Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04

by Richard A. Knaak

  A bony, blackened hand clutched Cabe’s throat from behind. Twisting, he stared into the sightless sockets of Den’s skeletal visage.

  The knowledge of just who he faced nearly did Cabe in . . . no doubt exactly as Tragaro intended. The regrets, the hindsight, they stifled Cabe’s reaction, made it hard for him to consider any escape.

  His air cut off, his heart pounding madly, Cabe struck wildly at Den’s skeletal form. Yet, the ghoulish corpse did not explode as it should have. Instead, the force of Cabe’s spell scattered in every direction, even at its own caster.

  That which had been the novice wizard pulled Cabe high, dangling the struggling mage like a trapped animal.

  Cabe shut his eyes.

  Den shuddered and released his victim as a lance that gleamed as bright as the sun pierced his burnt torso where the heart had once beat. The corpse staggered back.

  Utilizing what magic he could, the wizard landed somewhat unsteadily on his feet. Rubbing his throat, he watched as the Sunlance suddenly flared. From his grandfather, Cabe had inherited the ability to call upon the Light Of Kylus—the last the elven name for the sun—and create a gleaming shaft that always struck its mark. The first time he had used the ability had been by pure accident, when the Dragon King Brown had attempted to kill him.

  But where Brown had simply fallen dead, the animated corpse now glowed as brightly as the lance. The light grew brighter, blinding. Cabe could no longer even see the dead Gordagian’s form.

  Then, with one last sudden flare, the Sunlance vanished again . . . and with it went the last traces of Den.

  “A Sunlancer . . . ” Tragaro’s voice declared . . . for once a hint of respect in it. “The Bedlam isss a Sunlancer.”

  Still gasping for breath, Cabe turned to meet the Dragon Master. He took little pleasure in the fact that Tragaro also breathed heavily. At least the elder mage could stand without the fear of teetering. “A Sunlancer, yes. It’s a family tradition. One I’ll share with you firsthand unless you give in now.”

  Tragaro laughed harshly. “You are in no condition to summon a second such marvel, Bedlam. Your last trick is played, whereas I have still one more at hand . . . ”

  His strength nearly depleted, Cabe nonetheless tried to ready himself. The longer he delayed, the more likely that Darkhorse would have the other situation resolved. Bereft of his mesmerized slaves, Tragaro would be a danger more possibly contained.

  If Cabe survived, that is.

  The masked figure simply stood there, both mouths grinning. Cabe tried his best to detect some twinge of spellcasting, some hint that his foe was preparing his next magical attack. Tragaro was too far away for any physical assault, even with a dagger, and against such mundane assaults, the younger mage kept himself well-protected, anyway.

  Then, Tragaro opened his mouth.

  Out came a thick stream of pure flame.

  Darkhorse expected Tragaro’s ensorcelled pupils to continue their assault against him, but, to his dismay, they turned from the shadow steed and instead renewed their efforts against General Majjin.

  Rather than have the good sense to retreat, the Gordagian commander ordered his men off their horses. The soldiers spread out through the pass, trying to get near the mages. Several had bows out, the intention obvious. Majjin planned to save the kidnapped spellcasters even if he had to kill them to do it.

  Yet, it was Majjin’s men who suffered loss. The first archers to get close enough to have a chance suddenly found the earth opening under them. Two men screamed as they plummeted into the sudden chasm. Another scrambled to safety, only to have an unnatural wind thrust him back over the gap. He plunged, his cry cut off as the chasm shut tight again.

  Majjin, however, was not one to be daunted even in the face of deadly odds. He continued to spread out his forces, perhaps trying to draw the mages into too many fronts and thereby splinter their efforts.

  But the robed figures seemed not at all put off by the general’s tactics. The tremors increased and rock slides began everywhere. Herons cried out and abandoned their nests.

  As if taking its cue from the birds, the river suddenly left its banks, rushing over several Gordagians who had headed toward it. Five vanished, while several more floundered about, their armor weighing them down dangerously.

