Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  “How many, Lochivan?”

  “Forty-two. Three more will die.”

  Not quite as terrible as he had thought, Barakas decided in sour humor. They still numbered over sixty. Not much for a conquering army, especially since he could not field all of those still functioning. It would do. They had survived the night of death from above and come out of it with the knowledge that for all their numbers, the avians had suffered worse casualties. More than twice their own number had perished. It was unfortunate that the Vraad were so outnumbered. Attrition was the one factor he could not compensate for.

  If only our magic had worked.… The avians had used their talismans to good effect, mostly because the clan of the dragon had lacked reliable countermagic. Only when they summoned their strongest emotions were the Tezerenee able to trust that their spells would function as they should. Last night had been no exception. This world allowed the sorcery of Nimth to work, but only after a struggle.

  We survived. We will prevail. The words, for the first time, sounded hollow even to the patriarch. Would they survive another assault in the night? How could they live if their days and nights were spent in constant struggle? He had no doubt that the clan had but a day to rest and repair. Had he been master of the bird people, Barakas would have divided his forces, created for himself two armies—one of the night and one of the day. Harass the foe so that they were never able to recover. Cut the weakest from the ranks until there was no one left to cut.

  The Lord Tezerenee knew that the thing to do was abandon this place and find safety until he had the strength to return, but there was no place to go. The avians controlled this land, save for remnants of some other monstrous civilization. The elves survived because they respected the birds and caused no trouble. Under no stretch of the imagination could Barakas see the clan bowing to horrors like those who ruled here. He knew that the avians thought the same way. Permitting the Vraad race to establish itself would mean the end of their reign.

  So this is how the Vraad race ends, he concluded, staring in the direction of the mountains where his enemies regrouped. A last stand that will still leave its mark on those feathered misfits. They will not forget the dragon banner. It will haunt them for generations to come.

  The thought gave him morbid satisfaction, as if now the deaths would be worth it. Still, he could not help thinking that if their sorcery was more reliable or their numbers greater…

  His eyes closed as something teased his senses. It was only a ripple, but there had been a disturbance in the nature of the Dragonrealm, as if it was no longer whole. A familiar feel, perhaps taste, had been his to savor in that brief moment. He recognized it as Nimth.

  “Lochivan.” His son, still kneeling, rose at the sound of his name. Reegan might be the heir apparent, but it was Lochivan to whom Barakas entrusted most of the tasks that he wanted completed. “Lochivan. Did you sense something to the east? Something of Nimth?”

  “Sire, I felt some presence and it may have been as you say, but I could not swear to it.”

  “Spoken well. Could you find it?”

  “I think it might be possible. What is it, Father?”

  Barakas stroked his beard. He gazed thoughtfully at things only existing in his mind. “From bitter Nimth, it could be either our salvation or our death.”

  Recalling those left behind, Lochivan said nothing.

  “Find out, but be wary. It may be that the avians’ threat has become secondary. Go now!” The Lord Tezerenee chuckled to himself as his son departed to comply with his commands. The irony of what might be out there was not lost on the patriarch. It was possible that he had achieved what he had always dreamed of, uniting the Vraad race, making it one vast force with a common goal.

  “How unfortunate,” he finally muttered.

  NIMTH RAGED, SHRIEKING its disapproval with thunder and accenting its fury with lightning. Whirlwinds spawned and died. The land shifted and shaped itself. A haze was slowly spreading, one that did not bode well. A few adventurous spellcasters had gone out to study it, the Vraad’s belief in their individual immortality still dominant at the time. That belief, like so much else on Nimth, began to erode when it became evident that the explorers would not be returning.

  Dru’s domain gave the thousands some protection, but the storm was all around them, spreading the poisoned magic everywhere. The castle no longer obeyed commands without hesitation. One sorceress had already been lost, crushed between two walls that had closed on her with surprising speed. After that, no one else demanded the right to create for themselves private chambers. The Vraad had become, against their preferences, a socializing people. It was now the only way they felt secure while they waited their opportunity to cross to their new home.

