Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  The last statement made Sharissa frown. There was something in it she felt she should know about, but what that was she could not say. What concerned her more at the moment was the box and its purpose in all of this.

  “I now demonstrate for our guest some of the extent of our might!”

  He opened the box.

  “Freeeee! By the Void! Freeee!” The near-mad voice bellowed in relief. Sharissa felt the floor vibrate as the prisoner of the box burst forth, still screaming its happiness at being released.

  A thick black substance poured from the box to the floor below the dais. As it flowed, it took on shape, becoming more and more one distinct form. Sharissa needed no one to tell her who it was; his voice alone had sufficed.

  “The emptiness! All alone! Curse you, Barakas Tezerenee! Only you could make a place more horrifying than the Void!”

  Darkhorse stood before the patriarch and his mate, pupilless, ice-blue orbs glittering in swelling anger. His hooves tore at the stone floor, gouging valley after valley.

  The sorceress could hold back no longer. She pulled free of Lochivan, who was somewhat dazed by the shadow steed’s remarkable entrance. “Darkhorse!”

  “Who calls?” The ebony stallion swung around and glared her way, not immediately recognizing her. When he finally did, he was so overjoyed he laughed. Most of those in the chamber put their hands to their ears. Barakas remained unmoving. “Sharissa Zeree! At last!”

  He started toward her running figure. They were almost within reach when Sharissa felt the familiar but frightening touch of her collar. She could no longer breathe. Darkhorse halted at the same time she did, but not, it appeared, because of her predicament. Rather, he was trembling, as if he, too, suffered from pain.

  On her knees, she tried to imagine what to do. Her collar was choking her, but she had made no attempt to touch it. Strong hands took her under the arms. As the slim woman fought for breath, she was dragged back from her one friend.

  The collar grew loose.

  “You… you call me demon, Lord of the Tezerenee! You are the monster!” Darkhorse trotted a few steps farther away from the sorceress. “I might have survived, but you would have killed her!”

  “She will be fine,” the patriarch responded. He remained calm, almost uninterested in events.

  Leaning against Lochivan, who was the one who had pulled her away, Sharissa realized that Barakas had once more planned well. He had allowed both of them to learn in the most deadly way that they could not come within a certain range of each other, lest one or both suffer. More than likely it would be her, although the patriarch had evidently discovered many of the eternal’s weaknesses.

  “Can you stand?” Lochivan asked quietly. He sounded both unnerved and ashamed. “I had no idea what he planned. I would have warned you about your friend if I had.”

  She did not reply, choosing instead to break free of his grip and rise on her own. Once certain her legs were sturdy enough, she looked first at Darkhorse, who still looked to be in pain, and finally at the patriarch.

  “I must apologize, Lady Sharissa. A necessary measure. The demon has been of great value, doing by himself what we cannot—as yet—do en masse.”

  “I always—” She coughed, her lungs still not fully satiated. “I always thought you believed in as little sorcery as possible. Was it not you who preached of the true strength being that of the body?”

  “A good warrior utilizes the best of weapons for each situation. Your demon friend gave us access to our rightful empire. While we experimented with the powers we found reemerging within us, he built this citadel with his own skills. Through his efforts, we were able to secure ourselves while we developed.”

  “And this is how you reward him!” She indicated the box. “What sort of horrible trap is that?”

  “This? This is merely a box.” He held it up for her to see. Across from her, Darkhorse cringed like one whipped again and again who must now stare at the very tool that had done the evil work. “There are a few minor additions, spells that make it impossible to hear all but my voice and prevent something within from speaking to any but myself. It is proof against his sorcerous being and only I can open it, but it is, in the end, still only a box. It inflicts no pain upon him.”

  “It is agony incarnate!” roared Darkhorse. “I cannot move! I cannot speak! He becomes my only contact! I have been so alone!”

  Careful to avoid stepping too near Darkhorse, Sharissa moved toward the patriarch’s throne. Sentries instantly appeared before their lord, their weapons ready for the sorceress.

