Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Pomp and circumstance,” Gerrod muttered.

  “We ride now,” the patriarch informed them, glaring at his unrepentant son.

  Not completely willing to trust the outsiders, the patriarch left the managing of their drakes to the guards who rode beside them. One of those sentries took the guiding rope of Sharissa’s mount and began to lead it, but slowly so as to allow the clan master’s animal to move ahead. It was mandatory that the Lord Tezerenee lead, if only as a symbolic gesture.

  The remnants of the expeditionary force continued to sound their approval and allegiance as the party moved out. Had she not been so exhausted already—and thinking about how tired she would be when they finally stopped—the sorceress would have admired their enthusiasm much more. As it was, she only hoped that they would still have such enthusiasm a month from now.

  One of the Tezerenee standing nearest to where she was removed her helmet and began to scratch at an ugly patch of dry, red skin covering most of her throat and part of her chin. Sharissa stared at it briefly, but then the warrior guiding her drake pulled on the rope and the animal turned, putting the warrior woman and the others behind the young Zeree. Exhausted as she was, she did not bother turning around to get a second glance.

  Besides, there were too many more important matters to consider. Far too many to worry about an annoying but evidently insignificant rash.

  XIX

  IT WAS WELL after the midnight hour when the patriarch gave in to the urgings of his people to rest the drakes before they collapsed in midrun. By that time, Sharissa was nearly asleep in the saddle. Despite the clan master’s assurance that she would come to learn how to truly rest while riding, the sorceress was more than happy to crawl off the unruly beast and drag herself to a safe and secure spot where she could try to regain at least a tiny portion of her strength. Gerrod and Faunon were not much better, nor were the Tezerenee themselves, even though they had actually had some rest at one point or another.

  Only the patriarch seemed energetic, but it was the energy of the anxious, the worried. If he kept it up too long, it would drain him.

  Sharissa’s sleep proved little more relaxing. She dreamed as she never had before, but there was little in those dreams to give her comfort. In one, a hand rose from the earth and seized her, twisting her like clay and reshaping her in a hundred myriad forms, all horrific. In another, Faunon and she were embracing. It was a pleasant scene, and she knew that she was about to be kissed. Then his face had become some reptilian parody, but he had still tried to kiss her. That one had woken her up and kept her awake for more than half an hour, so real had that close visage been.

  There were others, but they by and by were only shadowy memories, too vague to bother her much. Only one thing about them remained with her, and that one thing was enough to make her shiver.

  Throughout several of the nightmares, she could hear the sound of the insane guardian’s mocking laughter. It seemed to cross from one dream to the next. It was still ringing in her ears when a tap on her shoulder woke her again.

  Sunlight burned her eyes. Faunon smiled down at her. He seemed fresher, but there were still marks of exhaustion on him. Sharissa did not care to think what she must look like. It amazed her that anyone could still find her attractive. At present, it would not have surprised her to look into a mirror and see a visage that would make a drake beautiful in comparison.

  The elf extended a hand, which she took. As he pulled her to her feet, Faunon said, “It was a choice of one of them waking you or me taking on that task. I knew you were still exhausted, but I thought you might like to see my pale face a bit more than you would their metal masks.”

  “Very much so.” She enjoyed the contact between them and let it linger a bit before releasing his hand. “Is there food?”

  “I would not have disturbed you if there had not been.” He waved a hand at two bowls by their feet. A stew, much like the one that the Lady Alcia had once fed to her so long ago and smelling almost as good. She recalled that incident because it had seemed so out of place when dealing with one of the Tezerenee. Sometimes it was troublesome to remember that the clan’s mistress had been born an outsider, that there had been no clan until Barakas had pulled together his disjointed group of relations and welded them into the only true family among the Vraad. Not known for being familial, the concept of a clan was something known only from the early days of the race. Barakas, however, had assured that it would never be dismissed lightly—and his bride had been his other half in the struggle. She, almost as much as the patriarch, had helped to make the Tezerenee the force they were.

