Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

by Richard A. Knaak

  Darkhorse looked around quickly. He neither saw nor detected any other traces. Still, if anything had managed to slip by, it surely amounted to nothing. Unless the Lords of the Dead deigned to be generous and give Yureel a second opportunity-which was highly doubtful considering the latter’s abysmal failure-then any bit of Darkhorse’s twin still remaining was doomed to forever be only a glimmer crawling uselessly over the empty land.

  Satisfied, the shadow steed considered his next move. Whatever else happened, Cabe would head toward the castle in order to find Valea. That was what Darkhorse expected of him. The children of his friend were almost as dear to the eternal as they were to Cabe and Gwen. Darkhorse would have willingly sacrificed himself for any of the humans’ sakes.

  So the castle was his next destination . . . yet, where was it?

  Probing the haze, he discovered not the lair of the necromancers, but rather a more welcome thing. A very familiar, comfortable presence.

  Cabe?

  Darkhorse? returned the wizard. Where?

  The stallion strengthened the link between them. I know where you are, he told Cabe. Wait and I shall be with you . . .

  Picturing the human in his mind, Darkhorse concentrated.

  The next moment, he stood right before the wizard.

  “Praise be that you’re all right!” Cabe said, smiling in relief.

  “Their trap was clever, but not clever enough!”

  “You, too? Darkhorse, Azran’s ghost confronted me.”

  “Indeed?” The shadow steed recalled all too well Azran Bedlam and shivered. “And I was faced by a Yureel still intent upon devouring me.”

  The wizard frowned. “Yureel? But how could he be here?”

  “The Lords no doubt salvaged some small bit of him after our last struggle. I sent that final piece of refuse to oblivion.”

  Cabe could scarce believe it. “Azran and Yureel . . .”

  “Yes, we were both quite fortunate!”

  “A bit too fortunate,” muttered the human, not explaining. “It doesn’t matter. You and I are together and the castle’s just ahead.”

  Gazing up, Darkhorse saw the grim sanctum. “Indeed! We shouldn’t let our hosts await us any longer, then, friend Cabe!”

  “No, we shouldn’t.” The wizard mounted. His tone matched well their surroundings. “And if I find they’ve harmed her in any way, not a thousand Azrans and Yureels combined will keep me from making them pay.”

  The eternal snorted ferociously, echoing his companion’s sentiments, then the two started off toward the castle . . .

  Ephraim materialized in the midst of the pattern, taking his rightful place. The five who had not gone with Zorane and the others looked to him for their next move.

  “The Bedlam and the eternal?”

  “The wizard readily sealed his father in a box much like our old ‘catchers.’ The eternal proved that his twin was now but a shadow of him,” reported one sorcerer, his jaw bone completely missing and his ribs showing through his rusted armor.

  “They failed miserably,” mocked another in similar condition.

  Ephraim nodded. “Then everything goes as I predicted.” To the others-and even himself-his lips curled back in a triumphant smile. The sight would have been no less macabre than the eternal, fleshless grin he actually wore. “Now it is time for the female.”

  IX

  They would be coming soon. Whether the ghoul called Ephraim or one of the other nightmarish Lords, Valea could not say. Likely Ephraim, as he seemed the most animated of them. Whichever the case, though, the enchantress intended to be ready.

  “Gerrod . . . you said to Ephraim that he ever had more than one intention whenever he did something, is that right?”

  “What you see on the surface is never all there is, not where he is concerned. He looks to all details, never wastes what may be of value.”

  Valea nodded. Everything about Ephraim’s plan seemed to focus on the removal of Shade as a threat, but what after? The Lords of the Dead had always desired to expand their dread might beyond their realm, to make the land of the living theirs as well. Yet, surely they expected resistance, especially from her own family, unless-

  Unless the Bedlams were removed as an obstacle first.

