Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04

by Richard A. Knaak

  But he had another, more immediate matter on his mind. A short teleportation spell would send him near to his destination. The sooner he investigated the site, the sooner he could be away from here.

  Reaching out with his mind, he touched Hala’s ever so carefully. Do you sense me?

  I do.

  He did not probe her thoughts deeper, desiring only to maintain the link. Hala was a very capable young woman. She would be prepared to act should the need arise.

  Materializing a moment later as close to the estimated location as he dared, the wizard gazed around. Little seemed different from where he had just left Hala. The river continued along its course and more herons nested in the distance. A few squawked at him as they soared overhead. The area looked beguilingly peaceful, if much more shadowed.

  He sensed a faint magical signature from the nearest mountain and headed that direction. It was very likely he would find nothing. What would the missing youths be doing out here?

  The pale moon appeared over the peak. Once more memories flashed, this time memories of a brave band of mages seeking to free their kind from drake rule.

  Cabe stumbled to a halt. Faces he did not know—and yet did—passed before his eyes. Among them he saw one very much like his own, so much so that he knew it could only be his grandfather’s.

  Then . . . Nathan Bedlam’s face turned about, became a mask that became Cabe’s visage . . . .

  And suddenly he stood with the others, a group of four, this time, four if one did not count the hissing bronze dragon upon which one of the wizards rode.

  “I cannot foresee the best outcome of this,” Yalak commented, his tall, lanky body topped by an oversized head covered in gray and silver hair. He lowered what he called the Egg, a rounded, glass artifact he most favored when trying to view that which might be. “I have looked in every direction of the future, but nothing takes dominance. We win or we lose.”

  “Well, that was pretty useless,” grumbled Basil. Clad in armor and cloak, he looked more like a warrior than a wizard and, in truth, his spells were all more akin to the ways of the former. He preferred direct battle, not subterfuge.

  “We’ll have to go ahead, regardless of the outcome, then,” Cabe’s own mouth said. The voice was deeper than Cabe’s, however, deeper yet much more weary. One robed arm pointed up at the brown-robed figure atop the dragon. “What say you, Tragaro?”

  “You know my opinion, Nathan,” Tragaro retorted. His trim, black beard and penetrating, pale eyes gave him an ominous appearance. He turned his gaze to the beast upon which he rode, patting its head as if the drake was preferable company. From his tone, clearly he and the others had been at odds for some time on the subject they discussed.

  Nathan/Cabe sighed. “Each of us has an equal voice in all matters. That was agreed on long ago.”

  “And yet it is ever the Bedlams who lead the way. First you, Nathan, and now you foist your sons upon us as our leaders! Dayn, perhaps, but Azran is unstable, as bad a seed as any Dragon King!”

  Basil snorted. “Says the man who mesmerizes drakes to fight their own!”

  The dragon appeared to take offense at this remark. The leviathan hissed sharply at Basil.

  “Be still, Sssorak!”

  The dragon lowered his head, chastened. “Yesss, Massster Tragaro.”

  “My sons are my sons,” Nathan/Cabe responded, biting back anger. “And they are loyal to our cause . . . ”

  Loyal to our cause . . .

  Loyal to our—

  With a grunt of pain, Cabe nearly keeled over. He clutched the nearest formation, trying to steady himself. Even the surge of power that had struck him during his visit to the inn had not dealt so harsh a blow.

  Yet, the pain passed very quickly. The pain, yes, but not the recollection of what he had experienced.

  In his first years as a wizard, he had lived through similar episodes. Memories from his grandfather, inherited by Cabe when Nathan himself, seeking to save his dying grandson, imbued a part of his own spirit, his very soul, into the infant. For a time, that had meant that, in a sense, they had been two in one.

  In the end, that which was Nathan had sacrificed itself in combat with the fatalistic Ice Dragon. Relived memories such as this had ended at that time.

  So why, Cabe now asked himself, am I experiencing them again?

  Head still clearing, he glanced up at the rocks.