  “Away!” Barakas rose and pushed them aside with his free hand. He put the open box in the crook of his arm and surveyed the defiant Zeree. “You had something to say?”

  What could she say that would not be empty bitterness? Barakas held the upper hand. He had given her this audience just to humiliate her, to show how hopeless her cause was. “Would anything I say make a difference to you, drag-onlord?”

  “Very much, in fact,” he said, reseating himself. Though he now wore an apologetic expression, as if he regretted his earlier actions, Sharissa knew better. “The collar is a great travesty that you should not have to endure. Your place should be beside us!” At those words, Reegan, who had been standing quietly behind his parents, suddenly grew attentive. Feeling his eyes upon her, Sharissa forced herself to keep her own attention focused on the patriarch. She would not acknowledge the heir, her intended mate if Barakas had his way.

  “I have no desire to even stand near you, Lord Tezerenee. I never will.”

  The assembly broke into a fearful murmur. Others had likely died for saying less to the very face of Barakas Tezerenee. Yet, despite the implications, the patriarch seemed unconcerned about the remark. Instead, he stroked the lid of the box once, then gently closed it. Darkhorse shuffled back a few steps out of what could only be fear. Energy crackled around the subdued stallion, and he seemed to freeze. Some bond tied him to the box.

  “Remove the collar.”

  Renewed whispers spread through the clan. Lochivan marched up to Sharissa, who stood as lifeless as stone. What could the patriarch be planning? Did he think she would simply stand there once her abilities were hers to utilize again? She could—

  As Lochivan reached up to her neck and touched the collar, Sharissa realized she could do nothing. Fight? Even if she were the greatest power among these Vraad, she could hardly expect to take them all on and win. Barakas would be the most well-protected target of all. Flee? Where would she go? What would happen to Darkhorse… or even Faunon, whom she had made a pact with? She could hardly escape without them, especially with both so helpless. Who was to say how much Darkhorse in particular would suffer?

  Lochivan slipped the magical collar from her throat, but Sharissa felt no eagerness. Another collar now threatened to suffocate her. It was a collar forged from her fear for the others, notably Darkhorse. She saw now why Barakas had not taken her insult to heart; he knew she would follow him, if only because she could not abandon a friend. He might not even know about her visit to Faunon, but he certainly knew how much the ebony eternal had come to mean to the sorceress.

  “Sharissa…” Darkhorse muttered, his tone indicating he also knew why she did nothing now that her powers had been restored.

  She was once more alone before the clan master, Lochivan having stepped back with the deadly manacle. One hand slowly went to her throat, where she absently rubbed the skin. The act unexpectedly recalled to her the constant scratching many of the Tezerenee did during the course of the day. Sharissa let her hand drop.

  “Good,” Barakas said, nodding at the same time. “You see? Your welfare means much to us, Sharissa Zeree. I want you to work with us.”

  Cooperation? Work with the Tezerenee? Was there something more to this audience besides her humiliation? Had the patriarch found himself in need of her abilities?

  Barakas leaned forward, as if speaking to the sorceress as a fellow conspirator in some plot. His voice,
however, was loud enough for all to hear.

  “There is to be a second expedition, a larger one, to the mountain aerie abandoned by the bird people. It will be led by myself and leaves in the morning.” He shot a glance at Darkhorse. Though the shadow steed moved his head and glared back, it was evident that he could still do little else. Whatever spell bound him to the box made his ability to move subject to the will of the patriarch. He might as well have been a puppet on strings.

  Pretending to forget the eternal, Barakas looked at the cautious spellcaster before him and continued, “Your knowledge and skills would be invaluable to our effort, Lady Sharissa. We would like you to join us.”

  Or Darkhorse will suffer? she wondered. Had the patriarch passed on to her a silent, veiled threat or had he so turned her that she now saw imaginary plots in each movement, each breath he took?