  It all began to fall into place. This was more than a final confrontation between the warlock and the Lords. They had expected all along that one or both of her parents would follow her trail, most likely her father. Darkhorse, his constant comrade, would also come. The two most powerful forces of magic in all the Dragonrealm in one place. Between them, they were certainly more of a threat to the necromancers than even Shade. The Lords would have to destroy them if they hoped to conquer the living world.

  Or would they? Ephraim never wastes what may be of value.

  Surely Cabe Bedlam and Darkhorse would be more valuable if they could be turned.

  She stifled a gasp. If they turned her father and Darkhorse, they could use them to take down her mother, the Lord Gryphon, and Queen Erini-the most powerful mages. The Dragon Kings, already much weakened, would fall one by one. The deathly, still lands of the necromancers’ realm would spread across the continent . . . and perhaps beyond.

  But they could never have expected Valea to journey here. Her decision had been but a recent one. Only when the spirit of the elf, Galani, had spoken to her in her dream-

  The spirit of Galani . . .

  Had the entire situation in the Manor been the creation of the Lords? Surely not. The tale had been too real, too true. She had felt Galani’s presence and the elf had, in turn, acknowledged hers.

  But perhaps Ephraim had given the matter a nudge. It sounded very much like him.

  And at that moment, the chill voice of the necromancer filled her ears. “You shall come with me, daughter of the Bedlam, willingly or not.”

  Gerrod gasped, ever seeming so real, so alive, despite his being a ghost.

  She looked up into the fleshless, ghoulish visage, steeling herself as she met the Lord’s inhuman, fiery gaze. “What could I do to stop you?”

  “Pragmatic. Like death itself, this is a fate you must accept.” To Gerrod, the necromancer said, “He is here.”

  The ghost dipped his head. “I know. I’ve felt him.”

  “You know when he will be weakest.”

  “Yes, Ephraim.”

  The necromancer laughed. “Come, Gerrod! You act as if you don’t want to live again!” He suddenly clutched Valea by the back of the neck and thrust her face toward that of hooded specter. “Remember . . .”

  Gerrod growled at his tormentor. “Have no fear, Ephraim. I’ll do what I must.”

  The other nodded. “Then it is time to finish this.”

  Valea’s surroundings instantly changed. Instead of the tiny cell, she and Ephraim now stood in a dark and foreboding chamber upon whose floor had been etched a huge pentagram. Within its interior had been inscribed countless runes. The enchantress sensed the immense forces in play the moment she appeared.

  “We are ready,” Ephraim announced.

  Five figures even more grotesque than he stood at the points of the pentagram. As one, they bowed their helmed skulls in concentration. A moment later, their numbers doubled as other Lords took up secondary places within the main pattern.

  Valea tried not to shudder. Around her stood all the necromancers, all the Lords of the Dead. Even despite their monstrous conditions, she was aware that the group wielded tremendous power.

  “Kadaria. You have the slivers?”

  “Here,” said a voice whose femininity startled the enchantress further. So thoroughly decayed were the Lords that she had not even realized that one-no-two of them were women. Now she saw that hints of long hair, once possibly silver, hung limply under the edges of the helmet.

  The female necromancer tossed forth two tiny spheres of glittering black. They paused in the air just before Ephraim and his captive.

  “Bring forth the Bedlam and his pet . . .” the lead spellcaster comm
anded.

  The other ten kept their heads low.

  And to Valea’s horror, her father and Darkhorse both materialized within the pentagram.

  Cabe Bedlam had time only to utter, “What-?” before his eyes suddenly glazed over. Darkhorse reared in fury, but Ephraim touched one of the two spheres and the eternal, too, stilled.

  Tearing herself from the Lord’s grip, Valea went to her father. “What’ve you done to him?”

  “He and the creature are now ours. They thought they kept their foes from possessing their bodies, but that was not the point to the attacks. Our pawns took what we wanted, small slivers of the wizard’s soul and a bit of the demon’s essence. Enough to garner us control over them . . .”

  So she had been correct in that assumption. They had wanted the might of her family for their vile plans.

