Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (117 page)

Cabe kept in check the remark that came to his lips in response to his companion’s words. While Darkhorse sounded as venerable as a creature that, if not slain, could live forever should, he had himself a childlike habit of running into trouble headfirst.

Jagged pieces of stone still stood here and there, testament to the gargantuan size of Azran’s citadel. In truth, much of the edifice had fallen quickly because it had been held together by the sorcerer’s own magic. That any of it still stood amazed Cabe.

A skeleton half-buried in rubble caught his attention. The ribs were almost human, but the skull was quite avian, like that of a man-sized bird. The Seekers, the ancient predecessors of the Dragon Kings, had been forced to serve Azran and many had perished fighting the forces of the Red Dragon. This was not the first set of bones the pair had come across. The landscape surrounding the ruins still offered glimpses of the scores of creatures from both sides who had died fighting for two megalomaniacs. Cabe had even briefly caught sight of the gargantuan, telltale skull of the Dragon King himself, left half-buried by dust and molten earth by his successor.

“Turn west,” he suddenly told Darkhorse. Valea’s magical trace, albeit much faded, led that way. Other than her mother, Cabe was probably the only one who could have still sensed the remnants of his daughter’s passing. Unless they worked hard to mask it, spellcasters often left a trail of sorts, a hint of their distinctive magical signature. Fortunately, Valea had not decided to hide hers, likely because she knew that one or both of her parents would surely follow.

And why not? When Gwen had summoned him back, her mental call filled with anxiety, he had known that the news would be dire. His wife had refrained from telling him just what it was about, fearing the slight chance that some other spellcaster might be able to eavesdrop. The Dragon Kings were always monitoring their enemies, awaiting the chance to regain some of their lost power.

But what the enchantress had told her husband had stunned him beyond belief.

Shade had risen from the dead again.

It should not have been. Darkhorse had witnessed what should have been the warlock’s final, absolute demise. Cabe and everyone else believed it so, especially after the most doubtful of them, the black stallion himself, had spent years fruitlessly searching for some sign that Shade had once again been resurrected. Eventually, even Darkhorse had admitted that the warlock was surely no more.

And now . . . and now they knew that they had been wrong.

Terrible enough were the events that Gwen had relayed upon his return concerning her encounter with not only the Storm Dragon, but a
number
of variations of Shade. But worse was his wife’s discovery of the note left by Valea announcing that she, too, had uncovered evidence of the enigmatic figure’s return. For reasons her parents could not fathom, Valea had left every indication that she believed that only she could put an end to the curse of Shade.

With the vast knowledge and power available to them, the Bedlams had quickly followed her path—and found, to their dismay, that their daughter had journeyed to her grandfather’s citadel. Gwen and Aurim had wanted to go with then, but Cabe insisted that only he and Darkhorse make the trip. Someone had to remain behind in case the worst happened . . . and nothing could be worse than finding out that Valea had crossed into the otherworldly realm of the Lords of the Dead.

Both he and Darkhorse knew where to find the entrance to the infernal realm. It had been buried under tons of debris, but someone—not Valea from what Cabe sensed—had cleared it again.

The smell of decay and rotting flesh invaded his nostrils. Even Darkhorse snorted with distaste. The pit bubbled and oozed. What exactly the greenish gray muck was, Cabe neither knew nor wanted to know. In his mind, he could hear the calls and cries of the dead and a few of those voices were familiar to him. When last he had stood in this place, Cabe had even sensed Azran seeking him out, but, fortunately, that malignant spirit seemed not about.

Darkhorse had tried to explain to him that the realm into which Valea had traveled was not truly the afterlife, that the Lords of the Dead were nothing more than monstrous necromancers who managed to steal slices of dying souls. Their domain was a mockery of death. Even the spirit of Cabe’s father had only been a reflection of the true Azran.

On one level, the wizard understood and accepted the explanation. On a more base level, though, Cabe recalled what he had sensed when Azran’s evil had invaded his mind. Mere reflections of the dead the inhabitants of the foul realm might be, but they had varying strength, depending upon their wills.

