Legends of the Dragonrealm: Shade (5 page)

Replacing the tome, Valea drew herself straight, then stretched forth her hands. She had no idea if what she intended would work, but she had no other choice.

The secrets of Shade . . . ,
the enchantress silently called to the libraries, aware that in some ways her request was both too vague and too particular.
Show them to me . . . show them to me . . .

How long had she been caught up in the legend of the accursed sorcerer? Most of her life, Valea had to admit. She knew the tale spoken of by so many. She knew about how a sorcerer—or warlock, those terms having become interchangeable in her world over the centuries—whose name was forgotten by the world at large had supposedly sought the secret of immortality. Indeed, he had been said to have had a great fear of death, as if something terrible awaited him beyond.

The sorcerer had journeyed from one land to another seeking the answer to his improbable quest . . . and had apparently found what he believed the answer. The legend went on to say that in a vast cavern he had finally cast his grand spell. But instead of achieving immortality, he had been destroyed.

That should have been the end of it, but with legends, it generally wasn’t.

The library remained still and silent. Valea eyed the books in growing frustration.

Concentrating harder, she tried one last time.
Show me! Show me!

As the enchantress waited, her thoughts drifted back to the legend and the aftermath of that supposed great spell. The sorcerer had been utterly destroyed . . . but then had awoken resurrected fully far, far from his sanctum. Yet, he had not been whole. His mind had fragmented—most of his memories were now lost—and his personality had shifted entirely to the darker end of human thought. More visibly unsettling, his face—his entire being, so Valea suspected—had taken on a blurriness, as if the sorcerer were not entirely in tune with the world.

Thus had Shade been born.

Valea glared at the heavy tomes, which still had not responded to her entreaties. Defeated, the enchantress lowered her hands.

The endless rows of books began quivering, as if shaken by some great tremor, but the floor beneath Valea’s feet was motionless.

One of the books farthest away flew into the air, the covers flapping as if wings. Another book nearer to her did the same.

Scores of ancient tomes took flight. Even as she backed away in surprise, Valea knew that they had not done so at her command. The enchantress already understood just how foolish her demands had been. Surely, her father or the Gryphon would have long ago made similar requests. Without the aid of the librarian, though, she had done the only thing of which she could think.

But now the libraries acted of their
own
accord.

The books darted about like a vast flock of startled birds. They flew close to Valea but never came near to striking her. Nevertheless, she stood ready to defend herself. Nothing like this had ever been mentioned by anyone else and the enchantress had no idea how it would end.

One tome abruptly ceased flapping. The bulky book dropped like a stone. Another followed suit, then another, and another. Everywhere lay strewn volumes, leaving the scene a shambles.

Yet, not every book fell. More than a dozen fluttered around Valea. They flew up before her, gathering together.

And as they massed, they somehow formed an image, a blurring figure that Valea could just make out.

A great bird. A great bird rising from a fiery pit. Behind it, barely visible, stood a single mountain.

Vaguely had Valea time to register the image when those books also fell to the floor. At the same moment, a furious growl arose from one of the corridors behind her.

“What is the meaning of this?” piped an ancient voice.

She anxiously looked over her shoulder to see a short, thin figure clad in dark robes that dragged over the floor. The bald, wizened head shifted back and forth as the librarian drank in the chaos.

He fixed upon Valea. “What sort of madness possesses you, my lady? Just look at this! I’ll have to spend hours trying to sort this mess out!”

“My apologies!” Despite the fact that it might mean discovery, she added, “I’ll certainly help put them away—”

The librarian—it was never known if he or, assuming there was more than one, they had names—cut off her apology and offer with a curt wave. Straightening to his full possibly four-foot height, he more calmly asked, “How may I serve you? What knowledge do you seek?”

Valea looked around anxiously. “I—never mind! I must be going.”

“As you like.” Without another word, the gnomish figure bent to retrieve one of the books.