  “Through them,” Ephraim continued. “We shall take your mother, your sibling, the lionbird, and the rest. They shall all be made to serve us in bringing the perfection of our rule to the realm of the living.”

  “No longer will there be a line between life and death,” added one of the newer arrivals.

  “Now, girl,” the lead necromancer uttered, reaching out to Valea. “It is your turn. Shade is coming . . . and you must be made ready.”

  As one, the other Lords began chanting, their words in some language that Valea had never heard. The entire pattern suddenly flared bright, the runes burning like fire.

  The enchantress felt a sense of vertigo-then discovered herself once again before Ephraim. However, they were no longer alone, for a third figure now hovered next to the prisoner.

  The ghost of Sharissa.

  “Twins born out of sync,” murmured Ephraim. “Such perfect reincarnation! Such uniqueness! It is almost as if time itself seeks to guarantee our victory over our cousin and mastery over the living lands!”

  “Get on with it,” rumbled the male who had last spoken. “This must be done!”

  “It will be, Zorane! It will be because I have planned it so!”

  Ephraim spread his hands to encompass both captives. Valea found that she could no longer move save to breathe. The tiny stone she wore rose and fell as she did, ever touching her skin.

  The necromancer slowly brought his hands toward each other . . . and as he did, Valea felt another presence begin to melt into her body.

  Sharissa’s spirit filled her . . .

  X

  Shade sensed the powerful forces emanating from the castle.

  “So,” he whispered. “They’ve begun.”

  He started up toward the wall, not at all daunted by the lack of any door. When the warlock desired to enter, he would enter.

  Suddenly, something launched from the battlements. Shade did not have to look close to know that they were a pair of Necri.

  “I’ve had quite enough of your kind.” He pointed at the first, which immediately exploded in flames. The Necri’s shriek cut off as the fire swiftly burned it to ash.

  The other creature started to pull up, but its doom had already been set in motion. Shade gave a twist of his wrist and the batlike demon crumpled together, every bone crushed magically. The warlock continued on his trek even as the mangled remnants collided with the ground nearby.

  Coming to the wall, he tested the spells surrounding it. None were beyond him. In fact, most were quite infantile compared to what the warlock had expected. His cousins might as well have created a vast, open gateway for him to walk through. Clearly they desired his presence inside and Shade saw no reason to disappoint them.

  He folded his voluminous cloak about him and disappeared.

  Valea felt the female Vraad’s presence begin to overwhelm her own. It was not that Sharissa wanted to do this; on the contrary, the ghost’s sadness was evident even as she began to take over.

  If Valea hoped to survive at all, she had to pray that her will remained strong enough.

  Galani . . . the enchantress called.

  She sensed the stone stir. When she had decided that she must pursue Shade, put an end to his curse, the enchantress had returned to the place where she had discovered the entrance to the elf’s tomb. She could no longer gain admittance, but that had not been what she had wanted. All that Valea had desired was a tiny piece of that which surrounded Galani-the Wyr Stone. She had hoped to use its intricate properties to transform things in order to craft a spell to imprison Shade, then change him from the cursed warlock to a harmless and quite mortal being.

  To her surprise, though, not only had the piece chipped free with barely any effort-but upon touching it, Valea had sensed the presence of her former incarnation. Galani intended to be with her on this quest, doing what she could.

  No, Ephraim might have somehow stirred the matter up, but the elf’s desire to help had been very real. Now, Valea needed that help in a different way than she had intended.

  There were suddenly three minds within her head. Valea felt Sharissa’s confusion. The latter’s invasion faltered as she confronted two wills, not one.

  “Hold!” Ephraim immediately shouted. “Something is wrong!” He strode up to Valea, waving one hand across her form. Immediately it halted where the stone hung.

  The necromancer hissed and tore at her garment, revealing the source of his frustration. Valea could do nothing as he seized the piece and pulled it free.

  But as he did, a sense of total displacement enveloped her. A tremendous force pulled her from her own body and into an eternal whiteness. Valea looked around, found nothing. She put a hand to her face . . .

  And discovered she had neither fingers nor face to touch.

