He met her gaze, then looked away in guilt. Shade had carried the guilt of many lives for many centuries, but for some reason that guilt burned as great as the fire that had consumed so many innocent dwarves, including their vaunted king.
Only a few of the hundreds—thousands—of victims . . . I should be used to it. I should be inured to the deaths. I should be . . . why do they feel so fresh now?
Shade knew. It was her. She made him feel this renewed guilt! She was responsible.
His fury rose. Why should he suffer because of her? Because of any of them? The dwarves were his enemies, just as the Bedlams—everyone—was.
“Somethin’ ails him?” Magron asked, pushing toward Shade.
The sorcerer was about to snap at the dwarf when Valea suddenly interceded. She put her arms around Shade and explained, “He’s been ill of late. It’ll pass.”
And to Shade’s surprise, the anger dwindled. He regained his breath and straightened. “Forgive me.”
Magron shrugged. “Nothin’ contagious, hmm?”
“No . . .” Shade had almost added that it was nothing with which the dwarf should concern himself but realized that if Valea had not stepped in, it was possible that the sorcerer’s darker side might have created the potential for another disaster here.
She held on to him a moment more, then stepped back. Shade felt a slight emptiness at her retreat. What is happening to you, you fool? Whatever ties she might have to Sharissa, she is not Sharissa!
No, he thought the next second. She is Valea Bedlam.
Before his already-stressed mind could delve further into why that response would come to him, Edrin took control again.
“’Tis getting near dark. Best you don’t be goin’ outside now whether spellcasters or not. Not be safe, especially if’n your man here’s not well.”
“What—what’s so dangerous out there?”
“Drakes, o’ course!” snapped Magron much too quickly for Shade’s taste. “Drakes.”
Valea also did not seem convinced. “But Iron’s clan was all but decimated with him and the remnants have joined the confederation farther northeast of this region. Are you talking about them?”
“Aye.” Edrin cut off any more discussion on the topic by gesturing toward a side tunnel. “You’ll be spending the night with us. Magron’ll show you where.”
He did not so much explain as command, leaving no room for either to decline his offer. Edrin also did not seem concerned that the two might simply cast a spell and depart. Shade felt he should know why but could not recollect.
“Thank you,” the enchantress quickly responded. The dwarven ruler nodded, then indicated that Magron should lead them away.
They journeyed through the passage to another one before finally coming to a small chamber that might have passed for living quarters if not for the iron door bolted into the entrance. The pair took one look at it, then at Magron.
“The door’s for yer own safety. Ye bolt it from the inside.”
And there will be guards not that far away on the outside, Shade suspected.
A female dwarf arrived with a tray bearing two wooden bowls containing a rich meat stew. Alongside each bowl was a hunk of coarse, dark bread and a goblet of wine.
“Rabbit,” Magron explained with a grin. “With sage. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” the enchantress said politely, taking the tray. Shade simply nodded to the dwarves.
Not until the door slammed and they were alone did Valea let the mask slip. Exhausted more than she had let on, she stared wide-eyed at him and demanded, “What happened to you back there?”
He was blunt. “The medallion may stabilize my form and grant me the facade of normalcy, but my curse remains. More than once, I have felt my personality shifting.”
“You mean—”
“I mean that you are in danger and I curse the Dragon King for binding us together!”
Her reaction was not as he expected. She looked more disappointed in him than afraid for herself. For some reason, that bothered him as much as his brief slip into darkness. “Since you are reluctantly bound to me, I think it might be a good idea if you tell me just what is going on.”
“By that, you mean my unholy alliance with the lord of Legar.” Before continuing, Shade concentrated. The results were as he expected. “As we cannot transport ourselves out of Hariak”—to her credit, Cabe’s daughter did not show shock at this revelation—“I will explain what I can.” And not all that I could.
