Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  More proficient? How long, he wondered for the first time, would he be here? Despite their politeness, the hulking creatures had not once indicated that the Tezerenee would be allowed to leave even if he did perform whatever task they needed him for. Like many Vraad, the Quel might be capable of smiling, or however they expressed themselves, while at the same time burying their spears or axes in one’s back.

  To Gerrod, the tunnel he was led into suddenly grew very oppressive, reminding him of the path to a crypt. His, perhaps.

  It grew cold, the first time Gerrod had felt cold since coming here. Even the Quel seemed touched by it, for they slowed their pace and a few looked around in what a Vraad would have been growing anxiety touching upon fear. Only the leader seemed nearly the same; its peculiar eyes blinked constantly, but it alone kept the steady pace. The warlock was not reassured, however. He had met enough madmen and fools. For all he knew, the worst of them now dragged him by the arm toward chaos incarnate.

  They came to the mouth of yet another cavern, but unlike the others, this one was as black as Darkhorse. Gerrod could see nothing within even after allowing his eyes to adjust. As he turned to his guide, the warlock saw the rest of the band back away a few steps.

  The leader’s eyes surveyed him from head to toe. Was he being measured? Had the Quel begun to wonder about Gerrod’s ability to survive whatever lurked within?

  “What is in there?” he asked.

  You/we… yourself/ourselves… statement!/question?

  What could that mean? He asked the question again, but received only the same response. It made no sense no matter how he turned it. The impressions were jumbled, uncertain. Gerrod came to the conclusion that the Quel could not explain, might not even know. Maybe that was why they needed an outsider like an elf. Whatever lay waiting within the darkness could very well be beyond their comprehension. Once more, he was reminded of how different their minds were from those of his people. It might be that there was nothing for him to worry about.

  Gerrod did not believe that for a moment.

  As it turned out, his choice was made for him. The Quel leader gripped his arm tight enough to make the Vraad gasp… and dragged him inside. The others hung back and waited.

  Somehow Gerrod found himself in front of the Quel leader, though he could only tell that by touch. The creature’s grip was now the only thing he could be certain about; his eyes could make out nothing in the darkness, and all sound appeared to have ceased the moment they entered.

  The Quel released its grip and vanished into the darkness.

  “Wait! Where are you?” The warlock turned around, but he could not find the path back even though it should have been visible. “Dragon’s blood! Don’t leave me in here! I cannot see a thing!” He feared to move, uncertain as to whether his next step would take him over some unseen brink or into the waiting arms of… of what?

  When, however, it became apparent that no one would be coming to retrieve him, the warlock finally dared a tentative step forward.

  A thousand blinding suns brilliantly illuminated the chamber. Gerrod put an arm before his eyes and drew the hood of his cloak over his face. After such complete darkness, the light was doubly harsh. He would have stayed as he was, wrapped tight in his cloak, but for the whispering. He could not make out what they said, but there was a familiarity to their voices, almost as if they were all the same voice, but speaking of different things. None of them heeded the others in the slightest.

  They have thrown me to a legion of madmen or demons! he decided. Monsters who, no doubt, I will soon join in madness!

  What was it about the voices that sounded so familiar to him? There were differences, to be sure, but the tones and inflections were the same regardless of that. He knew those voices, knew them to be only one voice.

  One voice…

  “Cursed Nimth,” the Tezerenee whispered. “What sort of mockery is this?” He slid the hood back a little and found the light more tolerable now. The discovery disappointed him, for Gerrod had hoped for an excuse to keep from looking. Now, the only thing holding him back was his own cowardice.

  The mocking laughter of his father assailed his ears, but Gerrod understood that out of all the voices he heard, his sire’s was the only one solely of his imagination. The rest were very real.

  He looked up and saw them—the faces in crystal.

  They were everywhere, the faces, because, unlike the other chambers, there was nothing here but crystal. The floor, the ceiling, the walls—from tiny, indistinct specks to huge, horrifying demons, the faces were all about. They babbled on in a frantic manner, as if their very lives depended on his understanding them. Try as he might, Gerrod could not make out one true word. He strained to hear the whisperings of an ancient, balding seer and the harsh mutterings of a hooded fiend whose face refused to focus for him. Another, a young, amiable figure with a shock of silver hair amidst a field of brown, talked to him as if they were close friends. Even still, the warlock could not make out what the other was trying to convey, despite desperately wanting to understand one, any one, of the phantoms trapped in the crystals. He knew them now, knew them as well as he knew himself.

  That was who they were. No matter how changed—and some were very, very changed—they were all Gerrod.

  XII

  SHARISSA HATED THE riding drakes. She hated their appearance, their attitude, and their smell. They could not compare to a horse. Yet, she had been forced to ride one these past two days. The beast was stupid, and it often grew sidetracked. Once it had even snapped at her for no reason whatsoever.

  The patriarch listened to her complaints with the air of one tolerating a whining child. It made no difference whether or not she was having trouble with her mount; Tezerenee used drakes for riding, especially when it was always possible that they might be engaged in combat at any moment.