But his daughter, however foolishly, had dared enter and so Cabe would, too, even if he had to face the combined might of the ageless spellcasters.

And according to Darkhorse, they very likely would.

“But why here?” he asked. “Why to this place of all places?” This was the last spot that they would have expected any search for Shade to end. If there were those who hated the warlock more than anyone, it was the Lords of the Dead.

“They are his kin, his blood,” Darkhorse muttered in a surprisingly subdued manner for his boisterous self. “They are, in fact, his cousins . . .”

Such a statement sounded so ludicrous when speaking of either Shade or the legendary necromancers and yet it also made terrible sense. It somewhat explained the power that both the hooded figure and the dread lords wielded.

Of the same blood . . . and willing to spill one another’s gladly. Cabe understood that all too well.

“How do we enter?”

The stallion prodded the muck with one hoof, snorting again. “We dive in, of course.”

“I was afraid you’d say just that.”

“The entrance is not guarded, Cabe.”

The wizard nodded. “Either they want us to come in or someone’s forcibly removed the gate keeper.” The macabre creature, a grotesque compilation of countless dead beasts, had served its masters since time immemorial. To find it absent boded ill. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Darkhorse nodded. “Shall I, then?”

Gritting his teeth and holding tight to his mount, Cabe nodded. “Do it.”

Without hesitation, the magical steed leapt up over the huge, bubbling mass—then dropped like a stone into it.

Cabe held his breath, expecting a massive wave to engulf both of them. Instead, the pit seemed to part and he and Darkhorse suddenly plummeted through a gray emptiness. Voices assailed the wizard, the words of centuries of the dead repeating endlessly the stories of their lives. Shadowy forms appeared in the corner of his eye, but when Cabe sought to focus on them, they were no longer there.

Their descent slowed, then halted. The two drifted in a hazy limbo.

Then, without warning . . . a dour landscape formed around them.

It was muted, silent. Cabe felt a slight chill, but not the kind one experienced from moist or cold weather. Rather, it resembled the unsettling sensation that had touched him when first entering the ruins. Here was a place of the dead, but dead who were not completely at rest.

“Where do you think she headed?” Only Darkhorse had any inkling of what existed in this realm where even color seemed to die.

In fact, even the ice-blue orbs of the stallion looked faded. Darkhorse peered around warily, then replied, “There is a castle . . . so he told me once. If you can still follow her trail, I suspect it will lead there.”

Shutting his eyes, Cabe concentrated on Valea. Her trace was fainter, almost invisible, but he managed to get just enough of a grasp on it to point ahead. “Go that way.”

The shadow steed trotted along. Both remained wary of their surroundings. The Lords of the Dead had to be watching, plotting. No one entered their domain without their knowledge.

Which meant that they had long ago noted Valea.

Time was an immaterial concept here, but still it seemed as if every step took an hour. The bleak sameness of the landscape added to that effect. Cabe quickly felt his impatience growing and sensed Darkhorse reacting much the same. It was dangerous, though, to fall victim to the emotion; even the smallest distraction could leave them open to an attack.

“I like this not,” the stallion finally remarked. “They know we are here. They would not wish us here. Why do they not make some challenge?”

The wizard opened his mouth to answer, but another responded before him.

“Because they await me.”

Darkhorse reared and Cabe’s left hand flared with a ready spell.

But the hooded figure with the blurred face took their reactions in stride, simply repeating his words.

“Because they await me,” Shade said without the slightest care. “Because my cousins have been waiting for me to take the bait.”

THE ELEVEN STOOD
in the pattern of the pentagram, each knowing his place, each maintaining the power that made them masters of their realm. Ten stood so as to form the design with the final one, the focus, directly in the center. Through him was all cast, through him was all sensed.

“He is coming . . .” rasped the focus. “He is here . . .”