  A young man with flowing brown hair half-hidden under the hood of his light green robe stared down blankly at the wizard.

  Cabe took a cautious step back—and noticed a dark-skinned woman little older than the man perched upon another rock. She wore robes identical to her companion.

  Without turning, he sensed at least four more figures standing in various locations above and around him.

  Cabe had found the missing youths . . . and they had found him.

  Cautiously raising his hand, he called out, “Hello!”

  They remained silent, their eyes never leaving him, never even blinking once.

  Then, the first figure suddenly raised both arms toward the wizard, cupping the hands together as if catching something precious within.

  The hair on the back of Cabe’s neck rose as he felt an incredible onrush of power.

  The hands opened.

  A fierce ball of glittering emerald energy burst toward the master wizard, growing rapidly as it approached. Cabe stood his ground, only raising one hand in defense.

  Barely an inch from his open palm, the monstrous sphere exploded, dissipating rapidly in a blinding display of green sparks.

  One did not survive long as a spellcaster in the Dragonrealm without keeping some defensive spells handy.

  He did not bother to talk to them again. Their eyes, their mechanical movements said it all. They were under some sort of control, either a spell or mesmerism or—

  Mesmerism. There had been something about mesmerism in the flashback Cabe had suffered . . . .

  He had no time to worry about that. Someone had control over several very capable novices and had melded them into one linked unit. They had underestimated Cabe’s abilities, however. He sensed he could defeat them yet, but he had to give warning to Hala so that she, in turn, could let Darkhorse know. With Darkhorse to aid him, rounding up these poor puppets would be child’s play.

  The same young male began focusing power. Cabe realized that he intended an attack identical to the first. Apparently the puppets had limited skills.

  As he prepared to deflect the second assault, Cabe opened his mind to the Gordagian. Hala! I’ve found—”

  Searing pain erupted in his head and raced quickly through his entire system. Dropping to his knees, he screamed. Only barely did Cabe recognize that the horrendous assault on his mind and body came, not from those around him, but through the young woman to whom he had linked his thoughts.

  But by then it was too late.

  The stench of decay filled his nostrils, stirring Cabe from the comforting darkness. He tried to stretch aching muscles, but found neither his arms nor his legs would move. His limbs were pulled tight, so much so that he wondered whether they would soon tear free of his helpless torso.

  “You are awake, Bedlam . . . do not play that you are not.”

  With tremendous effort, Cabe forced open his eyes.

  He floated, untethered, high above the ruined floor of an immense cavern. Nothing physical bound his arms and legs; he simply floated helpless and immobile.

  Torchlight enabled him to barely make out at the edge of his vision the source of the stench. A huge dragon, several days dead, lay sprawled to one side. Its armored exterior had been pierce several times over by scores of sharp stalactites and stalagmites.

  “They are most promising students, my children are.”

  Without warning, Cabe plummeted earthward. Only at the last did he suddenly swerve upright, coming to float just a few feet directly before a figure seated on what the wizard recognized as the ruined throne of a Dragon King.
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  “Soon, with my expert guidance, they will become masters. Dragon Masters.”

  The many implications of the audacious declaration sent chills through Cabe. His captor spoke as if he knew the Dragon Masters well, spoke, in fact, as if he had been one of them.

  But of the Dragon Masters, only Cabe’s wife had survived, and she had only done so because of being trapped for two hundred years in a magical block of amber cast by Azran. The rest had all perished during or just after the Turning War.

  The smiling mask of bronze did nothing to assuage Cabe. Nor did the grin behind the smile, for it held a cunning madness the likes of which he had not seen since confronting his father.

  “Who are you?” he finally blurted.

  His question caused a narrowing of the pale eyes within, eyes that should have been familiar. “Nathan was a much quicker sort, whatever his failings. The memory I supplied you should’ve been sufficient to introduce me, to remind you . . . ”

  Nathan . . . the Dragon Masters . . . the memory had been an implanted one, not part of his grandfather’s legacy.