  From the top of the tallest tower, the lord of the domain and a figure nearly buried within a massive cloak watched over the proceedings. Just beyond the edges of the Zeree domain, the shrouded realm already intruded. It was a bit of a shock to both men. Their calculations had said the way would open again and it had. What they had not predicted was that it would spread to encompass a region twice as great as the castle of pearl. Dru wondered if the founders had had a hand in the stunning development.

  “Dragon’s blood!” the half-seen Gerrod muttered as he watched the latest band vanish. “This is unnerving!”

  Dru agreed. His experience with the ghost lands had been from the inside. Seeing the change from without made him appreciate Sharissa’s shock all the more. The group of Vraad riding through the phantom field had started out much the way he had, a living being surrounded by specters of another world. Solid flesh mingling with translucent unreality.

  That was the way it began. The deeper and deeper they rode, the less distinct was the difference. Midway to the forest, the riders grew faded around the edges, as if the vision of those observing was failing them. Yet, it was not their vision, but those they watched who were lacking. By the time half the remaining distance was covered, the ruined landscape of Nimth was visible through the backs of the riders as nearly as much as it was through the forest and the field.

  When the refugees entered the forest, they were already part of the other world.

  “They’re across,” Gerrod said. He mentioned it every time, possibly because he still worried that the cross-over would fail before he had departed Nimth. The hooded Tezerenee had shocked Dru with his knowledge of the shrouded realm and its intrusion upon Nimth, not to mention the horrors racking the Vraad birthplace. Gerrod had not only looked over many of his brother’s notes, but he had discussed Dru’s work with Sharissa over their long trek to the Zeree domain. That, coupled with his own research, made him as capable as Dru in many things.

  The Tezerenee was still nervous around his father’s former ally. He had explained his fears, had explained why Sharissa had not received Dru’s summoning, and, despite the assurances he had received in turn, still expected the elder Zeree to turn on him.

  With the danger of misdirected sorcery, which they had experienced in the lands of Melenea, they had chosen to use it as little as possible. Food had been the one necessary use. The duo had walked most of the way, limiting teleportation and flight to those areas most stable.

  Exhausted by their ordeal, they had finally dared to rest for a time. Sharissa had suffered most since her life had been more sheltered than his. Gerrod allowed her to sleep while he merely rested. It was during that time that Dru had reached out to the Vraad, telling them of Rendel.

  “It was that which frightened me, Master Zeree,” the young Tezerenee had said, his face buried deep in the folds of his hood. “I had aided your daughter, but being a Vraad, would you have seen that as sufficient cause to spare me if you, like the rest, were hunting the dragon lord’s children?”

  In the end, Gerrod had known he would have to face Dru, if only because the other sorcerer was the only one who knew some path out. Alone, he could never begin anew the recreation of the Tezerenee method. He had not been all that certain he wanted to
, either. It had always left him feeling disturbed, as if the final fusion of Vraad mind with dragon-forged host bodies would be some monstrous hybrid.

  “How many are across, now?” Gerrod asked, returning Dru to the present. “How much longer?”

  “A third are through, maybe a little more.” The immigrating Vraad were crossing in groups of about one hundred, an unmentioned but symbolic reference to the founders that he had decided on. The bands, bringing only what their animals and themselves could carry, were entering the border region as soon as those before them had vanished into the woods. It kept the pace consistent enough to prevent a mad rush by those still waiting. “A good thing we have never numbered more than several thousand. This would have never worked otherwise.”

  “Will it be the same over there?”

  “I doubt it.” Gerrod seemed to want more of an answer, but Dru had none. There were too many question marks.

  “What did happen to Melenea?”

  He had tried to put that behind him, but the younger Vraad would not let him. This was the third time he had skirted around the fate of the enchantress, possibly because he could not believe she was gone. Dru could understand that; even now, he sometimes felt as if her eyes were on him. “Are you afraid you might join her?”

