Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  Alone in his study, Toos unfurled the parchment and started to read.

  My greetings as ever to the regent, it began.

  Toos chuckled. Cabe insisted on using the self-chosen title as much as possible. Each year, the people of Talak had presented the former mercenary with the crown and each year Toos had declined it. Someday, his lord and master, the Gryphon, would return and on that joyous occasion, he would return control of the city-state to him and quickly and quietly resume his position at the legendary monarch’s side. No one had, so far, succeeded in eroding his determination, for the regent was the most stubborn of men.

  Dismissing his thoughts, Toos continued reading, suspecting he already knew much of what the warlock’s communication was going to reveal.

  The death of Drayfitt of Talak still leaves a dark blot in what has been, for the past two years, a relatively peaceful time. His papers, of which there seem an endless tide, fill all corners of the room at the time of this writing. My wife and children claim I neglect them and I am apt to agree. Still, it was not my choice to begin this project, since the Gryphon, a scholar at heart, would have eagerly plunged into this mire, which I, instead, must battle through. Unfortunately for both of us, he is across the sea and there is no news as to when he and his brood may return. That leaves it to me, though I’ve not yet been able to figure out why. Since I am the chosen one, however, and it’s you who read the fruits of my research, I will once more make no apologies for my rambling style and merely continue on.

  My admiration goes out to Drayfitt. I find it difficult to understand a fraction of what he’d gathered even with so much knowledge passed down directly to me from my grandfather, Nathan. One thing I have discovered is that my own pet project will go for naught. The information concerning the mysterious Vraad is, at best, a thin veneer of half-hinted legends and exaggerated rumors masking a gulf of ignorance as vast as the Void itself. The bulk of his work perished at the hands of Mal Quorin, advisor to King Melicard I of Talak and agent of evil for the late and truly unlamented Dragon King, Silver. King Melicard, whose capable queen, Erini, I trust to keep him honest, assured me that what I received was all that remained. Those writings by Drayfitt that I have succeeded in organizing will be sent to you by separate couriers, likely a drake-human pair, as I would prefer to keep the two races working together as much as possible.

  These, then, are my conclusions concerning the Vraad, of whom poor mad Shade was the last—I hesitate to use the word “living”—representative.

  Toos found suddenly that he was sweating despite the coolness of the evening.

  Drayfitt used many words to describe them, but arrogant and frightening seem to sum them up best. If I read his notes correctly, at their peak they were able to tear the heavens and earth asunder… you recall what Shade, in his final moments, did to the army of the Silver Dragon. Not a trace left. That was nothing. I think when you read some of what I am sending you, you will see as I did how fortunate we were that it was only Shade who defeated death for so long. The greatest irony in all this is that they were also our ancestors. We have the Vraad to thank for being here instead of that place I mentioned in several of the earlier missives, that twisted world they called Nimth.

  I’ve found even less on that dark, fearsome domain than I have on those who once dwelled there. The Vraad left it a ruined place, abandoning it like the gnawed core of a srevo. The succulent flesh of the fruit had been eaten; they had no use for what was left.

  Something must have gone awry, for they came here and vanished as a distinct race almost overnight… leaving us lesser spellcasters as their only legacy.

  I’m sorry that there isn’t more. A pity the libraries beneath your kingdom have chosen to be especially vague concerning the Vraad, though somehow that doesn’t surprise me as much as it should. Darkhorse, our great, eternal friend, refuses my inquiries when he makes one of his rare visits—he still cannot accept that Shade is truly dead—and says only that the Vraad are better left a fading memory. Once, though, when he said that, I caught a wistful tone in his stentorian voice. It makes me wonder.

  Gwen gives her love, you old fox. The children are fine… both human and drake.