  The other Dragon Masters. There had been several, but Cabe had met two as undead—Basil and the scholarly Tyr—and knew of Yalak. Of the handful in the vision, only one matched at all what glimpses Cabe could get of the face behind the mocking mask.

  “Tragaro?”

  Now the eyes gleamed. They were demanding eyes, ever snaring Cabe’s view. He wanted to look around him, concentrate on escape . . . but Tragaro’s eyes would not let him.

  “The grandson will redeem the sins of the father and grandfather. How appropriate. I thought to simply slay you first, to pay for their betrayals, but this is so much more justice! The Dragon Masters will achieve their goal at last! The drake menace will be cleansed from the land, only their stinking carcasses,” the other wizard gestured at the huge corpse. “left as monuments to their foul reign.”

  “But the Dragon Masters are dead!” argued Cabe.

  “No more . . . I have rebuilt them.” With a wave of his hand, he raised Cabe up so that the prisoner could see the gathering figures. In addition to the ones who had confronted Cabe, several others now stood awaiting Tragaro’s word. Cabe counted more than a dozen.

  At their head stood Hala and the young man who had confronted him in the pass.

  “I have trained them. They’ll be more unified than the first Dragon Masters were. They will obey my commands utterly! This time, there will be no treachery . . . ”

  Cabe was very certain that they would obey. Gazing at each face, even Hala’s, he saw the same blank expression. Puppets, indeed. Obedient to every whim of the figure on the throne.

  Tragaro brought his captive back to him. Behind the mask, the eyes glared. “The betrayal of the Bedlams left me injured and my mind ruined. For generations, I did not even know myself! Then, gradually, it all came back. The ambitions, the hopes, the deceits, the failures. I finally knew what I needed to do, but it took time, planning . . . and now all comes together at last!”

  “There’s no need for this! The power of the drakes is failing, Tragaro! At least half of the Dragon Kings are dead, some of the others in precarious positions. Most of the human lands are independent! It is only a matter of time before—”

  The masked mage clutched tight the arms of the throne. He leaned forward and hissed, “Time isss up! The drakes will be crushed utterly and the land put to order! There will not be one stinking reptile left!” Tragaro relaxed, smiling. “And you will make the dream a reality quicker than I had even hoped.”

  All the while they had spoken, Cabe had been carefully probing with his senses the spells holding him in place. He had a suspicion as to how to unbind himself, but he needed just a few moments more.

  “You’ll receive no help from me and there are others who will keep you from this genocide. Drakes and humans are beginning to learn to live together! At the Manor alone—”

  “I am aware of your disgusting experiment, the housing of drakes and people in one settlement, working together like brothers and sisters!” He slammed his fist on the stone. “Never!”

  “Tragaro—”

  “And as for other opposition, Bedlam . . . they will either see the light of day, as you will . . . or they will be obstacles quickly removed.” The hooded figure held out his hand. In the palm, a tiny red sphere materialized. “As the demon steed has been.”

  Cabe glanced into the sphere—and saw Darkhorse racing along a stretch of trail. The scene went on for three, four seconds . . . then repeated itself. After the fourth viewing, he realized what the mad mage was trying to show him.

  Darkhorse was imprisoned in a time loop.

  Dismissing the sphere, Tragaro clapped his hands. “It is time for the newest to be added our ranks! Bring him forth!”

  Two more robed figures stepped from a passage nearby, dragging between them someone familiar to Cabe.

  “Den!”

  The Gordagian glanced up, squinting. His lenses were nowhere to be seen. “Master Bedlam?”

  “There is only one master here,” their captor interjected. “Come to me.”

  Den was pulled bodily before Tragaro, then made to look into the Dragon Master’s eyes.

  “You become a part of a legacy few are worthy of being,” Tragaro informed Den. “You will shape the future, recreate the world . . . ”

  His eyes never blinked. The two figures holding Den made certain that the latter could not turn away nor even shut his own eyes. He had to look into Tragaro’s.