She looked over her shoulder at the doorway, sharing Shade’s interest in how secure they really were from other ears. Shade made a slight gesture, then nodded when she looked back. They might be unable to depart, but their magic worked well enough to allow him to create a sphere of silence.
“I am Vraad,” he began. “I know that, but much of my past is shadow even to me, lost because of my foul and foolish spell.”
“The spell?”
“You may ask me about it a hundred times over, but it remains the deepest-buried of my memories. I cannot recall how I cast it nor where it went awry. I vaguely remember my first awakening, when I believed that I had somehow succeeded. Only when death came to me and I was reborn did I realize the terrible truth.”
He sat down on one of the two stone platforms that passed for beds in the chamber. Dwarves were not used to a soft life and their beds reflected that. As Shade looked down in thought, Valea sat just out of arm’s reach next to him. She stretched a hand toward him, but unlike when he had suffered the bout in the central chamber, this time the enchantress appeared tentative. The hand finally settled near her own knee.
Shade began again as they ate. “I am Vraad. Born of a race of arrogant sorcerers with the power to match that arrogance. That memory remains with me no matter which incarnation. Son of Barakas Tezerenee, patriarch of the most powerful clan to have ever existed among the Vraad . . .”
Splintered images of his father coursed through his memory. On a whim, he used those memories to cast a vision before them.
Valea gasped. Barakas Tezerenee was built like a veteran warrior, strong of limb and with cold, calculating eyes made more disturbing by their crystalline nature. He wore dark armor of a dragonscale design that was much too akin to that used by the Dragon Kings when they transformed into their humanoid shapes.
“Dragon Kings . . . ,” she murmured.
In answer to her suspicions, he looked her in the eye. Valea gasped again.
“Your father likely knows this. The Gryphon, too. Perhaps some of the drake lords suspect. I believe the Crystal Dragon does. Yes, Valea Bedlam, the first Dragon Kings were Vraad. They were, in fact, my many brothers.”
He expected her to see him as mad, but after a moment of gaping, the enchantress closed her mouth and nodded. “It explains so much I’ve seen over the years. Cryptic notes by my father.” She shook her head. “But why change themselves so?”
“They did not. The change came upon them and they could not stop it. Those transformed were among the party that chose to use a unique manner by which to travel from the world we’d ruined to this one. By magic, they created from beyond the boundaries between the two realms host bodies, human in form, but, thanks to my father’s perverse tastes, drawn from the greatest of the beasts discovered here.”
“Dragons.”
“Yes, dragons. The plan was without flaw, so it was thought. Then, shortly after my father had set up his new kingdom and sought to force the other Vraad to submit to his rule, the transformations began.”
Shade shivered, for as he spoke, more and more memories long lost returned to him. One in particular haunted him. He saw his father striking through the throat of a great dragon, slaying the leviathan easily. The dragon’s own attack had been clumsy, suicidal even.
Only after it was dead did his father reveal to him that it had once been Shade’s mother.
“No . . . not my mother,” the sorcerer said, correcting himself. “Gerrod Tezerenee’s mother. I am but a twisted r
eflection of him.”
“No!” She leaned close. “You are Gerrod! Changed, maybe, but you are Gerrod!”
He eyed her with pity. “Valea Bedlam, this is not some fairy tale your mother read you when you were a child. I am not some tragic hero you can bring to salvation! I have willingly caused the deaths of countless innocents, as you have heard from our hosts! I am not Gerrod Tezerenee. I am and ever will be Shade. Call me that here and forever on.”
She did not answer him at first, instead only staring at him as if he had slapped her in the face. After a lengthy silence, the enchantress quietly answered, “First, I am Valea. You need not refer to me as if I’m my father. Second, no matter how many lives you’ve lived, don’t patronize me. Yes, there was a time when I dreamed like that, but I’ve watched people die, seen close friends betray one another, and learned more about the bloody history of this land than nearly anyone else. I was there when the ghost of Gerrod Tezerenee and the sorcerer Shade became one and both tried to sacrifice themselves for me and my family. I will—”
But now Valea was cut off as someone banged on the door. Shade quickly removed the silence spell. The pair shared one last gaze, Valea’s indicating that both his story and their argument would be continued.