  Sharissa found herself hoping that nothing had happened to her.

  “Where’s Gerrod?” she asked, trying to put the Lady Alcia from her thoughts.

  Faunon handed her one of the bowls. He hesitated, then answered, “I saw him last with his brother. They journeyed away from the camp.”

  Trying to do something for Lochivan’s illness? It was the only reason she could think of. Not all of their past differences had been ironed out, but a common concern for their own people had, at least, brought them temporarily together. Had it been any other family, the young woman would have been happy for Gerrod. As it was, she hoped he was not becoming one of them again.

  A shadow fell upon them. The two looked up into the dragonhelm of a Tezerenee. “My lord bids tell you that we leave shortly. Prepare yourselves.”

  Her companion groaned as the warrior marched off. “I have seldom ridden so much. To think I once thought a horse a terrible animal to cope with. Merely sitting astride one of these monstrosities is worse.”

  “What are you expecting to find?” she asked abruptly. Sharissa felt a need to know as much as she could, and Faunon was her only source of information. Of all of them, only he had been born to this land.

  The humor of a moment before slipped away, revealing the serious soul beneath. “I do not know, my beauteous Vraad. The only thing predictable about the land’s ways is its unpredictability. I regret to say that the two of us have just as likely a chance of being correct.” He took her hand. “I am sorry I cannot help you.”

  She squeezed the hand and, on impulse, leaned forward and kissed him. While he was still staring at her in open shock, the sorceress smiled and said, “But you do.”

  FOR THE SECOND time, they rode as if the renegade guardian itself was snapping at the tails of their mounts. Gerrod and Lochivan, who had come back just before preparations for the day’s mad journey were complete, separated as if things had not changed between them. Sharissa had looked at the warlock for some sort of explanation, but Gerrod had merely pulled his hood over his head and buried himself in the all-encompassing cloak. The only thing she could tell was that he was even more worried than yesterday.

  The sun was high in the sky when they departed. Again it was a mad race, everyone seeking to maintain the pace that the patriarch had set. This day’s was worse than the first, and Sharissa had a suspicion why. She was certain he had tried again to teleport to the citadel and, of course, failed. That only made it more essential that they cover as much ground as possible each day.

  It was impossible to speak, but she did glance at Faunon whenever possible. He returned her looks with a tight-lipped smile. Until the coming of the Tezerenee, he would have never thought riding a drake possible. He probably still did not.

  On her other side, beyond the Tezerenee guard who paced her, Gerrod stared straight ahead. Only once did he turn his eyes to Sharissa, but the hood shadowed them so well that it was as if she stared into the sightless face of a dead man. She turned away and regretted it a moment later, but, when she sought to apologize, his attention had already returned to the path ahead.

  To find Lochivan, she had to crane her neck and look back, a dangerous trick to attempt for very long, which meant that she was forced to do it more than once just to get a good glimpse of him. He was riding at the back end of the column, his head down so that even if he had not been wearing a helm
, she would have been unable to see his face. At the side of his saddle bounced Dark-horse’s insidious prison, apparently in Lochivan’s permanent keeping despite his betrayal. Angry at herself for not demanding the eternal’s release from the box, Sharissa swore she would bring that up with Barakas the moment they stopped. If she could convince him that Darkhorse would listen to her and not seek vengeance, then he might prove willing to allow the ebony stallion freedom. Perhaps if she mentioned the aid that Darkhorse could give them… though that depended on how strong the eternal was. He had, she recalled with bitterness, been punished hard for his attack upon the lord of the Tezerenee.

  It was night again when they finally halted. Drakes were good for long bursts of speed, but then they had to rest much longer than horses. They also had to be fed, and that meant meat. For this journey, the Tezerenee had packed as much as they could carry of the special feed that they added to the beasts’ meals. Mixed in with the meat, it would greatly supplement their needs and prevent any chance, however slim, that the drakes might snap at their masters in their search for fresh food.