  His companion swallowed. Dru had meant it as a joke, but Gerrod was still nervous about his own fate. “No! No,” the other replied quickly. “It’s just that… that…” He looked directly at Dru, who tried his best to perceive eyes somewhere within the hood. “It’s just that I still feel as if she’s left some last treat for us. The way she left the one that killed Rendel.”

  Gerrod had taken his brother’s death with little remorse. It was disconcerting, however, to note that the Tezerenee had felt the same as he had about the enchantress. What was there about Melenea that she could still haunt them after Dru had meted out justice to her?

  Below, a commotion attracted their attention. A rider was approaching, one who had returned from the other realm and raced to the citadel as if a horde were closing in behind him.

  “Tiel Bokalee,” Gerrod said. “He is one of Silesti’s new dogs.” Silesti wanted to make an example of the young Tezerenee now that Rendel was beyond him. He had only grudgingly allowed that the hooded Vraad was nothing like his clan and had been as summarily abandoned by the patriarch as the rest.

  The newcomer, an unremarkable example of Vraad perfection, was dismounting when the two of them arrived in the courtyard. His hand twitched as if something had bitten him. The latest of the storm’s minor assaults; everyone in the courtyard had been struck with pains of varying degree that came and went without warning. It was perhaps not so minor an assault. One Vraad was comatose; the searing pain in his head having ravaged his brain. No one assumed he would recover, but Dru intended on bringing him anyway.

  “Dru Zeree.” Tiel Bokalee acknowledged him with a bow. Gerrod received a dark glance, but nothing more. “We have a visitor. One of the dragon clan.”

  Gerrod turned away even though it would have been impossible to read his emotions if he had not.

  Dru considered the rampant possibilities before responding. This was not the time to begin a war with the Tezerenee. “And what has Silesti done?”

  “He insists this is your task to perform. Your decision will be his decision.” The choice did not sit well with the messenger.

  “That means you need to cross-over.” Gerrod’s voice wavered. “They’re my cursed kin. I’ll go with you, make certain they haven’t something else in mind.”

  The unspoken reason was that he, like Rendel, did not care for the idea of separating from the one person who preserved his existence. A Tezerenee was a Tezerenee to the other Vraad.

  “There will be no one to watch this end.”

  “Sharissa can do it. The familiar will guide her and that—your elfin friend—will be here to aid her, also.” Gerrod indicated the next group of Vraad, who were already departing. “It works on its own now that they understand cooperation. She won’t have much to do. The bulk of the storm is still beyond us,” he added, jerking in sharp, sudden pain. “Thankfully. We should be back before it reaches your land. We should be finished here before it grows too wild.”

  Dru’s hands stung. “Then let’s be done with it. Give me but a moment to contact my daughter.”

  “I’ll retrieve a pair of mounts.”

  He nodded absently, his mind already reaching out. Sharissa?

  Father?

  Gerrod and I must be gone to the other side. The Tezerenee have arrived. I want you to watch things while I am gone. Xiri and Sirvak will aid you. I’m certain.

  Her fear was evident, but she held it in check. I understand. It won’t be anything terrible?

  I don’t think either side can afford a battle. If the Tezerenee have sent someone, it means they want to talk. Barakas would not talk if he held the advantage.

  Good luck, then.

  I leave it to you to tell Xiri and Sirvak. Watch the storm. What we’ve experienced is no more than a prelude. The worst is still coming. If it looks as if it will roll over the area before everyone is through… He held back for a breath, wondering what she would do if it depended on her. Even he would have been hard-pressed to come up with a solution. At last, he simply finished, Send them all through, but not in a rout. A rush will kill more than the storm will.

  You’ll be back before that, won’t you?