Barely had the banging ceased when Magron barged through. His entry verified Shade’s earlier suspicion that they walked a fine line between being guests and prisoners.
“Come with me,” was all the dwarf would say, but his voice held an edge to it.
Valea rose. “Is there something wrong?”
Magron continued back out the door.
Shade took the lead. They still had their powers. If it came to it, they could fight their way out. Between the pair of them, they represented tremendous ability.
Of course, Shade reminded himself, the dwarves are well aware of that, too.
Out in the corridor they found awaiting them a new escort of six sturdy warriors, two of them female. The dwarves flanked the duo. Magron led them on.
They did not start back in the direction they had come, but rather turned down what appeared a less-traveled passage. There were none of the glowing worms here—round white crystals dully illuminated the path instead. There was also a layer of dust on the floor that had not been evident in the other areas; dust could be expected in a cavern, but this layer gave all indication that few dwarves utilized this tunnel. Only a few scattered prints here and there gave evidence that someone had actually been through here in recent times.
“Where are we going?” Valea finally asked. Shade was grateful for her question, certain that she had a better chance of its being answered than he did.
“Not much farther,” Magron rumbled. He sounded lost in thought.
The answer was of little value, but fortunately, or not, they soon came to the end of the passage. Ahead stood four stern guards protecting a pair of iron doors that made the earlier one seem frail.
Shade sensed Valea tensing at the same time. Every indication was that the dwarves had decided to imprison them after all. Worse, as they neared, the sorcerer detected potent protective spells possibly capable of muting their abilities.
He was about to risk a battle when a hideous, bestial cry erupted from behind the doors. The cry was followed by a commotion.
Magron grew upset. “They were supposed to have that thing safely bound!”
He rushed forward, the escort urging the spellcasters to follow suit. A brief, more muffled growl followed, then silence.
The sentries had turned to the doors, their weapons ready in case something within burst out. They gratefully let Magron take command. He had two of them seize the door rings while the other two and the escort readied to take on anything coming at them. Briefly, Shade and Valea were forgotten, but neither attempted to flee. Not only would the act have been futile, but Shade had a dreadful feeling that he needed to see what had made that sound.
“Hold on,” Magron quietly ordered. He rapped on the door twice, then stepped back.
There was a reply knock from within, followed by the sound of a metal bolt being slid aside. The two guards slowly pulled the doors open.
“Inside,” Magron ordered.
Shade tried unsuccessfully to see past the dwarves. Whatever the cell held was not visible from the entrance.
As he entered, there came the savage rattling of chains from his left. At the same time, the doors slammed behind the party and someone bolted them again. They were now imprisoned with the beast.
“Stand away!” a voice identical to Magron’s shouted. Edrin shoved aside another dwarf who had been too slow in keeping out of the reach of the huge fiend shackled to the stone wall. Long, deadly claws sought to rip the guard’s face off but only managed to leave three red scars.
Valea gripped his arm. “A Necri!”
As if stirred by the fact that someone recognized what it was, the winged horror renewed its thrashing. The iron chains strained to hold the chiropteran creature and Shade marveled that plain metal could manage. He suspected that there were subtle spells on the chains only notable with careful examination that only a suicidal fool would attempt at the moment.
The Necri’s dead eyes looked over the newcomers as if seeking its next victim. They paused briefly on Valea, who, to her credit, stood unflinching.
Then the monster focused on the sorcerer.
A strange, unsettling quiet overcame the Necri. The imprisoned demon hissed something that the leather straps tied tightly around its short maw prevented the gathered group from hearing clearly.
“Now what’s it doin’?” Edrin asked. “Thing’s even spookier than when it was roarin’ its head off!”
