Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (124 page)

See
themselves.

It was a mirror like no other. Perfect in reflecting in brilliance what the dank, still lands and the minds of the necromancers sought to hide. The chamber where the Lords worked their foul deeds was not the glittering, elegant room that they imagined. Instead it was a crumbling, dust-enshrouded tomb barely lit, with unimaginable shapes rotting in the corners or dangling from the cracked ceiling.

But none of that registered for long upon the necromancers—for they now stared at their individual forms. Each saw only him or herself in that mirror, saw revealed by Shade the truth.

“No . . .” gasped Zorane. “That can’t be—that can’t be—”

“’Tis a trick!” shouted Delio. He broke from his position with the intention of charging the mirror and smashing it, but the moment he saw his reflection move in turn, he froze again.

“My—my face!” Kadaria cried. “Serkadian Manee! My face!”

“This is your glory?” countered Shade. “This is your godhood? The Land has made of you the greatest jest of all! There is nothing deader in your realm than you yourselves!”

“Not possible . . .” Zorane insisted weakly. “Not possible . . .”

But among them, there was one untouched by the revelation. Ephraim gestured—and the mirror exploded.

“It changes
nothing!
My plan will go on!”

The warlock might have frowned. “You . . . knew.”

“I know
everything!
I am—”

A shape fell upon him and two hands clasped tight against the sides of his helmet. A bright flash from each enveloped the necromancer’s head.

Ephraim cried out—first in agony, then in anger. He swung with one gauntleted hand at his attacker, sending the figure flying across the massive chamber.

Valea’s body crashed hard against the ancient stone.

“Sharissa!” Shade involuntarily called.

“As dead to you as we are,” Ephraim said with loathing. He raised his hand into a fist and the other necromancers suddenly straightened as if they were puppets whose strings had been tightened. “But not nearly so dead as you’ll be . . .
cousin.
”

But instead of Shade, it was again the lead sorcerer who was attacked, this time nearly crushed to the floor by a powerful, invisible force.

“If my daughter is dead,” Cabe Bedlam uttered, “she’ll be a far luckier person than you when I’m done.”

Among the other Lords, chaos broke out as Darkhorse reared and kicked at them in rapid succession. Thunder cracked and each necromancer fought hard against tiny but furious showers of glowing spheres.

Rising, Ephraim rubbed his fleshless chin. “Focus! Regain focus and the wizard and the beast will be ours again!”

But while some of the Lords did attempt to obey, others moved awkwardly, even listlessly. The revelation wrought by Shade had left them dumbfounded. They could not accept their deaths, but neither could they deny the truth.

The wizard closed with him. “We’ll never be yours, whether in life or in death!”

Fire covered Ephraim, a fire hotter than any natural one. It was pure white, so intense was its heat. The necromancer battled against it, but Cabe’s fury fueled it as nothing else could.

THE EMPTINESS WITHIN
which Valea’s spirit drifted became stifling. She did not need to breathe, but the heat threatened to burn her to nothing. She struggled to find a way out, but there was none.

Desperately, she called out, seeking the only one she thought might hear her.

Galani! Galani!

But instead, a far different presence touched her own.

You are . . . Valea . . .

With each passing moment, the heat grew more intense. The enchantress knew that she would not last much longer.
Please! The stone! It’s—

But the other presence had already vanished.

THERE HAD BEEN
few beings that Cabe had ever truly wanted dead. The lead necromancer had joined that select band and the wizard knew that in a few more moments the monstrous sorcerer would see the afterlife as it truly was. Nothing would stop Cabe from avenging Valea.

Nothing, that is, save the hard blast of pure force that tossed him several yards to the side.

The flames instantly faded. Ephraim stumbled back, recovering.

Shade hovered over him. He grabbed at the necromancer’s waist.

At which point, a black hoof capable of shattering walls nearly crushed the warlock into the floor.

“Traitor or friend, friend or traitor, one can nevermore tell with you, Shade!” rumbled Darkhorse. “A base attack on one who was ever your comrade!”

“You’re being a fool!” gasped the ragged figure.

“I am being observant!”