  The force that journeyed to the mountains moved with caution. Teleportation was still a spell beyond most of the Tezerenee, and so they were forced to travel in a more mundane manner. The patriarch also distrusted the absence of the Seekers. Barakas might claim that the aerie was abandoned, but he apparently believed that there was risk enough that rushing into things might result in chaos. He had even brought along a very submissive Darkhorse, who turned his head every time Sharissa attempted to speak with the eternal. Darkhorse was ashamed of his actions, despite the fact that much of what he had done had been for her sake. The captive sorceress did not blame him for anything, but trying to tell him that was proving impossible.

  Evening came at last. Barakas gave Reegan permission to give the signal to halt. The heir did so in a sullen mood; he still burned over his father’s decision to leave his mother in control of the burgeoning empire. Reegan had assumed that the patriarch’s being absent would allow him to exercise his long-overdue desire to rule. The heir had even argued with Barakas at some length, but the end had been inevitable. All that Reegan could do was sulk afterward, and he had done so with a determination almost admirable.

  Sharissa was just descending from her troublesome steed when a familiar and unwanted voice rose behind her.

  “Allow me to help you, Sharissa.”

  “I can do without your help or your friendship, Lochivan!” she retorted, dismounting as she spoke.

  He aided her nonetheless. “I understand your bitterness and I know that nothing I can do will make up for the wrongs you believe of me, but we will be together for quite some time—all our lives, in fact.”

  “I thought is was Reegan the patriarch wanted me to marry, not you.”

  A brief chuckle escaped him. “I might admit to having had some thoughts on the subject; I like to think that you might find me a bit more entertaining than my bullish brother. That was not what I meant, however. I merely refer to a fact that you must come to face before very long—that you are now and shall ever be a part of us. There is no going back.”

  She tried to take her pack from the drake’s back, but Lochivan moved around her an
d took it before she could even touch it. “Only a body of water separates me from my father and the other Vraad. Either they will come for me or I will go to them.”

  Lochivan signaled to another Tezerenee, who rushed over and took charge of the riding drake. That detail taken care of, the patriarch’s son started walking, Sharissa’s pack still under one arm. The slim woman followed, if only because she knew that he would keep walking regardless of whether she followed. As long as he had her pack, Sharissa knew she would have to listen to him.

  “The crossing is deadly; the elf your father took as a mate must have told you that.”

  “She survived, didn’t she?”

  “Others perished. Besides, do you think you can sail there all by yourself?”

  “I have the use of my abilities back—no thanks to you and yours, Tezerenee.” He paused before a clear, smooth location that would leave her near the very middle of the camp. Coincidentally, several Tezerenee stood patrol nearby. “The elves, I understand, are not without their own measure of power. We may be mighty, but the elements must always be respected.”

  Reaching out, she tore the pack from his hands. “When have the Vraad ever respected the elements? Have you so easily forgotten Nimth?”

  “Hardly. I have learned more than you think, Sharissa. I respect this world. That will not keep me from doing my duty to the clan, though. The Dragon-realm must be brought under control. This idiocy of one race after another passing beyond must end. Already it seems to have claimed the Seekers. We are, if you recall, the founders’ last hope for a successor. We cannot disappoint their memory.”

  While he had been talking, Sharissa had knelt down and opened the pack. Each of the food items she removed could have been conjured instead of carried, but Barakas wanted sorcery kept to a minimum. Unlike the millennia of excess that Nimth had suffered under the Vraad, this world was more grudging. The Tezerenee might be able to use the old world’s sorcery, but it still drained them physically. Even Sharissa had bodily limitations. Barakas claimed he wanted everyone at their best should an attack occur. It was also possible that the Seekers might not yet know that they were coming. An excessive use of magic might alert the avians and destroy any advantage of surprise the expedition had.

  Sharissa doubted that these were the foremost reasons. She suspected that the patriarch wanted his men to take the aerie without the aid of sorcery; it would serve to bolster morale and add credence to the belief that an empire in this land was their true destiny.

  “Listen to me!” Lochivan hissed as he came down on one knee next to Sharissa. His voice was very low and very anxious. “I am your friend whether you believe me or not. I am thinking of you!”

  “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your noble thoughts concerning your clan. I’m tired, Lochivan. Go talk to one of your brothers or sisters or cousins or anyone, but stop talking to me.”

  He rose, a dark shadow outlined by the last dim rays of the sunken sun. “You and that elf… two of a kind!”

  “What about the elf?” Sharissa tried her best not to look too interested.

  Lochivan took her interest as an opening. “I have to spend another fruitless evening trying to convince him of the futility of holding back any longer. With his companions dead and his people far away, he should be reasonable. Instead, he merely grits his teeth and stares into space.”

  She barely heard most of what he said. “What have you done to him this time?”

  The edge in her voice did not go unnoticed. “Only what must be done. We have been careful; damaged, he is no good to anyone. He knows this land better than we. His knowledge must be added to our own.”

