Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (119 page)

Lightning crackled from the wizard’s fingertips, striking in rapid succession five Necri, including one seeking to swoop down on Shade from behind.

But for every one of the winged demons they slew, there seemed half a dozen more. Sweating, Cabe caused the earth around them to rise up and bombard the swarm. The effort proved harder than he had imagined, though. Casting spells in this realm proved far more difficult than in the Dragonrealm. There, he knew how to touch and use the lines of power crisscrossing all elements of the world. Here, they were less apparent and weaker.

Another Necri landed a few yards from Cabe. Bent over like a runner, it charged him. The wizard gestured and three silver rings dropped over the beast, snaring its legs and wings. The Necri tumbled over, struggling futilely to escape.

Shade, meanwhile, thrust the tiny blade back into his cloak and removed instead what at first seemed black lightning. The fiery shape coalesced into a jagged sword that flared darkly. The first Necri to come at him left with its head flying from its body, the latter gliding some distance before crashing into the earth. Two more were rewarded with gaping chasms in their chests, from which spurted the foul, greenish fluid which was their blood. Shade handled the blade like an expert warrior. He moved with calculated swiftness, slicing wings here, cutting off grasping hands there.

Two more of the leathery fiends dropped upon Cabe. He pointed at the nearest, the spell already cast—

Both Necri disappeared.

Certain that it was some sort of trick, the wizard looked quickly around.

All
of the Necri had vanished. Even the dead and the one Cabe had secured. The only traces of the monsters were a few tracks and some blood stains. Otherwise, it was as if they had never been.

The beaked wolf dropped to the ground just before Shade. The warlock opened the side of his cloak and it leaped into the shadows within, vanishing as readily as their foes.

As Darkhorse returned to them, Shade dismissed the unsettling blade to the other side of his cloak.

“You used that with skill,” Cabe commented as the murky face of the warlock turned toward him.

“A family tradition,” the warlock returned somewhat dourly.

Cabe raised an eyebrow at this further revelation. He had learned more about Shade’s familial past and understood less than he ever had since first meeting the hooded spellcaster.

“We have vanquished the demons!” roared Darkhorse. “Let the Lords beware!”

“We held our own. What do you say, Shade?”

“Our strength was tested. They know our mettle.”

He seemed poised to say more. “But that wasn’t all?”

“Ephraim would have more in mind, yes. We shall just have to wait and see.”

“And in the meantime?”

One gloved hand gestured in the direction that they had been heading before the attack. “We continue on.”

Darkhorse snorted, but said nothing. His torso indented on the side, making footholds for Cabe. The wizard mounted and the gaps filled again. The shadow steed did not offer a ride to Shade nor did the warlock look at all inclined to ask.

Something had been bothering Cabe and he finally had to ask, “You watched her arrive. You saw Valea when she first came here.”

The warlock no longer looked his way. “I did not see your daughter, but I sensed her.”

“You should’ve done something to send her back!” Cabe felt his rage suddenly build. If Shade had let her continue on, it was because it suited his purpose. In that, he appeared no better than the Lords of the Dead.

The warlock wrapped his cloak about himself. “There was nothing I could do at the time. I could have no more stopped her than I could have this confrontation, Cabe Bedlam. It has been decreed. It is as it must be.”

And with that said, Shade started off.

“SO MANY NECRI
dead,” muttered one of the Lords.

“There are always more Necri,” pointed out another.

From his place at the center, Ephraim said, “They served their purpose. Our cousin and the others think we have taken their measure, which, in part, we have. They are not aware of what we also did.” His fiery eyes stared down at the crystal. “And now their doom is set. Soon, we shall have not only our cousin at our beck and call, but the eternal and the wizard as well.” Ephraim surveyed his comrades. “And then, at last, we shall stretch our influence to the realm of the living . . .”

V

VALEA WHIRLED AS
the door slammed behind her. She could sense no magic in the action, yet clearly some spell had come into play. However, before she could study it, the hooded figure said again, “Sharissa . . . You should’ve known better . . .”

Turning back, Valea saw the ghost vanish. She and the prisoner stared at one another as if both had sprouted second heads.