  Darkhorse trod across the raging water. With his mouth he snatched one struggling soldier, then formed appendages on each side to seize others. Seeing no more, he reluctantly departed the river with the four he had saved and brought his precious cargo to the frustrated commander.

  “Are you daft, human? Your warriors die left and right and you simply send them in for more! Be gone from here! We will deal with this madness!”

  But Majjin ignored him, instead continuing to shout orders. He still planned to get archers near enough to strike.

  Darkhorse swore, something he had learned well from humans. So long as the Gordagians refused to retreat, he could not attend to the wizards properly without more lives lost.

  The rock slides grew more tumultuous, forcing him once again to race hard if he hoped to save those caught beneath them.

  It was all up to Cabe, then. Darkhorse could only hope that his friend could deal quickly with Tragaro . . . assuming that the latter had not already slain him.

  The impossibility of what the Dragon Master had done nearly enabled his surprise to put a quick and fiery end to Cabe. There had been no casting of a spell, no use of a magical talisman.

  Tragaro had simply opened his mouth and breathed fire.

  All of this Cabe registered in less than a second. Experience, not skill, saved him now, for he had survived by expecting the unexpected time and time again. The flames caught his robes, even singed his right hand, but he rolled away, dousing the fire while at the same time moving out of the dark wizard’s view.

  Another burst of flame shot out, scorching the ruined column Cabe planted himself behind. The other wizard flattened to the ground, barely avoiding annihilation. Given a few more moments, he hoped to have the strength to fight Tragaro . . . but it seemed doubtful that Tragaro would give him those few moments.

  Nothing remained in Cabe that could, for now, counter the incredible flame the older spellcaster breathed. It was in itself magical, yet not created by magic. It burned hotter than any fire Cabe had created, possibly burned hotter than even a Sunlance.

  Then, of all things, an old expression came to him, an expression more apt now than anytime in the mage’s life.

  Fight fire with fire.

  It was certainly worth a try . . . and would use up what reserves Cabe had managed to scrounge.

  He would place himself squarely in Tragaro’s sight, certain and terrible death his fate if he failed. Aware, though, of what little other choice was left to him, Cabe leapt up and waited for the inevitable.

  Tragaro breathed on him.

  The spell Cabe cast was a simple one, so simple that he feared the Dragon Master would know it for what it was and react in time.

  But Tragaro did not, so confident was he of victory. The flames came within a foot of Cabe. The younger wizard could feel the incredible heat. Sweat poured down over his face.

  And, as he had hoped, his spell sent that same fearsome fire back into the bronze visage of Tragaro.

  Perhaps Tragaro was resilient to the flames, but the metal certainly was not. The bronze glowed bright, burned hot—and Tragaro shrieked. He clutched at the mask—yet seemed incredibly resistant to removing it. Instead, he let the sizzling metal sear his flesh.

  Humanity bested Cabe’s desire to stand back and avoid further threat. He leapt toward the still-shrieking figure, casting a quick spell that he hoped would keep his own fingers from burning to the bone.

  Through the mask, Tragaro’s eyes blazed with pain, but when he saw Cabe trying to remove the cause of it, he stumbled back.

  That the elder mage had the strength and endurance he had stunned Cabe. Anyone else would have been writhing on the ground, their flesh roasted.
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  Yet Tragaro still suffered terribly and despite his reluctance to part with the mask, Cabe refused to back down. He darted forward, snaring the bronze piece and using all his might to rip it away.

  Along with it came the Dragon Master’s own face.

  In horror, Cabe stared as Tragaro’s eyes and mouth stretched in a comically macabre fashion, as if his flesh had become tree sap. Tragaro howled even more and snatched desperately at the mask, but did so too late.

  And with the false face finally gone, the other wizard’s countenance transformed.

  All trace of beard, of any hair, vanished . . . and with them went Tragaro’s nose as well. Only a slit remained. The Dragon Master’s mouth became little more than a long slit, one that spread far wider than on any normal person. His skin darkened, transforming to the color of moss but touched by a hint of the same bronze cast of the mask.

  Even Tragaro’s hands transformed, curling inward and growing longer, taloned. Scales developed that swiftly covered the skin.