  Could she possibly—? The thought was so outrageous that she nearly discarded it immediately. Sharissa looked up at the dark figure of Lochivan. “I could speak to him if you would only let me.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  His disbelief was expected. Why would she help the Tezerenee? The sorceress hoped her answer would soothe his suspicions. “I want to save him from any more of the hospitality of Barakas—him and Darkhorse. Let me see what I can do. If I succeed, I expect to be able to spend a bit of time with Darkhorse, too.”

  “You expect—”

  She raised a hand. “Does not the patriarch say that those who serve shall be rewarded? Have I asked that much?”

  Lochivan was silent for so long that Sharissa feared he had rejected her suggestion out of hand and was merely marveling at her gall. Then he laughed.

  “I will ask for permission. It may amuse him as much as it does me.” He began to depart, then turned back and, in a quiet voice, added, “It may come as no surprise to you that you are being watched.”

  “I hardly thought Lord Barakas wouldn’t safeguard against my good intentions. I think I know what might happen should I desire to test my abilities.”

  That produced another good-natured laugh. “You would be wasted on Reegan, Sharissa.”

  She busied herself with her blanket and did not reply.

  “I am dismissed, I see. Should I gain permission for you to speak to the elf, I will send word. Until then, good evening to you.” His heavy boots crushed fallen twigs and leaves as he moved off. Sharissa waited until the sounds grew faint before turning around to watch his departure.

  “I would rather marry Reegan,” she whispered. “At least he I can trust to be consistent.”

  “LADY SHARISSA?”

  The sorceress blinked sleep from her eyes. Night still shrouded the land, but that did not tell her anything of import. “Is it near morning?”

  “No, my lady.” A female warrior was bent over her, helm in one arm. Dressed in something finer than armor, she probably would have been attractive. Tezerenee had in general done without magical alterations to their face and form, preferring to live with what nature had chosen for them. For many Tezerenee, that meant less-than-pleasant features. A few of the patriarch’s offspring, such as Gerrod or his late brother Rendel, had been fortunate enough to gain more from their mother than their father.

  “What hour is it?”

  “We are barely past midnight, Lady Sharissa.”

  The warrior was scratching her cheek. In the light of the partial moons the sorceress could see that the same dryness that many Tezerenee suffered had spread to this one’s cheek, ruining what beauty she did have.

  Sleep made the sorceress slow. There was a reason why a Tezerenee might have come to her now, but she could not think of what it was. “Then why have I been disturbed?”

  “The Lord Barakas Tezerenee has given you permission to speak with the elf.”

  “Alone, of course.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  They both knew this was far from the truth, but arguing about it would avail Sharissa naught. She would merely have to be careful how she spoke with Faunon. He would understand why. The elf was no one’s fool.

  Sharissa rose. “Give me a moment.” She picked up some of the food, including some of the Tezerenee wine Reegan had given her. That the clan of the dragon could make such excellent wine was their only saving grace in her eyes.

  When she was ready, the Tezerenee led her to the wagon where Faunon was kept. Two sentries stood ready to receive them. Sharissa expected to see Lochivan nearby, but could not find him. It did not break her heart.

  Her guide spoke to the others and indicated Sharissa. One of the guards nodded and both stepped aside. Nodding as if their obedience was to be expected, the sorceress strode past them and over to the wagon door. The Tezerenee preferred a wagon that was more of a room on wheels, including windows and a door. There was no real need for such an elaborate structure where a simple cloth-covered wagon would have sufficed; the wagon was merely a result of the clan’s tastes. In some ways, it resembled a tiny citadel. Sharissa knew that it was even protected to some extent by defensive spells.

  A light from within blinded her when she opened the door. Her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, took a moment to recuperate. Sharissa
saw that a lamp illuminated the interior and wondered if it had been left specifically for her use. The lamp hung on a hook in the ceiling. Beyond it were several mysterious sacks from which emanated a slight magical aura, but nothing that made her worry. Supplies of some sort; she had seen their like often.

  Other than the sacks and the lamp, only one other item decorated the wagon’s interior.

  Faunon.

  He was chained so that he could sit on the floor with his legs outstretched, but there were other chains above those, an indication that sometimes he was forced to stand, probably during questioning. Physically, Faunon looked no worse than he had the last time the tall sorceress had spoken to him. Vraad torture, however, did not necessarily leave its marks on the skin.

  She closed the door behind her, even though that did not mean that they could not hear her. It would give them a sense of privacy at least. “Faunon?”

  The worn figure did not respond.

  “Faunon?” Sharissa’s voice quivered. Had they killed him and left the corpse there for her to see? Was this Lochivan’s mad jest on her?

  His chest rose and fell. Sharissa breathed a sigh of relief, more horrified at the thought of his death than she would have believed. The elf was the only being other than Darkhorse that she could think of as a friend.

  He looked up. His handsome features were marred by dark circles under his eyes and very, very pale skin. Despite the excessive anguish he had gone through since last they met, the fire was still alive in his eyes. As they focused on her, the flames burned brighter, as if her presence heartened him.