With the vast knowledge and power available to them, the Bedlams had quickly followed her path-and found, to their dismay, that their daughter had journeyed to her grandfather’s citadel. Gwen and Aurim had wanted to go with then, but Cabe insisted that only he and Darkhorse make the trip. Someone had to remain behind in case the worst happened . . . and nothing could be worse than finding out that Valea had crossed into the otherworldly realm of the Lords of the Dead.
Both he and Darkhorse knew where to find the entrance to the infernal realm. It had been buried under tons of debris, but someone-not Valea from what Cabe sensed-had cleared it again.
The smell of decay and rotting flesh invaded his nostrils. Even Darkhorse snorted with distaste. The pit bubbled and oozed. What exactly the greenish gray muck was, Cabe neither knew nor wanted to know. In his mind, he could hear the calls and cries of the dead and a few of those voices were familiar to him. When last he had stood in this place, Cabe had even sensed Azran seeking him out, but, fortunately, that malignant spirit seemed not about.
Darkhorse had tried to explain to him that the realm into which Valea had traveled was not truly the afterlife, that the Lords of the Dead were nothing more than monstrous necromancers who managed to steal slices of dying souls. Their domain was a mockery of death. Even the spirit of Cabe’s father had only been a reflection of the true Azran.
On one level, the wizard understood and accepted the explanation. On a more base level, though, Cabe recalled what he had sensed when Azran’s evil had invaded his mind. Mere reflections of the dead the inhabitants of the foul realm might be, but they had varying strength, depending upon their wills.
But his daughter, however foolishly, had dared enter and so Cabe would, too, even if he had to face the combined might of the ageless spellcasters.
And according to Darkhorse, they very likely would.
“But why here?” he asked. “Why to this place of all places?” This was the last spot that they would have expected any search for Shade to end. If there were those who hated the warlock more than anyone, it was the Lords of the Dead.
“They are his kin, his blood,” Darkhorse muttered in a surprisingly subdued manner for his boisterous self. “They are, in fact, his cousins . . .”
Such a statement sounded so ludicrous when speaking of either Shade or the legendary necromancers and yet it also made terrible sense. It somewhat explained the power that both the hooded figure and the dread lords wielded.
Of the same blood . . . and willing to spill one another’s gladly. Cabe understood that all too well.
“How do we enter?”
The stallion prodded the muck with one hoof, snorting again. “We dive in, of course.”
“I was afraid you’d say just that.”
“The entrance is not guarded, Cabe.”
The wizard nodded. “Either they want us to come in or someone’s forcibly removed the gate keeper.” The macabre creature, a grotesque compilation of countless dead beasts, had served its masters since time immemorial. To find it absent boded ill. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
Darkhorse nodded. “Shall I, then?”
Gritting his teeth and holding tight to his mount, Cabe nodded. “Do it.”
Without hesitation, the magical steed leapt up over the huge, bubbling mass-then dropped like a stone into it.
Cabe held his breath, expecting a massive wave to engulf both of them. Instead, the pit seemed to part and he and Darkhorse suddenly plummeted through a gray emptiness. Voices assailed the wizard, the words of centuries of the dead repeating endlessly the stories of their lives. Shadowy forms appeared in the corner of his eye, but when Cabe sought to focus on them, they were no longer there.
Their descent slowed, then halted. The two drifted in a hazy limbo.
Then, without warning . . . a dour landscape formed around them.
It was muted, silent. Cabe felt a slight chill, but not the kind one experienced from moist or cold weather. Rather, it resembled the unsettling sensation that had touched him when first entering the ruins. Here was a place of the dead, but dead who were not completely at rest.
“Where do you think she headed?” Only Darkhorse had any inkling of what existed in this realm where even color seemed to die.
In fact, even the ice-blue orbs of the stallion looked faded. Darkhorse peered around warily, then replied, “There is a castle . . . so he told me once. If you can still follow her trail, I suspect it will lead there.”
Shutting his eyes, Cabe concentrated on Valea. Her trace was fainter, almost invisible, but he managed to get just enough of a grasp on it to point ahead. “Go that way.”
The shadow steed trotted along. Both remained wary of their surroundings. The Lords of the Dead had to be watching, plotting. No one entered their domain without their knowledge.
Which meant that they had long ago noted Valea.
Time was an immaterial concept here, but still it seemed as if every step took an hour. The bleak sameness of the landscape added to that effect. Cabe quickly felt his impatience growing and sensed Darkhorse reacting much the same. It was dangerous, though, to fall victim to the emotion; even the smallest distraction could leave them open to an attack.
“I like this not,” the stallion finally remarked. “They know we are here. They would not wish us here. Why do they not make some challenge?”
The wizard opened his mouth to answer, but another responded before him.
“Because they await me.”
Darkhorse reared and Cabe’s left hand flared with a ready spell.
But the hooded figure with the blurred face took their reactions in stride, simply repeating his words.
“Because they await me,” Shade said without the slightest care. “Because my cousins have been waiting for me to take the bait.”