“At last,” murmured another voice, nearly identical to his own. Others repeated the response, they also sounding almost like copies of the first. For so long they had worked in sync with one another until they were as if of one mind.

They, the Lords of the Dead.

The chamber in which they stood was devoid of any trappings. No tapestries, no banners, no weaponry. Only an arched, open window out of which none of them ever looked gave the room any life . . . that and the thick, bronze door upon which the insignia of a dragon could just be made out at eye level.

The light that futilely illuminated the chamber originated from a crystal buried just below the lead necromancer’s booted feet. The faint glow was misleading; the crystal was anything but weak. It was the only new addition to their sanctum since its creation . . . and had been set there specifically because of one being. One hated being. It gathered and amplified their work, fed more wholly the magic they cast into the one who would wield it.

The figure in the center raised a black, gauntleted hand. In his eyes, the arm within the mail was as thick and sturdy as it had always been. He did not see that the armor and glove hung loose and rusted and that what glimpses of the form within could be seen were dry of flesh and bony. “His ka is strong. He is much himself . . .”

One at the high point of the pentagram stirred. Like the others, he wore a partially concealing helm with the stylized image of a dragon atop it. The black armor and dark cloak in which he was also clad hung as loose as that of the leader. The cloak was tattered and unlike the first figure he wore no boots—and had no feet or lower legs to speak of. They had long ago rotted away, just as had various bits of the rest of the necromancers.

But in the eyes of all, they were still the same eleven who had, long ago, discovered this path and by unanimous vote had forever changed themselves. They were strong of sinew, determined of eye, the blood of the dragon, the blood of Clan Tezerenee.

They were Vraad, the race of sorcerers who were the predecessors of more than just the humans of the Dragonrealm.

“But he is not completely himself, is he, Ephraim? All depends upon that, doesn’t it?”

Ephraim shifted one foot from near the crystal, a slight movement with vast overtones. The other necromancer also moved, his reaction one more submissive.

“We are one in this as we are in all else, are we not, Zorane? You question my work, my search?”

“No one questions,” interjected another from Ephraim’s right. “We are all anxious for victory. We are anxious to bring our dear cousin under rein.”

“And he shall be. Gerrod will know his place . . . and ours.”

The silence that followed his words indicated the acquiescence of the others. Since the beginning, Ephraim had been the planner, the instigator. All actions flowed through him. It was the way of things. It was as natural as breathing—which all of them had ceased doing centuries ago.

“The players are arranged. He is expecting us to react and she is expecting to find a tragic hero. We should not disappoint them.”

Ephraim raised his arms high. As one, the other Lords of the Dead bowed their heads and concentrated . . .

III

THE CASTLE HAD
no entrance, at least none that Valea could find. She had skirted around it as much as possible, avoiding only the area where the land dropped off into an endless void. Valea had peered down into the haze, seeking some bottom, but none could she find. It was as if the realm of the dead ceased at this point.

Returning to where she had first reached the looming structure, the enchantress mulled over her situation. She had belatedly cast a shield around her that she hoped would blind the Lords to her location, but knew that such ancient sorcerers would eventually overcome it. That meant that Valea had to hurry.

Why had Shade come to this place? Was he now in league with the macabre necromancers? It seemed so unlikely. Even despite his shifts from light to dark, there was no record of him ever having allied with the Lords. It seemed that the depths of their hatred for one another likely ran very, very deep.

Was he a prisoner, then? That made more sense. Valea wondered if that was what the elf maiden’s spirit had sought to tell her, that Shade was not a threat himself, but was in danger.

If the warlock
was
a prisoner, that presented potential disaster. It might be possible for the Lords of the Dead to finally turn him to their cause through some wicked spell. If that happened, Valea could not imagine the fate the Dragonrealm would soon after suffer.

She wished that Galani could have told her more, that somehow the spirit could have made clear what it was Valea faced and what was expected of her. If only—

An image flickered in and out of existence before her very eyes. The vision was so very brief, but Valea could never have mistaken the face peering back at hers—for it had, in many ways,
been
her own.