  As she had sworn, Sharissa sought out the patriarch as soon as she had dismounted. Behind her trailed her latest silent shadow. Barakas she found speaking to one of the other guards, evidently setting the watch for the night. Barakas could delegate everything if he chose, but that was not his way. A leader, she had heard him say long ago, did not sit back and grow fat and lazy. He worked with his subjects, reminding them of why he was their lord.

  Barakas dismissed the warrior just as she walked up to him. In the background, she caught the vague image of Lochivan spending an overlong period of time busying himself with his steed. He seemed to be watching his father closely, as if wanting something.

  “What is it you wish, Lady Sharissa?” the patriarch asked. He sounded as worn out as she felt.

  “I have a request of you, my Lord Barakas.”

  “Formal, is it? Tell me something first, my lady. Are you rested enough to make good use of your abilities?”

  Somehow this encounter had been turned around and he was now asking a favor of her. She kept her peace, thinking it would be best to hear him out. It might help her own cause. “I’m hardly rested, if that is what you mean. If you want to know if I can teleport to the citadel, I doubt it. All I remember with any confidence is the interior; you wouldn’t let me journey outside the walls very much, if you recall.”

  “Something I think I am about to regret, yes?”

  “I’m sorry.” The sorceress was. It seemed there was never anything she could do, but, in this case, it was the patriarch’s fault. “And if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to materialize inside… just in case.”

  “I understand. I was attempting to appear outside the gates myself.” Barakas tugged at his graying beard. “And sorcery might not be safe yet. When I tried just before the day’s ride, I sensed something—immense, is the only way I can describe it—spreading throughout the region of the citadel.”

  She thought of the land awakening and the outcast laughing, all still fresh in her mind from the dreams. “Do you think that—”

  “I do not know what to think.” He dismissed the subject. “You had a request you wished to make of me.”

  “It concerns Darkhorse.”

  “Does it now?” In the deepening dark, she could not see his eyes now, but she knew they were narrowed, suspicious. “And how does it concern him?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve given you my word that I will help you, and you’ve given your word that you will release all of us. Until the latter happens, however, I was hoping that you would let Darkhorse out—”

  “He is my assurance that you will abide by your side, Lady Sharissa.”

  The young Zeree nodded. “I understand how you feel after the attack, but he will listen to me. If I ask him to abide by my decision, he will do so, I’m certain. If not…” She hesitated, wondering what the eternal would think of this offer. “If not, you can trap him inside once more and I won’t make a protest.”

  There was silence for a time, then; “I will consider it over my meal.”

  “You’ve bound him to the box again. He can’t do you any harm now!”

  “Never underestimate an opponent, especially a wounded one. They are often the deadliest.” The patriarch nodded to her. “You will hear from me. I promise.”

  He walked off without another word. Sharissa frowned and looked for Lochivan again, but the patriarch’s son had vanished.

  She wondered why the lord of the Tezerenee had left his other children behind. Even Lochivan would have remained at the caverns had he not defied his father. Was it that Barakas worried about what they might face? Was Lochivan only here because he had confronted his father with the Tezerenee need for honor and redemption? Gerrod did not count; he was almost an outsider as far as his sire was concerned.

  “My lady,” her shadow suddenly said, jarring her back to the here and now.

  “You should get food and rest. My Lord Barakas will be demanding us to be ready when he is.”

  “Very well.” She wondered when she would receive her answer. Tonight? Tomorrow?

  Whenever he chooses to give it, Sharissa finally decided with a frown. She turned and wandered back to where Faunon would already be waiting with food for the two of them.