  “My mind is your mind, my thoughts your thoughts. As I command, so shall you act . . . ”

  Den briefly struggled, then suddenly relaxed. He stared at the Dragon Master, now also never blinking.

  Tragaro leaned back again. “Join the others.”

  No longer held, Den stiffly backed away alongside his former guards. In silence he moved next to Hala, then awaited Tragaro’s next command.

  But the masked wizard looked instead to Cabe.

  “Now . . . you shall join us, Bedlam.”

  VII

  Darkhorse ran. Darkhorse ran again. And again. And again.

  And in contrast to most trapped in such a spell, a niggling little part of his mind remained aware of the infernal repetition. That part grew more and more adamant in its refusal to remain imprisoned so.

  But while there had been Den to aid him in escaping the first trap, now the shadow steed had only himself. What the human had suggested had worked perfectly because there were two of them, one to focus all his energies one direction, the other to do so on the opposite. To escape this loop, the Darkhorse had to rely only on himself.

  As he again raced along the short stretch, Darkhorse sought some weakness in the loop. He already knew what he would find, though. Each repetition—and there had been hundreds of them by this point—had revealed only that the spell had been sealed completely, clearly the work of a master mage.

  Yet—to his astonishment, when Darkhorse dared check once more, it was to indeed sense a weakness. A minute one, yes, a weakness most victims would have been unable to take advantage of, but for the eternal it offered hope. The only hope he had.

  As the loop repeated once more, he probed at the weakness, tried to further stress it. Each time the trap began its vicious cycle, Darkhorse pushed more, stretching the weak point to its utmost.

  The path shimmered . . . then stabilized again.

  Others might have been completely discouraged, but Darkhorse saw the brief shimmering as proof he was near to success. He focused his power upon the stress point again and again. The danger constantly existed that if he wore himself out too much, he might lose what hold he had and become completely immersed in the trap. If that happened, he would never escape . . . and would not even realized any more that he had wanted to do so.

  Yet again he struck at the weakened area.

  The path shimmered . . . then twisted in a madcap arc that defied the laws of nature. The sudden shift threw the eternal into a swirlin
g, chaotic landscape in which earth became sky, then earth, then sky, and so on.

  “I will not be imprisoned!” he roared.

  Of all things Darkhorse feared, imprisonment was perhaps the most monstrous. There had been incidents during his long visit to the Dragonrealm when he had been captured and held by the whims of others, forced to exist in tiny, black spaces without any certainty of ever tasting freedom again. Born in the endless, open Void, such prisons were worse than death to him.

  Urged on by such notions, Darkhorse pushed harder, striking at the weak point even as he vainly sought to reach a stable footing.

  And suddenly . . . the entire world collapsed in on him.

  The fear that he had made his situation more terrible faded almost immediately as the eternal’s surroundings normalized. In a most uncharacteristic fashion for him, the ebony stallion clumsily steered off the path and crashed into a copse of trees. Any other creature would have shattered their bones against the trunks, but instead Darkhorse merely melted through them.

  He came to a rest several yards up an incline, thoughts still in a tangle. Shaking his head, Darkhorse cleared his mind. The first thing he noticed was that the sun was now early in the sky, meaning that at least one night had passed. Hoping that it had been no longer than that, the stallion immediately began searching the area, his fear for the humans, especially Cabe, mounting.

  Of Den he noted no physical sign, but when Darkhorse searched with other senses, he noticed a faint magical signature which vaguely resembled the young Gordagian’s. Uncertain whether or not he merely headed toward another trap, the shadow steed raced after the dissipating trace.

  Yet, he had barely covered more than a few miles when he came across a sight entirely unexpected.

  A column of Gordagian troops on horseback, General Majjin at their head, moved methodically toward the north.

  Racing ahead, Darkhorse came around toward the front of the column, nearly materializing before Majjin himself.

  The general’s horse reared in surprise. Majjin cursed at both the animal and Darkhorse, the latter receiving some exceptionally virulent expletives.