  I should be. He broke contact, hoping his own emotions had not influenced her. It was not possible to maintain complete confidence in the face of the storm and no contact whatsoever with the guardians, whom he had expected to see long before this. Were they waiting to see if the Vraad had enough sense to complete the task themselves? There was so much that made so little sense where the guardians and their enigmatic masters were concerned.

  “Get down, damn you!”

  Tiel Bokalee’s steed, a black animal that reminded Dru of the missing Darkhorse—would the creature from the Void ever find his way back?—in both form and temperament, reared and kicked at the ground. Bokalee managed to bring the horse under control, cursing because he had to risk himself physically rather than simply use his sorcery. Any excess use strengthened the growing assaults of the storm, something no one wanted.

  A tiny figure scurried over Dru’s feet. He started to look down, but agony ripped his knees and he ended up half sprawled on the courtyard floor. Rats or magical imps became secondary to merely surviving the pain.

  It turned out to be a mercifully short attack with no aftereffects save an uncontrollable fear that standing would bring about a relapse. Gerrod had just been returning with a pair of mounts, but he let them wander loose as he rushed to Dru’s side.

  “Are you all right? What happened? I heard a horse shrieking.…”

  “He was spooked. Something tiny, but probably spawned by the storm, like my pain.” Dru recalled the chaos of Melenea’s citadel and realized that there must be less time than he had calculated earlier. “Forget it. Let’s move on.”

  With Bokalee leading them, they departed the citadel grounds and, before long, entered the shadowy ghost lands.

  I will not fear this, Dru repeated to himself over and over again. He could not forget his first encounter and the chaos that had precipitated. They had no idea if the path through would remain open indefinitely. He had been told that the intrusions had been instigated by the mind of the land, the thing that had once been the individuals of the founding race, but not once had the guardian really said that they still controlled it. The one had even admitted that they did not understand the faceless incarnations of their lords. If it was the whim of the masters to further test their potential successors, then Dru would not put it past them to seal off Nimth at any moment and see if those trapped within were intelligent enough to find another solution. He had a nagging suspicion that the founders had not been that different from the Vraad.

  The sun gleamed bright, nearly blinding him with its abrupt appearan
ce. Dru blinked and looked around. They had already crossed. He had been so entangled in his fears that he had missed the entire trek. It was a loss he could live with, the sorcerer decided.

  Vraad were everywhere. It was the first thing Dru noticed. It was the first thing anyone would have noticed. The woods and the fields were filled with men and women who stood or sat or walked about. The one thing they shared in common was an aura of disbelief, disbelief that the sky was blue and the wind was only a gentle whisper. No one thought to build themselves vast fortresses—unless they had tried and failed already—and it seemed as if no one had even broken away and departed to find their own destiny. If anything, the Vraad were even more interested in the company of one another than they had back in Dru’s domicile. There, it had been forced; here, it was done out of an increasing insecurity. So used to being the masters of all they surveyed, the spellcaster’s people were having trouble coming to terms with a new and very defiant land.

  The lone Tezerenee stood away from the rest, visibly nervous. He wore one of the face-concealing helms, but Gerrod had evidently recognized him, for he raised a hand and shouted out the other’s name. “Lochivan!”

  “Gerrod?” The armored figure relaxed a bit, likely thinking that if one of his own could ride among the outsiders, then his life was not in danger.

  Silesti stood nearby, close enough so that the Tezerenee knew he was there because of him and far enough away so that the dragon warrior knew better than to try to deal with him. The somber Vraad greeted Dru but said nothing more, emphasizing with his silence that he would listen but not take part. The hour belonged to Dru.

  Dismounting, the master mage and Gerrod met with Lochivan.

  “How is dear father?” the faceless warlock asked his brother, the sarcasm in his tone deep and biting.

  Within the narrow slits of his helm, Lochivan’s eyes closed in weariness. “Insane with anger, or perhaps just insane. We were betrayed, Gerrod, betrayed by Rendel to a race of bird creatures!”

  “How appropriate! Familial betrayals seem the norm with the clan of the dragon!”