Shade managed to shield himself enough to turn. “Then be—be observant of the pattern! The Lords are—are regrouping!”

“Eh?” Sure enough, six of the necromancers had pulled themselves together enough to reform part of the pattern. Two others looked near to joining them.

“I can save Cabe Bedlam’s daughter, but they must be stopped! Look! In the center! That crystal!”

“What of it?”

“Smash it! Go now!”

The eternal laughed. “And turn my back on you?”

Shade lifted his blurred face toward his oldest companion. “Darkhorse . . . would I ever desire the Lords of the Dead to triumph?”

Darkhorse started. The ice blue orbs glittered. “No . . . good or ill, you never wanted that.”

“Then, please . . . go!”

With a laugh, the black stallion whirled about. Letting out a gasp, Shade stumbled away from the still-stunned Ephraim.

In the hand pressed against his chest dangled the chain from which swung the piece of the Wyr Stone.

THE BODY LAY
motionless. The chest did not rise and fall. A chill coursed through Shade like none he had ever experienced.

No . . . he had. When another who was the same as this one had died. Died because of him.

Just as Valea Bedlam had.

She looked so much like Sharissa, like the elf maiden Galani, like the witch Tyrnene . . . like so many others. Yet, she also was in herself distinct.

For reasons he could not explain to himself, Shade hesitated, lost in the spectacle of her face. He finally reached a hand to her cheek.

Her eyes abruptly opened. A slight, sad smile crossed her lips. Even though her chest still did not rise, her throat did not move, from her mouth came a single word.

“
Forgiven
. . .”

The warlock pulled back, stunned. Valea Bedlam’s eyes closed again and her body went limp.

“No!” He brought the stone to her chest, placing it gently there. Shade knew no words would do what he sought, but trusted that the stone would do what it should.

The bit of the Wyr Stone, a thing he had once coveted more than love, briefly glowed.

At that moment, Ephraim’s voice echoed throughout the chamber. “The pattern is still set! Focus your wills through me!”

Shade rose, knowing that if the Lords of the Dead had organized themselves, then all could yet be lost. Where was Darkhorse?

There! The shadow steed sought to reach the crystal, but the necromancers had already steeled themselves enough to keep him at bay. Cabe Bedlam aided his good friend, but although with time they might have won, such a precious commodity was not theirs.

He saw Ephraim come alive with the power the others fed him. All the lead necromancer needed was a moment more.

Shade glanced down at the figure by his feet. Her chest now rose and sank and he caught the gentle movement of her breath at her mouth. The warlock sensed the life rushing within her, a life so very young and yet, as he well understood, so very old—like his own.

Without hesitation, he turned and charged the Lords.

Caught up in their battle against the wizard and the eternal, they did not at first focus on the new threat. Zorane was the first to notice his approach, by which point Shade had reached the edge of the pattern.

“There! Stop him!”

Leaping, Shade collided with the necromancer. A monstrous shock went through him as he touched the ghoulish figure. Shade bit back a scream. Zorane clutched at him, but the warlock struck him a solid blow. The fleshless figure wobbled back, somehow maintaining his place, but now unable to grab at his foe.

Pushing past the Lord, Shade summoned all the strength he had and plunged toward the crystal.

Off to the side, he heard Ephraim cry out to Cabe and Darkhorse, “You will be ours! Your world will be ours!”

And then Shade fell upon centerpiece of the necromancers’ work, pouring every bit of power he could against it.

The pain, when the crystal exploded, was mercifully brief.

XII

THE HEAT CEASED
abruptly, giving Valea respite. She sensed something else happening, but knew not what.

Then, an incredible urge to drift forward filled her. She did not fight it, the sensation feeling so right. Like a siren’s call, it pulled her on.

As she neared what she felt her goal, Valea noted other presences, as familiar to her as her own family—and yet even more so. She sensed Galani among them. The elf’s spirit comforted her. With the others surrounding her, the enchantress completed the last bit of her journey—and realized that she entered her own body.

But even there she was not alone. She felt the elf maiden and others stay around her, guide her.

And they were
all
her.