The eleven stood in the pattern of the pentagram, each knowing his place, each maintaining the power that made them masters of their realm. Ten stood so as to form the design with the final one, the focus, directly in the center. Through him was all cast, through him was all sensed.
“He is coming . . .” rasped the focus. “He is here . . .”
“At last,” murmured another voice, nearly identical to his own. Others repeated the response, they also sounding almost like copies of the first. For so long they had worked in sync with one another until they were as if of one mind.
They, the Lords of the Dead.
The chamber in which they stood was devoid of any trappings. No tapestries, no banners, no weaponry. Only an arched, open window out of which none of them ever looked gave the room any life . . . that and the thick, bronze door upon which the insignia of a dragon could just be made out at eye level.
The light that futilely illuminated the chamber originated from a crystal buried just below the lead necromancer’s booted feet. The faint glow was misleading; the crystal was anything but weak. It was the only new addition to their sanctum since its creation . . . and had been set there specifically because of one being. One hated being. It gathered and amplified their work, fed more wholly the magic they cast into the one who would wield it.
The figure in the center raised a black, gauntleted hand. In his eyes, the arm within the mail was as thick and sturdy as it had always been. He did not see that the armor and glove hung loose and rusted and that what glimpses of the form within could be seen were dry of flesh and bony. “His ka is strong. He is much himself . . .”
One at the high point of the pentagram stirred. Like the others, he wore a partially concealing helm with the stylized image of a dragon atop it. The black armor and dark cloak in which he was also clad hung as loose as that of the leader. The cloak was tattered and unlike the first figure he wore no boots-and had no feet or lower legs to speak of. They had long ago rotted away, just as had various bits of the rest of the necromancers.
But in the eyes of all, they were still the same eleven who had, long ago, discovered this path and by unanimous vote had forever changed themselves.
They were strong of sinew, determined of eye, the blood of the dragon, the blood of Clan Tezerenee.
They were Vraad, the race of sorcerers who were the predecessors of more than just the humans of the Dragonrealm.
“But he is not completely himself, is he, Ephraim? All depends upon that, doesn’t it?”
Ephraim shifted one foot from near the crystal, a slight movement with vast overtones. The other necromancer also moved, his reaction one more submissive.
“We are one in this as we are in all else, are we not, Zorane? You question my work, my search?”
“No one questions,” interjected another from Ephraim’s right. “We are all anxious for victory. We are anxious to bring our dear cousin under rein.”
“And he shall be. Gerrod will know his place . . . and ours.”
The silence that followed his words indicated the acquiescence of the others. Since the beginning, Ephraim had been the planner, the instigator. All actions flowed through him. It was the way of things. It was as natural as breathing-which all of them had ceased doing centuries ago.
“The players are arranged. He is expecting us to react and she is expecting to find a tragic hero. We should not disappoint them.”
Ephraim raised his arms high. As one, the other Lords of the Dead bowed their heads and concentrated . . .
III
The castle had no entrance, at least none that Valea could find. She had skirted around it as much as possible, avoiding only the area where the land dropped off into an endless void. Valea had peered down into the haze, seeking some bottom, but none could she find. It was as if the realm of the dead ceased at this point.
Returning to where she had first reached the looming structure, the enchantress mulled over her situation. She had belatedly cast a shield around her that she hoped would blind the Lords to her location, but knew that such ancient sorcerers would eventually overcome it. That meant that Valea had to hurry.
Why had Shade come to this place? Was he now in league with the macabre necromancers? It seemed so unlikely. Even despite his shifts from light to dark, there was no record of him ever having allied with the Lords. It seemed that the depths of their hatred for one another likely ran very, very deep.
Was he a prisoner, then? That made more sense. Valea wondered if that was what the elf maiden’s spirit had sought to tell her, that Shade was not a threat himself, but was in danger.
If the warlock was a prisoner, that presented potential disaster. It might be possible for the Lords of the Dead to finally turn him to their cause through some wicked spell. If that happened, Valea could not imagine the fate the Dragonrealm would soon after suffer.
She wished that Galani could have told her more, that somehow the spirit could have made clear what it was Valea faced and what was expected of her. If only-
An image flickered in and out of existence before her very eyes. The vision was so very brief, but Valea could never have mistaken the face peering back at hers-for it had, in many ways, been her own.
“Galani?” the red-haired young woman whispered.
Again, a flickering image, but this time posed differently. It was not Galani, for the hair was long, lush, and cascaded down past the waist. Even more startling, it was a brilliant silver-blue, so radiant in contrast to the starkness of the land. The face was more human, too, although the eyes were an arresting aquamarine and crystalline in design.
Crystalline . . . her father’s journals spoke of people with crystalline eyes.
The Vraad.
Gasping, Valea instinctively backed a step away. Then the realization that this ghost wore her own face made her move forward again. Was there a link to this phantasm akin to the one with Galani?
Again her doppelganger appeared and this time the one hand pointed upward and to the east where a dagger-shaped rock twice as tall as Valea stood.