  Yours,

  Cabe Bedlam

  The regent allowed the parchment to roll closed, his mind sifting through what the warlock had and had not said. A world of Shades! A chilling thought. Standing up and walking over to the fire that kept his study warm, he threw the parchment into the greedy flames. It was difficult to say why he thought that necessary. There was nothing in the missive that was earth-shattering to him, not after the past notes. It was only that he found within himself, as Cabe had confessed he also had, a desire to forget anything concerning the arrogant, destructive Vraad… and a crippled, murdered place once called Nimth.

  I

  IN ALL OF Nimth, there stood only one true city. It was a tall, jagged thing so diverse in design that the best way to describe it was that it was a reflection of its creators. There were spires, ziggurats, towers that leaned at horrific angles… no one style dominated, unless madness could be called a style. Those selfsame beings who had built it with their sorcerous abilities even now gathered, as they did every few years, within its walls. It was the time of coming for the Vraad… perhaps the last to ever be held here in Nimth.

  In deference to its neutral nature, the city had no name. It was simply the city to one and all. The Tezerenee had taken to utilizing it for their own needs, and who was about to make feud with a clan as huge and deadly as theirs? The rest of the Vraad patently ignored the slap in their faces, pretending it was beneath spellcasters as mighty as themselves.

  Despite the supposed neutrality of the city, sorcery was very much in evidence. Brilliant auras clashed with one another, and new and old arrivals paraded about with entourages consisting chiefly of their own creations… beasts that moved as men, living stick figures, myriad sentient lights.

  The Vraad themselves were no exceptions. Most of them were tall and beautiful, gods and goddesses come to life. Few of them wore the faces and bodies they had been given at birth. Long, flowing hair was popular now, as were bright chameleon tunics, flowing from one shape and design to another depending on the tastes of those who wore them. Not to be outdone, other Vraad wore suits of mist and light, seeking to both tantalize and distract.

  The air crackled with so much pent-up magic. The sky, ever warring of late between shades of bloody crimson and a dark green touching on decay, stirred itself to greater fury this day because of all that power. Outside, the rumbling of yet another tremor to the west gave voice to the earth’s protest at this latest coming of Nimth’s masters. Once, the land had been a rolling field of green grass and the heavens a blue so brilliant even the otherwise indifferent race of sorcerers had often paused to admire it. No more.

  “We have finally created a world suitable to our personalities.”

  So Dru Zeree felt as he looked from the assembled throng well below his perch to the bitter sky above.

  “You think that spectacular, Sil?” someone in the crowd taunted, intensifying the loudness of his voice so that the one the words were intended for could not escape hearing them. “Your skills as well as your tastes have reached new lows!”

  The second half of the exchange was lost in a thunderous explosion that was part of no natural phenomenon. Dru waited, but the aftermath he had expected did not occur.

  “Not yet,” he whispered to himself.

  Nearly seven feet in height and somewhat narrower than his counterparts, Dru was markedly unique among the many spellcasters who strove for that very effect. His narrow face was handsome, true, but not in the beautiful way that most had chosen to sculpt their features. The somber mage had a hawk-like appearance that was complemented by a thin, well-trimmed beard the same dark brown as the rest of his hair. It was, in contrast to the blues, greens, and multihued tresses of the others, his original hair color. A real novelty among the Vraad, save for the Tezerenee, who pr
ided themselves on maintaining their original outward appearances as much as possible.

  Dru was a Vraad in the end, however. For this coming, he had added to his hair a streak of silver directly down the center. Simple as it was, it had earned him his share of stares, as had the plain, unmarked gray robe he generally wore. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he would be responsible for starting a trend toward basics… a trend very un-Vraad-like, considering their tendency for excesses.

  A black and gold beast fluttered onto his broad shoulder and hissed, “Dekkarrrr. Silestiii. Seeee.”

  The Vraad scratched his familiar on the fur beneath its predatory beak. The familiar opened its maw wide in pleasure, revealing an incongruous set of sharp teeth within that beak. Had someone taken a sleek wolf and combined its parts with that of a swift, huge eagle, they would have found themselves confronting something resembling Dru’s familiar. The torso, tail, and upper legs were lupine. The head, though furred, was more avian, and the lower extremities ended in claws capable of tearing apart creatures far bigger and stronger-looking than their owner. The round, amethyst eyes that gazed into his had no pupils. Dru was, in Vraadish fashion, quite proud of his handiwork.

