blacksmith. His broad, clean features and unassuming eyes hid power of which few could even dream. Average of build and clad in simple deep blue pants and shirt and high leather boots, he would not have garnered a second glance by most if not for the wide streak of silver in his otherwise plain, dark hair. That silver marked him as a spellcaster and one of skill. Cabe was a wizard from a long line of wizards that included the famous and the nefarious. His grandfather, Nathan, had been the leader of the Dragon Masters, mages who had sought to free the lands from the rule of the Dragon Kings. His father, Azran, had been a black knave who had betrayed Nathan and the rest for his own sinister designs.

  And now Cabe and Darkhorse had entered what remained of his dire stronghold in the midst of the volcanic lands of the Red Dragon.

  Memories of his captivity in his father’s sanctum made the vein in Cabe’s neck throb. The castle had been brought down during a battle between the previous drake lord and Azran, with the former losing both the battle and his life. Azran, however, had gone mad in the process, the evil power of his creation, the sword curiously and ominously called The Nameless, usurping his mind. Cabe’s father was long dead and The Nameless had vanished down a bottomless crevice in a cavern, but the legacy of his father remained strong in the wreckage left behind. Generations of dark sorcery and ties to otherworldly forces had left what still stood of the castle a place even drakes shunned.

  “She should’ve never come to this place,” the human murmured not for the first time. “Valea knew the stories.”

  “But stories are just that to the young, who have not experienced the true terror,” replied the blue-orbed steed. That Darkhorse spoke was not the most astonishing thing about Cabe’s companion, for he was not a horse at all. The huge stallion had chosen his form centuries prior when first coming to the Dragonrealm from the empty dimension called only the Void. He was a creature of pure magic able to transform at will or become insubstantial if necessary. Darkhorse had a fondness for his present shape, though, and rarely altered his appearance. He had befriended many humans over the centuries, but was feared by many, many more.

  Cabe kept in check the remark that came to his lips in response to his companion’s words. While Darkhorse sounded as venerable as a creature that, if not slain, could live forever should, he had himself a childlike habit of running into trouble headfirst.

  Jagged pieces of stone still stood here and there, testament to the gargantuan size of Azran’s citadel. In truth, much of the edifice had fallen quickly because it had been held together by the sorcerer’s own magic. That any of it still stood amazed Cabe.

  A skeleton half-buried in rubble caught his attention. The ribs were almost human, but the skull was quite avian, like that of a man-sized bird. The Seekers, the ancient predecessors of the Dragon Kings, had been forced to serve Azran and many had perished fighting the forces of the Red Dragon. This was not the
first set of bones the pair had come across. The landscape surrounding the ruins still offered glimpses of the scores of creatures from both sides who had died fighting for two megalomaniacs. Cabe had even briefly caught sight of the gargantuan, telltale skull of the Dragon King himself, left half-buried by dust and molten earth by his successor.

  “Turn west,” he suddenly told Darkhorse. Valea’s magical trace, albeit much faded, led that way. Other than her mother, Cabe was probably the only one who could have still sensed the remnants of his daughter’s passing. Unless they worked hard to mask it, spellcasters often left a trail of sorts, a hint of their distinctive magical signature. Fortunately, Valea had not decided to hide hers, likely because she knew that one or both of her parents would surely follow.

  And why not? When Gwen had summoned him back, her mental call filled with anxiety, he had known that the news would be dire. His wife had refrained from telling him just what it was about, fearing the slight chance that some other spellcaster might be able to eavesdrop. The Dragon Kings were always monitoring their enemies, awaiting the chance to regain some of their lost power.

  But what the enchantress had told her husband had stunned him beyond belief.

  Shade had risen from the dead again.

  It should not have been. Darkhorse had witnessed what should have been the warlock’s final, absolute demise. Cabe and everyone else believed it so, especially after the most doubtful of them, the black stallion himself, had spent years fruitlessly searching for some sign that Shade had once again been resurrected. Eventually, even Darkhorse had admitted that the warlock was surely no more.

  And now . . . and now they knew that they had been wrong.

  Terrible enough were the events that Gwen had relayed upon his return concerning her encounter with not only the Storm Dragon, but a number of variations of Shade. But worse was his wife’s discovery of the note left by Valea announcing that she, too, had uncovered evidence of the enigmatic figure’s return. For reasons her parents could not fathom, Valea had left every indication that she believed that only she could put an end to the curse of Shade.