  “Of what use would I be to you? Even now, shorn of your trinket and in full use of my powers, there’s nothing I can do that you cannot do.” Now it was her turn to glance at Darkhorse. “Through fair means or foul.”

  Again there was stirring among the Tezerenee. A normal court under the patriarch no doubt consisted of Barakas preaching and his followers nodding in silent obedience. Even Sharissa’s rebuffs, as futile as they probably were, were jarring to the Tezerenee and their loyal outsiders.

  Barakas leaned back in his throne. The time had come for the fatal thrust. She steadied herself, wondering what he could throw at her that would bring about her willing cooperation in a Tezerenee effort.

  “Are not the founders a particular interest of yours?”

  She said nothing, afraid what might come out.

  He read her expression and nodded. “The avians are merely the latest of a continuing chain of squatters. The first and true lords, if the word brought back is true, were the founders—our accursed godlike ancestors!”

  “The founders…” she whispered. Her strength began to abandon her as she realized he knew exactly how to play on her desires.

  “It is one of their places of power.”

  Sharissa could not, would not face Darkhorse as she bent her head earthward and replied in a quieter, resigned voice, “I’ll go with you.”

  The Lord Barakas Tezerenee nodded imperiously and, looking up at his people, announced, “This audience is at an end.”

  A legion of silent specters, the throng began departing the court. A hand fell softly onto the young Zeree’s shoulder. She looked up at Lochivan, but did not really see him. Her mind was back to a time, fifteen years before, when she had been manipulated time and again, mostly because of her lack of experience in dealing with her kind. Now, it appeared as if a decade and a half had never been. Once more, she was being turned this way and that like a small child. Frustration and anger smoldered within her as it never had before.

  Her expression must have altered, because Lochivan quickly took his hand from her shoulder.

  I will not be manipulated again! Last time it resulted in the death of a friend.

  The sorceress whirled and followed the other out, not even bowing to the lord and lady of the Tezerenee as was probably proper. Lochivan, reacting late, was forced to follow behind her. She would journey with the Tezerenee to the cavern. She would do her best to unravel whatever legacies the founders and their successors had left there. She would find a way to free Darkhorse… and Faunon, too.

  Most of all, she would ensure, in some way, that the Tezerenee, especially their master, would never make use of those legacies.

  XI

  TWO DAYS AMONG the Quel had answered no questions for Gerrod. He still had no idea how long he had been adrift in the Void. To his own way of thinking, it had been a mere handful of hours, but he knew from his talks with Dru that time played tricks where the domain of nothingness was concerned. What might seem hours might prove to be months. For all he knew, his people were dead or, worse yet, Sharissa was a valued member of the clan, bride to the heir and mother of his children.

  A heavy thump against his back sent him flailing to the ground. Around him, the Quel unleashed a chorus of hooting. From earlier confrontations, he had come to the conclusion that this was the bulky creatures’ equivalent of laughter.

  Rising with as much dignity as he could muster, the Vraad scanned his surroundings once more. They were traveling southwest and, while Gerrod was not yet certain, he suspected he was far from where he wanted to be. In the distance, there appeared to be a vast body of water, possibly a great sea, but trying to focus on it was impossible. For the last day, he had been forced to shield his eyes from everything, even his inhuman companions.

  The problem lay in the fact that everything around him glittered like so much perfect crystal. The Quel themselves were not excluded; being so close, they were sometimes blinding. Looking down helped a bit, but even the rocky ground beneath his feet sparkled.

  He knew the cause. This region was laden with crystalline fragments of all shapes and sizes, scattered about as if at some point there had been a great upheaval, perhaps the shaping of this land by the world itself.

  The glitter of the Quel was not natural but camouflage. Their shells consisted of a series of folds that, at birth, must have been much more open. In each fold were countless gems that the shell had eventually grown over, albeit not completely. Any Seeker in the sky would be half blinded by the landscape already, and the crystals on the Quel would make them blend into all that glitter.