  “Where are they exactly, Sirvak?”

  “There. There.” The beast pointed its head toward the eastern side of the great courtyard, where most of the newcomers entered.

  He saw Dekkar first. Tall but exceedingly wide, a living wall of strength, both sorcerous and physical. Dekkar had a striking visage, though it was made less so by the fact that it was, in many ways, much too much like the faces of those around him. He was clean-shaven and his long, orange/blue hair fell back behind his head like vast tentacles. The expression on the other Vraad’s face was typically arrogant. The sorcerer wore a tunic of rainbows that literally shifted with each breath… a masterful piece of work, it had to be admitted. Dekkar had put a vast amount of detail into the subtleties of its design.

  It was a pity he could not put in as much effort in aiding the coming exodus of the Vraad.

  “The epitome of predictability.” Dru followed his counterpart’s gaze, knowing he would find Silesti at the other end. “And there is his brother, foolishness incarnate.” The other Vraad had evidently noticed his rival, for he stared back at Dekkar with a look that so matched the broader sorcerer that it was no wonder some took them to be kin. In point of fact, Silesti had always chosen to look very much like Dekkar, and Dru found himself wondering if there might have been a reason for that. No one could recall what had started their thousand-year feud, likely not even the combatants themselves. A thousand years was a long time, even for a race that was nigh immortal. Dru suspected that the two Vraad had continued on with their battle long after the original reason was lost strictly because it kept them from falling to the deep ennui that so many Vraad suffered.

  That made them no less mad than the rest, Dru himself included.

  “Seeee, masterrr! Seee!”

  “I see, Sirvak. Hush now.”

  Silesti was wearing a brilliant black suit that clung to his form and covered all but his head. As his eyes narrowed on Dekkar, one gloved hand went to a pouch hanging from a belt around his waist. Many of the assembled Vraad watched the two with mild interest, though a good number ignored them completely. Feuds were just one more thing in the life of the sorcerous race. The only interest was in what sort of action the combatants might take.

  Dekkar struck first, creating a miniature rainstorm above Silesti’s head. Without pausing from his own task, the latter sorcerer created a shield that made the rain bounce off and slide down to the earth around him, leaving Silesti high and dry. Dekkar, however, seemed none too upset over that abrupt change. He stood quietly, openly challenging his adversary to do his worst.

  The other Vraad was only too happy to do so. From his pouch, Silesti took out a tiny, wiggling form that Dru could not make out even when he amplified his vision. With careful precision, Silesti tossed it toward the expectant Dekkar.

  True to form, Dekkar did not wait for the creature to reach him. With a wave of his hand, he stole from his own raging storm a single bolt of lightning. It struck the hapless servant of Silesti and sent the bits scattering. A wind rose up, blowing them toward their original target, but Dekkar was hardly in danger from ash.

  On Dru’s shoulder, the familiar shifted, raising one claw and then another as it tried to comprehend the apparently useless assaults by the two spellcasters… men capable of raising mountains, if need be.

  “Masterrrr…”

  Dru smiled grimly and shushed the beast. He understood what Sirvak could not. After so long a struggle, the feud had become ceremonial. What seemed like minor touches of Vraad power would soon lead to far more.

  As if in response to his thoughts, the true assaults took place.

  From around Silesti’s feet, the torrent of rain rose upward around his shield, creating a cocoon of some silky substance whose binding force was the counterspell the ebony-clad sorcerer himself had cast. Dru knew, as Silesti now knew, that the trap also grew beneath the latter’s feet, essentially sealing him in.

