Legends of the Dragonrealm: Shade (6 page)

Although his face could not betray him, his stance evidently could. As her own pale visage returned to the darkness, the necromancer laughed more harshly. This time, she was also joined by unseen companions. The laughter of the Lords of the Dead resonated through the sorcerer’s head, making it pound.

“The tower may be able to aid me,” Shade replied without a hint of his pain or his tumultuous emotions. “But for some, there is only lingering putrefaction . . . forever . . .”

The laughter ceased. Kadaria grew more indistinct.
A willing fate, if tremendous power goes with it . . . you know that power too well . . .

“And dealt harshly with those who wielded it, Kadaria.”

She chuckled. There was little visible by the light of the moon now save her silhouette.
But that was Gerrod Tezerenee who did that . . . and, as you said, you are but his ghost . . . which makes you a slave to our domain . . .

The ground stirred, but Shade sensed that it was not tremors that caused it to do so. Everywhere around him, the earth pushed up, as if large beasts were burrowing to the surface. He could think of a few such creatures, such as the armored Quel of the Legar Peninsula, but with the Lords of the Dead so near, the sorcerer knew what arose.

The skeletal forms burst through the baked soil. The skulls ended in sharp beaks and the arching frames that had once been wings shifted back and forth as if the undead could still fly.

Living, they had been known to most as Seekers—a bastardization of their original, lost name that was yet apt, considering their ways—and these dead had unwillingly served Azran Bedlam up to the point where the predecessor of the current ruler of the Hell Plains had attempted to assault the citadel. That day, a Dragon King had perished, along with many of his servants, but so had these and a great number of other creatures enslaved by Cabe’s father.

The skeletons threw themselves at Shade, their browned talons still sharp enough to rend, their beaks still able to snap through bone. Had they lived, he would have had to concern himself with their magic, too, but Shade took no consolation in the absence of that threat considering the powers that controlled them now.

Muttering, he drew his finger across the line of ghoulish forms converging upon him. A brief flare of reddish energy followed in the line’s wake and as it moved along, the upper half of each skeleton tumbled off as if cut by a scythe.

But although the first line fell easily, more and more neared. Shade inhaled and snarled, “Stop!”

The voice was not his own but perfectly altered to be that of Azran’s. In life, these avians had been compelled to obey through the mad sorcerer’s magic and such had been the power of Cabe’s father that the residue of that spell even now caused the skeletons to hesitate one vital moment.

Seizing that vital instant, Shade crouched, scooped up a handful of the broken soil, and threw it into the air. At the same time, he cast.

A tremendous dust storm blanketed his monstrous assailants yet did not touch him. Even as the sharp beaks and talons again sought his flesh, the dust caked them. They tried to continue forward, but more and more dust clung to their bones. Within a few seconds, the skeletons could no longer even move, so buried were their lower halves.

Shade gasped for breath as he seized his cloak and literally curled within himself. As he vanished, Shade felt the magic seeking to take him from this place but also sensed the power of the Lords of the Dead attempting to pull him back.

They’re stronger . . . they shouldn’t be, but they are . . .
Shade had no idea how they had managed to regain such might, but then, he had thought them vanquished, at last sent to the oblivion that they had long evaded. In that he had erred, so why not also err in his estimation of their awful might?

He rematerialized. The stench of sulfur was enough to warn him that he had not traveled far.

A wave of vertigo struck him. He would have fallen save that he had apparently appeared next to some rocky formation. A bit less focus, and Shade knew that he could have just as easily become
part
of that formation.

You need not rush off . . . ,
Kadaria’s voice murmured with amusement. Shade managed to turn and, thanks to the moon, noted the silhouette of the ruins on the horizon. Unfortunately, the physical distance meant little to the necromancers.

A thundering tremor shook the entire area. The formation cracked. Shade threw himself from it before large chunks could crash down on him. At the moment, he could not trust that he had the concentration to protect himself from the deadly rain.

However, retreating from the crumbling formation only placed him nearer to the center of the quake. The ground heaved as if breathing, or as if something of tremendous size sought to break to the surface.

It only occurred to Shade then that somewhere in this vicinity had perished a Dragon King . . . and that anything dying violently surely fell under the sway of the Lords of the Dead.

He tried to gather his concentration—only to see that
both
of his hands were somewhat translucent. Shade could not imagine how the rest of him appeared. Whatever turn his curse was taking, the flight from one struggle to the next was adding too much of a toll.

You will join us one way or the other . . . cousin . . .

Shade was tempted to snap some last, futile rebuke, but then something glowing faintly near another, larger formation caught his eye. It was a vaguely seen figure that immediately flitted out of sight by walking directly
into
the rock.

The name escaped him before he could stop it.
“Sharissa?”

He remembered now what he had thought he had seen before passing out. His seeing her again—and although this second sighting had been a murky, questionable one, Shade felt certain that he
had
seen the young woman with the silver-blue hair—could be no coincidence. Indeed, the logical assumption should have been that he had been shown her image as a ploy by the necromancers . . . for had she not been dead for thousands and thousands of years?

Yet, despite being aware of all that, the sorcerer pulled himself together and ran. The ground shoved up under his feet, almost tossing him more than once to his knees. Shade concentrated on protecting himself as he moved on, ever aware that he might simply be charging straight into his enemies’ trap, but compelled by something to believe that the Lords of the Dead could not have cast this vision.

A figure erupted before him, a towering fighter still wearing the dry, fragmenting scale armor of a drake warrior. The drake, a ragged gap where his throat had been giving testament to the power of Seeker talons, slashed at Shade with a sword nearly as long as the sorcerer’s arm. Shade had to throw himself back to avoid being impaled.