Biting her lower lip, the spellcaster followed. The phantom materialized every few yards, always anxiously pointing at the rock.
When at last Valea reached it, that changed. Suddenly the ethereal woman formed inside the very rock, reaching out to her earthly twin with beckoning arms. She seemed to want Valea to walk into solid stone, something which, while easy for a ghost, was not so simple for a living being.
But when Valea touched the rock, her hand sank through. She quickly withdrew her hand, then touched the rock once more. When her fingers again sank deep, she felt around. Part of the rock was illusion. An arched opening slightly taller than her lay hidden right before the spellcaster.
Valea stepped through.
She had a brief moment of vertigo . . . then stood in a dank, stone corridor lit only by some vague, sourceless gray illumination. A fine dust covered the floors and the walls and the corridor seemed to go on forever.
The ghost formed briefly again, pointing down the direction Valea faced. The enchantress headed along the hall, eyes and other senses ready.
But nothing barred her path. She continued on down the corridor, passing door after wooden door. The first few she tried, only to find them tightly locked and sturdy despite their rotting appearance. Her spectral companion continued to urge her on and Valea finally abandoned all attempts to check the rooms.
The dust thickened as she made her way deeper into the castle and that bothered the spellcaster. If this area was in use, why were there no footsteps? It was as if nothing lived here. Surely, though, at least the Lords of the Dead walked the castle . . .
Then Valea realized that she might be presumptuous to expect that the necromancers were at all mortal any more.
A slight sound suddenly made her freeze. Valea backed against one of the doors.
The sound reminded her of something being dragged. In such a place, in such a realm, the possibilities of what that meant twisted her stomach.
The noise grew louder, nearer. Valea raised one hand, ready to fight with a spell. The source of the sound had to be almost upon her, but still she could see nothing. Her hand clenched in anticipation and worry-
And just like that, the sound receded past her.
She glanced after it, refusing to believe that it could be possible. The sound continued on, growing fainter and fainter until it ceased to be audible. The dust on the floor remained undisturbed save where Valea’s own prints were.
As she looked back the way she had been heading, the enchantress again saw her unsettling doppelganger. The figure pointed on, her face all urgency.
Again biting her lip, Valea followed the specter. The corridor finally came to an end several yards later at a narrow, winding stairway leading up. The stone passage had no rails, but Valea leaned against one wall as she ascended.
And at the top of the stairs, an iron door confronted her. The symbol of the dragon had been cast upon it and even through the dust Valea could see its malevolent eyes peering back. The style reminded her of the Dragon Kings and she wondered if there was some connection.
The ghost stood before the door, imploring her to enter. She vanished as her mortal counterpart neared. Valea touched the ringed handle, but it would not budge. There was no keyhole.
Concentrating, Valea let her higher senses show her what her eyes could not see. Draped over the door was a series of spells that kept the path sealed. The enchantress probed one and found it easily yielding to her power. After testing another and finding that as readily undone, Valea could come to only one conclusion. The peculiar earmarks of the spells indicated that they served one very specific purpose. They had been designed to work against a particular magical signature and one that she had come to know so very well.
Shade’s.
So he was here and he was a prisoner of the Lords. That was what Galani had tried to impart to her and what this other phantom, this other incarnation of herself, had also sought to say. A peculiar sense of relief touched Valea. She had come fully expecting to confront and vanquish the legendary warlock in order to prevent his evil from ever erupting again. Yet, a good part of her had battled against that notion
. Valea could not deny that she felt something for Shade. It was not merely some residue of the time that she had spent bound together with Galani. It went far deeper. To Valea, it was as if her soul, in whatever form it existed throughout time, had always been intertwined with his. Had she lived other lives that had crossed the warlock’s path? Surely the second ghost indicated that.
Valea shook her head, clearing her thoughts of any foolish romantic feelings. Her brother would have mocked her and her parents would have looked down at her in pity. She risked more than her life coming here and to let her be distracted by such prattle endangered her further.
Still, she had come here to find Shade and she had done so. All that barred her from confronting him were some simple spells.
With an inherent skill that only a Bedlam could wield, Valea quickly and efficiently removed the remaining spells. There were no hints of alarms among them, which surprised her until she recalled just where she was. The confidence of the Lords in their own dread domain could hardly be surprising. Their only mistake had been not knowing that Valea would have unearthly help to guide her to this point.
As the last spell dissipated, the anxious enchantress tugged on the ring.
The door swung open with an utter silence that both relieved and astounded her. She quickly stepped inside.
The familiar gray cloak completely draped his back, making him look more like a monk than the fearsome figure he was. His face was to the barred and magically sealed window, the only feature of the small chamber. A long, stone bench enabled him to sit there. It was the only piece of furniture in sight. If Shade slept, then he did so on the floor and wrapped in his own garments. Her sympathy for the imprisoned spellcaster grew, but Valea kept it in check, aware that Shade might still prove a danger.
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III Page 89