His eyes narrowed. “You are not she . . . but you are.”

“She?”

“My Sharissa—no—she was never
my
Sharissa.” He looked down in shame. “For her entire life, she never knew that desire.”

From what Valea had seen of the ghost, she doubted that this Sharissa had been so ignorant of the man’s interest. He had held some place in her heart, if not the one for which he had hoped.

She took a step toward him. “Who are you?”

“The fool of fools, the coward of cowards, the sorrow of my father’s grand existence . . . Gerrod, by name, Tezerenee by birth, my unfortunate lady.”

The last meant something to her. It was a name out of one of her father’s journals, from his study of the Vraad. She could not recall what it was that had been written about them, though. “Why are you a prisoner?”

“Because my cousins are malicious and obsessive.” Gerrod’s features twisted into distaste. “And quite gruesome.” He forced the expression away. “But come! I’ve been remiss! So seldom do I get a visitor other than them! In fact—never!” He indicated the bench. “Please. Sit. I’d offer you something, but—but I’ve nothing.”

“I’ve no intention of staying here,” Valea informed him. “The two of us are leaving.”

She looked at the door, concentrating. For a brief moment, it trembled.

Then, nothing.

“You fail to understand, my lady,” Gerrod said, coming up next to her. “They expected you to come.”

“How do you know that?”

He looked at her in open surprise. “Why, Ephraim told me so.”

“And who is—”

“I am Ephraim,” came a voice from behind them.

Valea let out a gasp of surprise, then turned. Another gasp escaped her, this one of horror.

The figure stood a head taller than Gerrod and was clad from head to toe in black armor with the symbol of the dragon emblazoned on his breast plate. A thick, dark cloak hung over his shoulders and draped his back nearly to the floor. His helmet was topped with a savage dragon head crest.

But her horror came not from the sinister garments themselves, but rather their monstrous condition—and, worse, that of the wearer himself.

She took a step back as her eyes fixed on the rusting metal, the gaps where bone barely covered by dry skin could be seen. Within the helm itself the enchantress could make out part of the leering, fleshless mouth and the two gaps where the nose must have once been.

And the eyes . . . they still had the appearance of crystal, but within them flared a crimson light, an evil force that in itself stirred revulsion.

“Ephraim,” Gerrod remarked almost casually.

“Gerrod . . .” the ghoul rasped. “You see? I brought her for you . . . as promised.”

“You know that she is not who you pretend her to be.”

“But she is,” the Lord raised one gauntleted hand, his bony wrist just visible enough to shake Valea further. “Or are you blind?”

“I know what she looks like and what lurks within her . . . but she is still not her.”

The Lord stepped toward Valea. Instinctively the enchantress raised her hand in defense.

A guttural chuckle escaped the ghoulish necromancer. “In this place you have no power.”

Despite his words, Valea attempted to cast her spell. Nothing happened. She could faintly sense and see the lines of force crisscrossing the chamber, but they were, as so much else in these still lands, ghosts of what they had been.

Ephraim reached up and, with the arrogance of one supremely in command, took hold of Valea’s face by the chin. He turned it for Gerrod to see. “Look beyond the face, which already tells the tale, and read into the eyes what you seek.”

Gerrod’s crystalline orbs reluctantly stared into her own frightened ones. Some of Valea’s fear dwindled as she felt the sadness and shame of the hooded figure as he intruded in her very soul.

But as Gerrod invaded her, he, in turn, revealed something of himself. It was not intentional, merely a fact of his existence. Valea sensed it just as she had earlier sensed Shade’s magical signature.

Which was, in fact, also
Gerrod’s.

The knowledge so startled her that she managed to pull free of Ephraim’s grip. Gerrod, in turn, pulled away from the enchantress, again looking ashamed.

Ephraim, of course, laughed.

“What did you do?” asked Gerrod angrily.

“While you learned of her, she learned of you.”

The prisoner scowled. “Ever you had more than one reason for doing anything!”

Valea eyed him. Shade’s magical signature. She knew of no manner by which anyone could so duplicate it . . .

Gerrod was
Shade
?

Before Valea could delve further into the matter, the necromancer continued, “Well, my friend? You are convinced?”