But there was one that did not join, instead receding. That one most of all Valea wanted to stay, but such was not to be. The enchantress felt a caress where her cheek should have been . . . and then the other departed.

Sharissa was gone.

“CABE! BEWARE!” DARKHORSE
immediately enveloped the wizard, possibly the only thing that saved his human friend.

Cabe had only a moment to acknowledge the vision of a very battered Shade falling upon the crystal. Then, the faceless warlock vanished in a searing explosion of energy.

The entrails of the explosion spread throughout the pattern, catching each of the necromancers in turn. They screamed.

But if their suffering was terrible, it compared little to that which filled Ephraim. Set to accept the power offered him by his compatriots, the lead sorcerer now became the ultimate vessel in which the unleashed forces of the pattern spilled.

The ghoulish figure swelled, his armor groaning. His skeletal form burned bright from within. His fleshless jaw swung wide as he cried out the loudest and most agonized.

Ephraim vanished, still wailing. A thin trail of ash was all that marked his memory.

The castle, long held together by the will of the Lords of the Dead, began to crumble. On one side, the ceiling collapsed. The remaining sections groaned ominously.

Still caught, the rest of the Lords continued to scream. The floor containing the pattern began to buckle as it, too, lost cohesion.

“We must flee!” Darkhorse roared.

“Valea! I’ll not leave her body here!”

The eternal snorted. “As if
I
would!”

Now resembling more of a spherical ant than a stallion, Darkhorse maneuvered toward Valea. As they neared, Cabe’s eyes widened.

“She’s breathing! Darkhorse! She’s breathing!”

“And if we would have her continue to do so, we must get her and you out of this abysmal realm swiftly! It seems to be folding in on itself!”

Sure enough, not just the castle but the entire world seemed to be coming apart. The Lords had held their kingdom together and now that they could not, it was decaying rapidly.

Darkhorse scooped up Valea, placing her inside him as he had earlier Cabe. Then, with a prodigious leap, he soared through one falling wall and out into the open.

Beyond the castle, the landscape was still eerily silent. However, Cabe had the odd sensation that there was movement everywhere and all of it fleeing the direction of the Lords’ sanctum.

“They are free!” the eternal rumbled. “The shadows held by the Lords are free!”

And as he said it, they suddenly saw thousands of flittering shapes moving off. Humans, elves, Quel, Seekers, and others undetermined appeared and vanished like flickering dreams. All headed with grateful purpose for some destination far from the collapsing center of the realm.

A screech caused Cabe some fear. Two Necri descended from the grey sky. However, they did not dive in to attack, but rather collided with the ground. As they struck, their bodies scattered like dust. They, too, had been held together by the necromancers’ incredible minds.

“I am going to try to teleport us to the gateway!” the stallion rumbled. “With the Lords in disarray, I should be able to do it!”

Cabe looked back, where a tower from the castle had begun to collapse inward. “Hurry!”

Darkhorse shimmered—and their surroundings altered. Ahead of them, a sliver of blackness appeared. The gateway from this side.

“Hold her tight!”

He need not have said anything to his friend. Cabe would have held on to Valea even at the cost of his own life if it would somehow save her.

The shadow steed leapt at the tear, which suddenly began to fade . . .

VALEA SCREAMED
.

“Hush,” said a feminine voice. “You’re all right, daughter.”

“Mother?” She looked up to see not just Gwendolyn Bedlam, the elder enchantress a much more glamorous and beautiful version—so Valea thought—of herself, but her father and brother, too. The three stood over her, quite concerned. Valea lay in her plush, down bed back in the Manor. Outside, sunlight shone and birds sang merrily, all as if nothing had ever happened.

“Three days of sleep, that’s the only aftereffect I sense,” Gwen continued, pushing back some of her luxurious, fiery hair. Valea’s mother gazed to the side. “Aurim, see if there’s any sign of Darkhorse returning yet. He said he would be back by now.”

The golden-haired youth, only a few years older than Valea, nodded. “Yes, mother.” He eyed his sibling. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Valea blinked. Generally when she and Aurim spoke, they argued. This time, however, he had looked so very serious she began to wonder just how close to death she had seemed.