Over and over, the Necri slowly repeated the same single sound. All that time, it stared at the sorcerer.
“Should we unbind the mouth?” asked one guard.
Edrin scoffed. “You want ta lose a finger or two, or maybe your whole hand?”
The other dwarf shook his head.
The Necri was relentless in its hissing. Shade glanced at Valea and saw that she was eyeing him in turn. In her gaze he read her recognition of what the monster was endlessly repeating, a single word that he had understood immediately. After all, the Necri continued to stare right at him.
Shade . . . , it called, . . . Shade . . .
XII
THE GHOSTS
RAVOS DISMOUNTED and stepped to the side of the hill his army had just passed. The duke glanced around, sensed no one in the area, then quickly dropped to one knee.
The spell he cast was a simple one. A swirl of blue energy formed before him, becoming a circular image roughly two feet in diameter. In the middle of that image, a shape in no way human coalesced.
The burning eyes of the immense ebony dragon looked directly at Ravos.
“Father,” the drake whispered, briefly lowered his head in homage.
“Ravos . . . my heir . . . ,” was the gasping reply. To any who heard the voice, it was as if the dragon struggled for air with each word.
The duke did not miss the use of the term “heir.” There had been three elder siblings before him, all hatched from eggs with the rare markings. All three of them had at some point been executed for their ambitions. It was not safe to be the heir of a Dragon King, especially this one. Ravos had worked hard to become indispensable and now everything was falling into place.
“We are nearly upon Penacles. The attack is imminent.”
“The City . . . of Knowledge . . . must be hit . . . with all I have . . . given you.”
“It shall be.”
The image receded, revealing more of the cavern housing the Black Dragon. Now the heavy grey mists of Lochivar could be seen drifting from Ravos’s father. The Dragon King had only ceased breathing them in order to speak to his offspring.
And also evident now was the “gift” of the necromancers, an octagonal device crafted from black amber, rarer than diamond. Yet, the amber itself was only the housing for the sinister spell with which the Lords o
f the Dead had imbued it. The spell enabled the Black Dragon to breathe out the mists without pause, reinforcing the fanaticism of Lochivar’s warriors and spreading fear among the defenders of Penacles.
“The accursssed . . . Bedlams . . . and that foul abom—abomination the Gryphon . . . mussst be kept . . . unable to detect our . . . true effortsss . . .” A manic tone tinged his words, a tone which had long since become familiar to Ravos. With it came increased sibilance, a further sign of the drake’s fading control.
“They will be.”
“And we . . . must be ready . . . when the tower . . . is found . . .”
Ravos lowered his head again. “We will be.”
A fit of coughing made him look up. In the image, the dragon hacked as if strangling. Ravos quickly lowered his head again before the Dragon King recovered. The Black Dragon had slain servants for lesser transgressions.
“The . . . tower . . . ,” the drake lord rasped, recovering. “The phoenix will transss—transform me . . . make me . . . whole again . . . and I . . . will rule forever!”
“Soon, Father. Soon will come the glorious day.”
The Black Dragon looked away. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled more of the sinister mists. Guided by his will, it floated from view, not only adding to the potency of that cloaking Lochivar but spreading toward southeastern Penacles.
Aware that he had been dismissed, Ravos let his spell dissipate. Staring at the spot where he had viewed his sire, the duke let out a low, mocking hiss. He smiled, revealing his sharp, sharp teeth.
“I will be ready, my Father . . . and the tower and its secrets will be mine alone . . . not the necromancers’ . . . not yours . . .”
A brief sound made him quickly look to the side. But instead of one of the shadowy spellcasters, it was a pair of human warriors who had paused to deal with matters of nature.
It was almost certain that they had heard nothing of the conversation nor of Ravos’s comment afterward. Still, the duke drew his sword. Neither the tower nor his intention of betraying his father could go beyond this spot.
The warriors noticed him coming. Each slapped a fist against their chest.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Shade Page 14