Bits of scale dropped off the skeleton as it moved to attack again. What appeared armor, including the head, was actually the scale of the dragon when it took this mortal form. Many drakes preferred to walk almost as men despite their contempt for them, a curious subject that only Shade truly understood.

As the blade came at him again, Shade seized one edge of his cloak and wrapped it around the rusting weapon. The cloak tightened around the blade, forcing it to turn.

Both the sword and the hand wielding it broke from the drake.

The drake warrior shook wildly. The sorcerer snapped his fingers.

The skeleton shattered, the bones and scale scattering for some distance.

The earth behind Shade had swollen to the size of a hill. Crevices ran across it. It continued to shake. The ground would not much longer hold what was buried there.

He made it to the other formation . . . and found nothing. Despite having been certain that the necromancers were not responsible, Shade cursed himself for playing the fool. There was nowhere to run now.

The rock on which he leaned suddenly glowed.

A magical portal, a passageway called a blink hole by spellcasters, opened up.

The landscape finally exploded. Something huge began to rise up from the ruined ground.

Shade leapt into the blink hole.

The portal sealed the moment that he passed through it. A cool wave of air washed over him as he landed on one knee.

A glittering light surrounded him. Shade looked up . . . and saw himself over and over and over.

He was in a vast natural chamber—a cavern—studded with crystalline growths that covered the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. The source of the illumination was not evident, but it was more than ample to enable him to see the incredible length and breadth of the chamber.

And everywhere his blurred face stared back.

Then, to his surprise, one of the foremost reflections shifted position and spoke. The words were not audible, but like Kadaria’s voice, Shade heard it quite clearly in his head.

Call me Madrac . . . this time . . .

Shade stiffened.

Call me Simon . . . this time . . .

He glanced at another reflection in a smaller facet, certain that it had spoken.

Call me Karas . . . this time . . .

All at once,
every
reflection spoke, each using the same phrase but with a different name. Shade knew them all, knew full well what each represented. They were all
him,
all incarnations created by the death of the previous one. That had been one of the greatest jests of what had once been a spell sought to preserve his life, his soul. Instead, each incarnation sought to be its own self and thus had chosen its own—albeit ever
temporary,
as it turned out—name.

And afterward, each had followed its path of either good or very ill, depending upon what was opposite that of their predecessor.

Even as the voices assailed him from within, the sorcerer straightened. He peered around, then called out, “I know myself well! Now I would see my host!”

A deep, throaty chuckle resounded through the chamber, a chuckle that Shade knew did not originate from anything human.

His image vanished from the countless facets. For a moment, it was as if Shade had no reflection whatsoever, as if he was a ghost even to this multitude of mirrors.

Then the crystalline facets again displayed an image, but it was not one that originated with the spellcaster nor anything visible in the chamber. Yet, each and every facet revealed it and even Shade briefly felt daunted by the sight.

The eye was long and narrow and reptilian in nature. When it blinked, it revealed glittering scale akin to the very walls of the cavern. Even the eye itself gleamed.

“Welcome, fabled sssorcerer . . . ,” rumbled a voice from everywhere. “Welcome to my domain . . .”

The eye receded and as it did the facets no longer reflected the same image, but rather parts of a vast creature, a looming form that spread across the walls and ceiling. It glittered as much, if not more, than the facets that displayed it.

The vision of the gargantuan beast peered down at Shade from the walls. His gaze swept over the tiny figure of the sorcerer, seeming to assess Shade on a multitude of levels.

Shade stared back, pondering whether he might have been better off facing the Lords of the Dead. He had been “rescued” by nothing less than a Dragon King.

And worse, nothing less than the most enigmatic of all the drake lords . . . the Crystal Dragon.

VALEA BEDLAM HAD KNOWN
the Manor all her life. She had been born and raised there and so all its magic was something very familiar to the enchantress. Yet even she continually marveled at its very existence and all that it contained.

The Manor, both its true name and its creation lost to time, was an intricate melding of stone and tree. It rose some height and from the outside clearly indicated a structure with much space, but those who entered were ever surprised at how vast the interior actually was. The Manor within was much greater than the exterior permitted. There were countless rooms, each with its own uniqueness and elegance, and sometimes they would even change locations.

But this was only a
minor
aspect of the Bedlams’ sanctum, which surrounded a small community of humans
and
drakes who willingly served the family of wizards in return for the freedoms they gained living surrounded by so much magic. Some of the humans were novice spellcasters themselves, while among the drakes there were those with similar abilities. All were refugees from one conflict or another and all were willing to die to defend their home here.

Of course, with or without its current occupiers, the Manor could defend itself fairly well. It could also repair damage done to it, at least to a point.

However, chief among the many astounding aspects of her home was the one that had eventually set Valea on a course that might—no,
certainly,
so she thought as she materialized—put her at odds with her parents. Indeed, an example of that aspect manifested itself at the wide, curling steps of the large hall, steps of both shining marble and living wood, leading to the floors above.

It was an elf, a male with sleek, silver hair and clad in a regal set of green robes. The most common form of elf stood about a foot taller than most humans, though the size did vary some. There was elven blood coursing through the veins of Valea thanks to her father, whose line claimed such far, far back. That was not the source of the Bedlams’ magical might, but it certainly added to it.

The intricacies of her lineage of no importance to her at the moment, Cabe’s daughter paused to watch the elf. He paid her no mind, instead seeming to be having an argument with someone unseen who also stood by the steps. What that argument concerned was lost due to the fact that only silence escaped the elf’s mouth.

Neither his actions nor his lack of voice in any way disturbed Valea. She had witnessed this particular scene often, although its meaning forever eluded her. Neither was the enchantress disturbed by the fact that she could see
through
the elf.