  How well that protection worked outside of this region was debatable.

  The crystals had one more use that was no doubt planned by their users. They had a dizzying effect on those unused to them. Somehow, the Quel had identified him as a spellcaster; it might be that they had even spotted him coming into the Dragonrealm. Upon deciding to let him live, which had turned out to be the point of an unintelligible argument that had lasted more than a quarter hour, one of the armadillolike creatures had dragged him forward and thrust a particularly bright gem before his eyes. The blindness caused by the bright sunlight reflecting off of the gem had been temporary, but it had been accompanied by what he had taken at the time to be simple heat reflection. It had given him a headache, which he had thought of as a minor nuisance until he tried to clear his head. The concentration he needed was not there. Had he tried any serious escape attempt utilizing his abilities, it was just as likely he would have included himself in any attack on his captors.

  The headache had vanished, but only so that the dizziness could replace it.

  Another hour passed. The sun was on its downward arc, which, unfortunately, put it before the travelers. Am I to go permanently blind? he wondered. His companions were indifferent to his situation; they appeared to have a series of eyelids, all but the outermost one transparent to a certain point. The brighter it became, the darker their eyes appeared to grow as another lid slid into place. He wondered whether it was a natural ability or whether they had altered themselves much the way the Vraad had once.

  A heavy hand—paw, as far as the disheveled Tezerenee was concerned—took hold of Gerrod’s arm and dragged him to a halt.

  “What is it?” he snarled, both frightened and angry. He wanted to teach these overgrown beasts their place, but, to his misfortune, they already knew it. To them, he was the animal.

  The one who had stopped him raised its battle-ax and pointed to one of the minor hills that had just cropped up to their right. Gerrod spent more time staring at the weapon than at yet another of the land’s unremarkable features. He had felt its weight more than once, usually when he was swatted with the flat of it, and knew that no human could have lifted it from the ground, much less used it in so casual a manner.

  The Quel beside him hooted and pointed at the hill again. The Vraad started toward it, but was pulled back as if he weighed less than nothing. The Quel hooted again.

  Gerrod shook his head, hoping that they understood by now that this was his way of saying he did not understand. The warlock had been shaking his head quite a bit in the pa
st two days.

  Frustrated, the massive creature prodded the earth and made his prisoner look down

  Something was burrowing through the ground toward them.

  He tried to back away, but the Quel held him. The burrowing form moved closer. Gerrod tried to formulate a spell, but the dizziness prevented him. His captors had brought him here to be sacrificed to some horror they worshiped. It had to be. Whether it killed him or not, he would have to try a spell… any spell!

  A swat on the head put an end to that thought. His head pounded and his ears rang, all in addition to his ever-present impediment.

  It burst forth, claws ready… and proved to be nothing more than another Quel, only larger than the others.

  The warlock found himself falling before the newcomer, propelled there by the one who had taken his arm.

  A snouted visage looked down upon him, contempt for his pathetic little form more than apparent. One head-sized paw reached toward him, claws bared, and Gerrod was almost certain he was about to breathe his last. Instead of crushing the warlock’s skull, an act that would certainly have required little exertion on the Quel’s part, the earth-digger took him by the collar and dragged him closer.

  “Dragon’s blood!” he gasped. His shirt and cloak collars were pulled so tight that it was nearly impossible to draw air.

  His new captor hooted several times to the other, who returned his noises with some of their own and then turned away. They were departing.

  What now? the bedraggled Vraad wanted to know. Only one thing came to mind, but surely the armored monstrosity would not—

  Gerrod in one hand, the Quel effortlessly began to burrow in the ground.

  “No! I can’t! Stop!” He struggled to free himself, but his horrific keeper took no notice of his weak efforts. Visions of being buried alive shook Gerrod’s very being. The earth grew nearer and nearer; he might have been sinking in quicksand. Already, most of the Quel’s unsightly form was covered with dirt. Only the wrist and hand that held his captive were still visible.