  While Dekkar laughed and some of the spectating Vraad clapped their approval, Silesti’s spell came to full fruition. The ash had settled on the broad Vraad’s person, including his face and arms. Dekkar had, of course, ignored it, and it came as quite a surprise, then, when he found himself suddenly sprouting tiny, toothsome heads that rose on serpentine bodies and proceeded to viciously bite their host. More and more vermin sprouted from his clothing and his flesh, taking root wherever possible. There were even a few on the ground near his feet, but Dekkar stomped them to death.

  Many of the Vraad thought that they were finally seeing the culmination of the millennium-old struggle. Dru doubted that it was so. Both adversaries had faced a vast array of traps in that time. It would take more than these to kill the two.

  True enough, both assaults began to falter. From within the cocoon there rose a tremendous heat, one that even touched Dru despite the height and distance separating the balcony he stood on from the site of the duel. A simple spell of his own cooled the area around Dru, but Silesti’s prison lacked any such protection. It sizzled and melted, evaporating to nothing by the time the residue reached the ground again. Even the cloud had dissipated.

  Dekkar, meanwhile, did little but stand and wait. Once his initial surprise had passed, he stood smiling despite the bites he had suffered. It was soon easy to see why. The vermin began falling off, first a few, then in great numbers. Each one was dead, that is, each one that had bitten the sorcerer. Dru caught sight of one of the last, true to its mission, snapping at Dekkar’s unprotected hand. Once the creature drew blood, it instantly recoiled, as if ready to strike again. Instead, the monstrosity shook, spat the blood of its victim from its mouth… and fell to the earth, its grip and its life both things of the past.

  “Masterrrr?”

  “Poisoned, Sirvak. Dekkar’s blood is poisoned. I wonder how he survives it? It would have to be a strong poison to kill one of those creatures, I suspect.”

  Like two bedraggled but triumphant bookends, Dekkar and Silesti faced one another, each ready for the second round.

  “Masterrr!” Sirvak’s talons bit deep into Dru Zeree’s shoulder, a signal that the familiar was more than just apprehensive. A dark shadow blotted out all but the artificial illumination the Vraad themselves had created for the coming.

  The sky was filled with dragons. Huge monsters, larger than the tallest horses and quite able to fell said animals with one blow of their massive forepaws. There was a rider on the back of each emerald horror, a sure enough sign, not that one had been needed, of who the newcomers were.

  “Tezerenee…” Dru muttered to himself.

  Below him, the crowd, whose interest in the duel had grown with each passing second, suddenly became silent save for a few hardy souls who dared to whisper what Zeree himself had just said.

  Tezerenee.

  There were more than forty
and Dru knew that these were only a token representation of the clan. Vraad, by nature of their egos, were not a familial race. Dru and his daughter, Sharissa, were a rarity. Under the draconian rule of their patriarch, the Lord Barakas, the Tezerenee were a cohesive and masterful family of sorcerers. They were also skilled fighters, another aberration in a race that relied so heavily on their magical prowess.

  Dragons began to land on the roofs and walls of the city.

  From a distance, each rider seemed identical. Dark green armor covered them from head to toe, forged from the scales of the very beasts the Tezerenee rode. Ferocious dragon-crested helms all but obscured the savage faces of the Tezerenee. Two of them wore crimson capes, Lord Barakas and his eldest son, Reegan. Nearly a third of the riders were sons of the patriarch, spread across the five thousand years of his life. (How many more there were and how many had died one way or another during those millennia was something no one spoke about within earshot of the Lord Tezerenee.)

  Barakas Tezerenee had landed on the roof of a building that had flattened itself out at the moment of arrival. From his vantage point, the overwhelming figure overlooked all but Dru. Barakas stroked his heavy beard and stared long and hard at the two duelists.

  “This is the final coming.” His voice, augmented by his power, sent a tremor literally through the city. Oddly, despite his bearlike appearance, the Lord Tezerenee’s voice was smooth and calculated. It was also the voice of one so used to commanding that even a simple “good day” would have seemed an order to be obeyed.

  “This is the final coming, Masters Dekkar and Silesti. From here, the Vraad will be moving on to a better, less disreputable home.” The warring sky rumbled, as if punctuating his statements.