“Whether I’m convinced doesn’t matter, Ephraim.”

The macabre figure tilted his horrific head, the lipless mouth ever in its eternal, mocking smile. “But it does, for it means you will do as I have requested. You
will
, won’t you . . . dear cousin?”

“At least leave her out of this!”

“But like you, she is key.” Ephraim leaned toward the enchantress again. “And in one manner or another, she will serve the purpose. You, Gerrod, have only to tell us how.”

She looked from the ghoul to the prisoner and found the latter no more comforting. Gerrod wrestled with his decision, upon which her life clearly depended.

His shoulders slumped. “Very well . . . it’ll be as you planned.”

“Excellent!” Ephraim chuckled. “Then soon, very soon, Sharissa will be yours . . . and you will once more have hands with which you can finally hold her.”

Despite her growing horror, the last statement made Valea frown. “What does he mean by that?”

The Lord evinced actual surprise at this question. “Dear cousin, have you been so hesitant? I would have expected you to try to welcome her with open arms—even though you do not have any!”

“Ephraim—”

“Take his hand, my lady . . . now.”

His tone brooked no objection and Valea saw no reason to hesitate. She stretched a tentative hand toward Gerrod’s. He started to pull back, then, with further resignation in his expression, reached to meet her fingers.

Valea’s hand slipped
through
his.

Like all else in this realm, Gerrod, too, was a phantasm.

The hooded prisoner snatched back his hand, burying it in his cloak. Ephraim nodded triumphantly.

“Soon it will be different, though, cousin. Soon, that which is rightfully yours will be returned to you. Gerrod Tezerenee will live again . . . and Shade will truly be a shadow of the past . . .”

THE LANDSCAPE GRADUALLY
took on a terrible monotony. Cabe grew more and more frustrated. He could sense that the trail continued on ahead of them, but something told the wizard that they should have reached Valea by now. The Lords of the Dead intended something, but what it was he could not fathom. Cabe did not like having to wait to react; it kept the party on the defensive, which lessened their chances.

“We need to do something!” he finally demanded. “We need to take this matter in hand and turn it to our choice, not theirs!”

“I have been attempting to do just that,” Shade returned. “I have been seeking out that which would, I think, most distress our opponents.”

“And?”

Puzzlement crept into the warlock’s voice. “And he is not among the many shadows here. A most curious thing.”

“Who is ‘he’?” muttered Darkhorse.

“Barakas Tezerenee.”

Darkhorse reared, nearly spilling Cabe. “That arrogant beast! Even his ghost I will not suffer to exist!”

The blurred face may have frowned. “Since I find no trace of his specter, then that becomes a moot point.”

Regaining his balance, Cabe growled, “You thought some ghost would be of aid against the Lords of the Dead?”

“This is one they would have well feared and with good reason. My father brooked no betrayal.” Before Cabe could say anything, Shade added, “and perhaps that is why he is not among their captures. Perhaps he is one shadow they wanted nothing of.”

“Which leaves us where, Shade?”

“In a more complicated situation than I’d intended, but not in the impossible one you suppose. Like Ephraim, I can play more than one card.”

The wizard felt his ire increasing. “This is no game, Shade! My daughter is somewhere in this realm and probably already at their mercy!”

“Do not underestimate your daughter,” the hooded form murmured. “I’ve already made that mistake.”

“What do you—”

But Darkhorse cut him off, warning, “The landscape is moving!”

The other two looked. Sure enough, the still lands were no longer still. They rippled and twisted and elements transformed. Hills became valleys and clawlike trees turned into macabre rock formations. The perpetual haze thickened and in it Cabe detected movement.

“Now what?” he snapped.

Shade only replied, “Stay close together. Do not become separated. In that they hope to achieve victory—”

The ground beneath them rocked. Darkhorse whinnied. Cabe slipped backward. He caught a glimpse of Shade tumbling to his knees, then the earth swallowed the warlock.

Stay close together
, Shade had warned, but that proved impossible to do. Cabe managed to cast a spell protecting him from his fall, but as he landed the quicksilver landscape washed him away from Darkhorse.