  The eyes remained pale, penetrating, but they had also changed, turning into slits more akin to a lizard or some other reptile.

  Darkhorse had believed Tragaro dead with the rest of the original Dragon Masters and it appeared he had been correct. What stood before Cabe now certainly could not be the venerable wizard.

  But it could be a drake.

  A drake called . . . Sssorak?

  “My masssk!” he hissed. Without the false face, every vestige of humanity was giving way quickly. “I will have my masssk!”

  Despite the heat it retained, Cabe did not release his hold. The mask radiated magic of its own, one with a signature not unlike that he had sensed around the false Tragaro.

  He had even trained a drake to fight its own . . .

  “You don’t need this,” the wizard insisted, trying to put a peaceful end to the struggle. “You’re not Tragaro. You’re a drake. You’ve no reason to want to destroy your own kind.”

  Sssorak hissed. He looked larger, more bestial, and the robes he had worn as Tragaro now fit very tight. “They mussst be dessstroyed! Their monssstrous reign must end!”

  The drake looked ready to exhale again. Cabe had never come across a drake who could exhale flame or poison mist while in a humanoid form, but Tragaro’s beast did not even resemble a normal drake. He looked trapped between human and dragon. There were rare cases of magical crossbreeding, of beings whose lineage could be traced to both races, but such was not the circumstance with Sssorak. He was fully drake . . . but either he or Tragaro had created of him something else as well.

  Before Sssorak could inhale again, Cabe held the already half-melted face up. The drake instantly clamped his mouth shut, but he continued to expand in size. From his back, lumps pushed through, lumps recognizable as vestigial wings. Behind Sssorak, a small, narrow tail slapped the stone.

  Still holding the artifact, Cabe approached the panting beast. “You must listen to me . . . Sssorak. You’re not Tragaro. You’re as much a puppet of his legacy as your new Dragon Masters are of you. You’re a drake!” He studied the coloring closely. The bronze tint of Sssorak’s otherwise green scale was not some residue left by the melting mask. “And right now you work to help destroy what’s left of your own clan as well . . . ”

  The inhuman eyes stared uncomprehendingly. “Give me my masssk, Bedlam . . . ”

  With a roar, Sssorak, his body still transforming, leapt at the spellcaster.

  X

  The change came suddenly, so suddenly that Darkhorse first suspected it a trap.

  The tremors ceased without warning, quickly followed by the collapsing of one of the robed figures. The others held their ground, but they moved slowly, almost haphazardly. To the eternal, they looked like nothing less than marionettes whose strings had broken or become entangled.

  Yet while Darkhorse took relief from this turn of events, General Majjin saw it only as an opening. He quickly ordered his archers forward again. One managed to get just within range before the shadow steed noticed him.

  As the soldier took aim, Darkhorse cried, “No!”

  But the archer got the shot off regardless of the warning. Darkhorse was too far away and any spell he contemplated took too long to cast.

  The shaft hit its target in the chest. The target, a young, brown-haired woman with sleepy eyes, gasped and crumpled.

  “No more!” roared the eternal, filling the view of the nearest archers. Confronted by the sight of a pitch-black stallion ten times the normal size, the hardened fighters broke.

  Darkhorse charged toward the general, shrinking back to his preferred dimensions as he neared Majjin. Even then, he made for such an imposing sight that it was all the bearded officer could do to keep his war steed from bolting.

  “General! You will cease! Can you not see that they are no longer a threat? Look at them! Now they are the helpless victims you sought to save! Do you still intended to slay them?”

  “It could be a trick,” muttered Majjin. “They’re wizards! They can’t be trusted—”

  “No? Not even as much as a soldier sent to rescue them who instead decides to execute them without first checking?”

  Majjin’s countenance reddened from anger, but he finally nodded. Signaling to another officer, he commanded all archers to hold fire.

  “Thank you, general.” Darkhorse eyed the man close. “Give me a moment and I will attest to their condition.”

  Without waiting, he whirled about and, to the astonishment of the soldiers, raced up the steep mountainside, heading from one ridge to another.