  Somehow . . . somehow her spirit had become ensnared in the Wyr Stone.

  Gerrod waited. He knew that Shade would come to him. Like a fly drawn to honey, the other piece of him could not stay away from that for which it had ever searched.

  Gerrod stood in the courtyard, where Ephraim had told him to make the encounter. The ghost waited, head down, knowing that the meeting was imminent.

  He sensed Shade before he heard him.

  “So . . . there you are.”

  The specter looked up. He felt no fear, no anxiety, when he stared into that blur that was all the visage that Shade could ever have. No, Gerrod only felt sadness . . . and not just for the two parts of him. He felt sadness for what was taking place and what the Lords would do when they had what they wanted.

  But he had no choice but to obey if he wanted to live.

  “I admit . . . I was startled when I knew that it would be you,” Shade went on. “I expected more from you.”

  “You know me as well as yourself,” Gerrod chided. “You know what I want.”

  “And I’m supposed to give it to you?”

  “You’ve no choice.” The ghost stamped the floor. As with his cell, it reacted to him as if he was as solid as the figure before him.

  The crash of his boot echoed in their otherwise silent surroundings. Immediately, a huge pattern covering the entire courtyard flashed bright crimson.

  Shade sought to react, but it was already too late. He had no hope of leaving now. He could barely even move. His arms, his legs, everything acted in slow motion. Gerrod had a twang of guilt, seeing how his shell struggled in the face of the inevitable. Almost he could imagine the torment on the unseen countenance.

  “You shouldn’t battle so,” the ghost said, closing on him. “I’ll be giving you peace. You could’ve never had what you wanted . . .”

  “Neither . . . can . . . you . . .”

  “I’ll live.”

  The warlock struggled futilely. “At what . . . cost? As . . . Ephraim’s p-puppet? What . . . what is life . . . when the Lords . . . take over . . . the living?”

  Gerrod drew back in bitterness. “Be silent! What would you know about life? A shell seeking to be real? You were doomed from the start because you weren’t even our true self!” He beat his chest twice. “I am Gerrod Tezerenee! You are nothing but a walking mockery of my existence! When I�
��ve taken over, I will be whole again!”

  “And the Lords . . . will have . . . won. And the . . . Land . . . will have won . . .”

  “What do you mean?”

  The murky features almost came into focus. “The Lords’ rule . . . will be short . . . in the scheme of things. In the end . . . the Land . . . will do with them . . . as it has . . . the Seekers . . . the Quel . . . and others. Only this time . . . the humans . . . the hope . . . will go with them . . .”

  “You’re stalling,” Gerrod decided. He started toward the warlock again. “Stalling the inevitable.”

  “And when you . . . are me . . . the Land . . . will have its greatest . . . triumph,” Shade went on despite his approaching doom. “Gerrod Tezerenee. Not Shade. You will live . . . you will change . . . the Land will finally alter you as it did our people . . .”

  “No . . . I will live! I will be me! I will have all I wanted!”

  “All you wanted?” The warlock’s head dipped low as his battle against the spell failed. “Any care . . . Sharissa had for one lowly . . . Gerrod Tezerenee . . . will die as surely as she.”

  “Sharissa will live, too!” the ghost declared, his hand almost upon the captive’s chest. They both knew what would happen when he touched the warlock. “She will live! I give her the greatest gift-”

  “As Ephraim’s. Cursing life . . . cursing you.” Shade shrugged, then leaned forward. “Do what you must. I look forward to missing the world you will help shape.”

  With a frustrated roar, Gerrod thrust his hand into Shade’s ribs. It sank in without hesitation. The warlock roared in agony. The ghost pressed forward.

  And as he did, he sensed the tumultuous emotions and thoughts racing through Shade’s mind-his mind.

  Gerrod gasped, almost pulled his hand back in horror. He had never expected to find such a rich trove of sensations-of life-within.

  Then his eyes hardened. “No . . . I will do it!”

  He entered the screaming captive.

  XI