Cabe’s daughter started to concentrate on returning to the chamber of the tapestry. She already had a spell ready that would transport her away from any danger the golems might still present. What concerned her more was another matter.

“Master librarian . . .” When he paused in his efforts to look up at her, Valea quickly asked, “Can you avoid mentioning that I was here?”

It was a tremendous gamble. Simply by asking such a question, she revealed that her excursion here had not been one permitted by the lord of Penacles.

“If he does not ask, there is no need to speak of this,” the librarian flatly replied.

“Thank you,” she said, much relieved. Staring again at the books, the enchantress added, “I should truly help—”

“There is no need.” With that, he returned to his task, his tone and stance utterly dismissing her.

Biting her lip, Valea vanished.

THE LIBRARIAN STRAIGHTENED.
He dropped the book back onto the pile, then snapped his fingers.

The books disappeared, moments later reappearing on the shelves as if never having moved.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at where the enchantress had stood.

“The phoenix . . . ,” the librarian whispered to himself. “May the land preserve us, he searches for the phoenix . . .”

A CHILL COURSED
through his bones, jarring him from the darkness. A sound echoed in his head, the clattering of hooves. The clattering was slight at first but steadily grew.

Shade awoke and the sound ceased.

His gaze focused, revealing a desolate land shadowed by night, with only the half-seen crimson moon, Styx, giving anything resembling illumination. The sorcerer knew instantly where he had sent himself, even though the casting had been random, or at least it should have been.

“The Hell Plains . . . ,” he murmured.

A sound again briefly assailed him. Shade stiffened, realizing that it was one heard with not his ears but rather his
mind
.

Seizing the edges of his vast cloak, he wrapped himself deep within the garment. Only his eyes remained uncovered.

Silence reigned again, silence punctuated by an occasional rumble of the ground. The Hell Plains never remained completely still, their seismic activity a reflection of their lord, the Red Dragon. Even though this particular Dragon King was young in comparison to the others—his sire slain by Cabe’s mad father, Azran, and Azran’s deadly creation, the sword mockingly called Nameless—he was still a potent threat.

But it was not the drake lord whom Shade sought to evade. Barely a breath after he had secreted himself with his power, a huge, equine form charged into sight.

The stallion was so black that he stood out even against the night. He was larger than any mortal beast and appeared as much shadow as substance. Ice-blue orbs without pupils glittered with a light of their own as the steed reared.

The creature surveyed the area. Nostrils flared. The stallion snorted as if in frustration. Returning to all fours, the horse angrily scraped one hoof against the hard ground, and despite the volcanic heat having sealed it harder than ordinary rock, the hoof easily gouged a ravine.

Shade remained perfectly still and protected, yet the stallion looked his way. The sorcerer did not flee, did not try to defend himself.

With another angry snort, the nightmarish steed raced off to the southwest. His hooves made no mortal sound, just as they had made none prior to his arrival, and did not even quite touch the ground as the supernatural beast rushed into the distance.

Shade continued to hold his place long after the ebony stallion had vanished. Finally, the spellcaster slowly drew back his cloak and stepped from his hiding spot.

It was not fear of the creature that had made him hide, but rather the unnecessary and certainly violent confrontation that would have taken place. He could ill afford anything that might prevent him from pursuing his quest, especially this. The two of them had fought titanic battles in the past and never had there been a clear victor. That was likely in part because they knew each other better than any . . . and because they had been friends as much as they had been enemies.

Steer clear, old companion,
he thought with one last glance at the path the fearsome stallion had taken.
This time . . . I may be more than willing to vanquish you. This time . . . I know how . . .

Finally satisfied that the demonic steed would not return, Shade turned to his left. There, he beheld a sight nearly as familiar to him as the shadowy horse. There was little left of what had once been a towering citadel, the ash and tremors so constant in this forsaken realm doing their best to bury the remnants of a place even more foul.

Here had once stood the hidden sanctum of Azran Bedlam.