  As he suspected, the threat was most definitely at an end. Several of the young wizards, including the two Cabe had attacked, lay unconscious. The others sat or stood in a daze, most holding their heads or staring blankly.

  Just as he had done with the soldiers in the river, Darkhorse seized several of the stunned novices and brought them back down to Majjin. Once those had been delivered, he raced back for more. The speed with which he moved left his charges breathless, but Darkhorse could not think of that. No matter how fast he raced, precious seconds continued to pass.

  Precious seconds in which Cabe might still die.

  Sssorak’s claws nearly rent Cabe. The wizard rolled back, the drake’s hot breath almost as deadly as the flames themselves. Sssorak now stood twice as tall as the human and his wings had grown some, but he still looked trapped between forms. He lacked the false armor appearance of a humanoid drake warrior, but the open visage was not that of a man, nor was the body that of a true dragon. It was as if Sssorak did not know what he should be now that he was bereft of Tragaro’s mask.

  Although they fought, Cabe still pitied the drake. He well understood the enmity between humans and drakes, the results of centuries of domination by the latter, but Tragaro had done something unforgivable to Sssorak. He had twisted the mesmerized drake so much, Sssorak was willing to slaughter both races in pursuit of his dead master’s dream.

  And it seemed nothing could convince the drake otherwise.

  “This is not the face you should wear,” Cabe insisted. “You are a drake . . . a dragon, Sssorak! Tragaro’s usurped your identity! Everything you’ve done in his name goes against your very nature!”

  “You will not ssspeak of the massster ssso!” Again, Sssorak sought to exhale flame, but again he feared to destroy what remained of the mask. “He taught me the truth, made certain I could carry on without him! The massster taught me everything I mussst do!”

  That made Cabe’s decision for him. He had failed to reach the drake with talk. Perhaps Sssorak needed more.

  “Tragaro is not your master . . . not any more.”

  With that, the wizard set the mask aflame again.

  The spell was a short but intense one, giving Sssorak no time to counter it. Already softened and distorted by the drake’s own fire, the false face had little resistance.

  Cabe let the molten mass drop at his feet. “There is only you now, Sssorak. Only you.”


  “Noooo!” The drake dropped to the ground, crawling over to and scratching at the melted remains. His breathing turned ragged as he sought vainly to save what little still resembled the original artifact. “Tragaro . . . Tragaro . . . ”

  Stepping back from the pitiful sight, Cabe contemplated his next move. The fight appeared to be out of Sssorak, but the question remained as to what to do with the drake. Return him to his own kind, whom Tragaro had trained him to despise? Bring him to the Manor, the Bedlams’ home, and try to fit him into the human/drake settlement within it?

  As he pondered the possibilities, he sensed the arrival of another.

  “Cabe! I came as soon as possible! Are you all right? Is the danger past?”

  He smiled wearily at Darkhorse, grateful for the eternal’s presence. “I’m all right. It’s—”

  “You murdered him!”

  The startled wizard turned to find Sssorak standing over the puddle of bronze. Atop his not-quite-human, not-quite-draconic visage he had slapped the bent eye holes and partial mouth—all that remained of the mask. His flesh sizzled where the hot metal touched and a few streaks of burning bronze dripped down his face, but the wild-eyed drake did not seem to notice.

  “You murdered the massster!”

  Sssorak inhaled, his chest swelling grotesquely.

  Both Cabe and Darkhorse reacted instinctively, striking—as they had done so often in the past—in tandem. A bolt of wicked blue lightning from the wizard struck Sssorak full in the mouth, shutting it in mid-exhalation. A tentacle from Darkhorse tightened around the chest.

  Trapped, the flames reversed, seeking an outlet but finding none.

  Sssorak swelled up like a water sack.

  Darkhorse enveloped Cabe, creating for him a safe, secure cocoon.

  The drake exploded.

  Within the safety of the cocoon, Cabe grimaced, furious with his own weakness. He sensed every agony suffered by the shadowy stallion as the furious forces of the dying drake washed over the chamber.