  “WHENEVER” ACTUALLY PROVED to be just before she lay down to sleep. Most of the others were already resting, but she had located a stream and, despite the protest of the bodyguard, washed her clothing and cleaned herself. The warrior, to her surprise, respected her privacy and kept his eyes as much as possible on the nearby foliage. As tired as she was, Sharissa would have hardly cared if he had looked. She was only happy to be clean. Amongst the items packed for her were traveling gowns much like the one she wore. Where they had come from she could only guess, but they fit her perfectly and prevented her from having to put on the wet outfit once she was finished. They accented her form quite well, and she wondered if perhaps they had been brought along on the journey from the citadel, where Lady Alcia might have had them made for her.

  Heavy footfalls warned her of the approach of a Tezerenee unconcerned with silence. Faunon and Gerrod, both sleeping within a few yards of her, either did not hear the newcomer or thought best not to interfere in what they knew nothing about.

  “Lady Sharissa.”

  As was the way of the Tezerenee, only the patriarch had a tent. The sorceress and her companions slept in travel blankets provided by the clan, their heads resting on small mats provided with the blankets. To Sharissa, long used to expeditions exploring the ruins of founder settlements, this was heaven compared to riding a drake for hour upon hour. She was almost sorry she had to talk to Barakas now, but reminded herself it was for Darkhorse’s sake.

  “I was hoping you would make use of the creek. Refreshing, was it?”

  “I would have appreciated your telling my watchdog that. I had to argue with him.”

  “My apologies.”

  “Have you made a decision about Darkhorse?”

  “I have. I will not release him. You I may trust, but not the demon.”

  She felt anger stirring. “He won’t—”

  He silenced her. “That is my decision. I am, however, willing to do something for you and your elf.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow, his weapons, and any you and Gerrod had, will be returned to you. Though I do not trust enough to remove your collars, I allow that you need some defense. We may need you three. You’ll also be allowed to ride with your hands unhindered.”

  It was not what she had wanted, but it was better than having her request rejected and receiving nothing else. Still, she could not help comment. “You have me confused, Lord Barakas. I’m not certain whether we are prisoners or partners.”

  He laughed, but it was forced. “I find many things confusing of late, my lady. Good night.”

  Sharissa watched him walk off, still limping a bit. At times like th
is, she could feel pity for the aging dragonlord. Unfortunately, all that Sharissa had to do to wipe away the pity was recall what he did to those who failed or defied him.

  Like Darkhorse or Gerrod.

  TRUE TO HIS word, Barakas returned their weapons. Faunon took his sword back with no argument, but the look on his face made Sharissa smile for a brief time. Gerrod was far more cynical about things. As he pointed out, the odds were greatly against them if they attempted to escape. Either Barakas or Lochivan alone could take the three of them on and probably win.

  Thinking of Lochivan, Sharissa searched for him in the hopes of speaking to him before the patriarch called for them to mount up. She found him already in the saddle, dragonhelm on, but bent over a bit as if his stomach pained him. The box was no longer attached to the saddle, which meant that Barakas had likely retrieved it. That did not concern her so much now as what might be wrong with her former friend.

  “Lochivan? Are you all right?”

  “My sssstomach turnsss, nothing more!” He refused to look at her.

  “Lochivan—”

  Her daily shadow rushed to her. “My lady, the patriarch bids you to mount your beast! We leave now!”

  “You heard him,” growled Lochivan. “It isss time to ride!”

  She allowed herself to be led away, but the sorceress kept her eyes on the ill Tezerenee for as long as possible. Lochivan was worse than he had ever been. He should have never joined them. The trek was proving too harsh for his system to endure, even despite his admirable willpower.

  Gerrod and Faunon, seated on their drakes, were waiting for her. The warlock glanced back at his brother and down at her, his expression a mixture of many conflicting thoughts. When she tried to ask him what he was concerned about, the hooded Tezerenee shook his head and found other things with which to busy himself.

  “Follow!” Lord Barakas called, urging his mount forward. At the rate he was pushing them, they would see the citadel late tomorrow and reach it the following morning. Not as fast as he wanted, but swift enough for the rest of the band.