Had his features been distinct, they would have revealed something of the sorcerer’s disturbed thoughts at the understanding that his “random” flight had taken him so near to the ruins. Bad enough for anyone to find themselves in the Hell Plains, but to pass so close to the madman’s citadel was to risk life and limb—and soul.

The ground trembled again. Shade adjusted his balance and cautiously trod toward the ruins. Wisdom warned him to leave the area; desperation drove him forward.

As if to emphasize the last, a gut-wrenching pain sent him doubling over. Gritting his teeth so as not to call out and possibly alert minions of the Dragon King, Shade dropped to one knee. He started to bring one gloved hand to his face, then paused when he saw the hand.

The appendage—glove and all—was transparent.

Forcing himself to focus despite his agony, Shade stared at the hand. Slowly—much too slowly—the hand solidified again.

He exhaled in relief.

A feminine chuckle echoed through the ruins.

No longer concerned with secrecy, the sorcerer spun toward the sound. The hand that had been transparent now radiated dark blue light.

What remained of a stone wall shattered, the fragments hurtling yards in every direction. Those that soared toward Shade struck an invisible barrier just inches from him.

Now, is that any way to greet your own blood, Gerrod?

Hearing the name disturbed him as much as the woman’s voice reverberating in his head, for it stirred more memories, memories so old yet so powerful that they could never completely die.

“Gerrod is dead,” he whispered to the unseen speaker. “I have seen his ghost . . .”

You are his ghost . . .

Turning toward an area deeper in the ruins, Shade cast once more. Icy crystals fell upon the area and, where they touched the ruins and the ash covering them, turned brittle, then dissolved.

But this only served to amuse the speaker, whose voice, while alluring,
also had a hollowness to it that reminded the sorcerer of the grave . . . and with good reason.
You are becoming your father’s son at last . . . a few millennia late . . .

“Show yourself,” he grated. “Show yourself or I’ll bring the Eternal One back here . . .”

And he would be just as likely to pursue you as he would to fight us . . .

The last word further stirred his sense of foreboding. There were others. She was not alone.

But I shall grant you that small favor . . .

Even as the words faded, Shade noted a presence in the eastern section of the ruins. A figure clad in breastplate and mail and wearing an open helmet with a small dragon crest took form. It was quickly evident by the curve of the breastplate and the flow of silver hair from beneath the helmet that the shadowy form was female, but that was all. The cloak fastened to her shoulders billowed even though there was no wind in that direction and somehow even obscured most of her body, especially the legs.

“Kadaria . . . ,”
Shade murmured, at last recognizing the voice.

So delighted you remember . . .
She turned her head slightly and the crimson light of Styx briefly revealed a striking woman with a slight sardonic smile on her dark lips. Yet, it was not that smile that most demanded attention, but rather her eyes.

They were crystalline. Styx made them seem as if they burned with fire.

Kadaria shifted her gaze and her face vanished into shadow, only the helmet visible now.
The land is playing with you again . . . the land will have you, as it has all . . .

His laugh held no humor. “Even the vaunted Lords of the Dead?”

We have . . . an agreement with it, let us say . . .

“Gods must make agreements? Very limited gods, you are.”

He struck a chord. The air took on a dryness that bespoke the crypt,
decay. Kadaria might not have shown it, but this mockery did not sit well with her unseen companions.

You have this one chance to return to us . . . to join us . . . you need our strength, our skills, to keep you whole . . . just look at your hand again . . .

He did, and saw that once more it was transparent. Not so much as in times previous, but if he did not maintain his concentration, it would worsen.

Still, he shook his head, wishing that for this moment, he could reveal his disgust at the offer. “The art of necromancy presents only the facade of life draped over the emptiness of death.”

How poetic . . .
Once more, Kadaria’s face briefly appeared. The mocking smile had grown. Her lips did not move as she added,
And do you really hope that the tower will offer you better?