Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (39 page)

The wave passed and an area of calm surrounded him.

Cabe teleported . . .

. . . and found himself staring into the dead eyes of a soldier who had been pinned to the wall like some gruesome decoration. Cabe bit back a yell and turned his gaze away, only to confront a similar grisly sight. He surveyed the walls in morbid fascination. There was no doubt in his mind who was responsible for this. Even the wolf raiders would not tolerate such insanity from their commanders. The Quel would not have killed in such a way; the damage to the chamber was extensive.

Plool had left his mark here. Only the Vraad would kill in such a manner.

Belatedly, the warlock saw the hole.

A black, oval space surrounded by a halo of wild light, the hole floated high in the center of the chamber. It was a small thing, but its simple presence here was danger enough. Cabe could sense the same malevolent power that permeated the fog, the power of ancient Nimth. As the hole pulsated, that power seeped into the Dragonrealm, adding to the foulness already admitted by the Crystal Dragon. There was a faint hint of mist in the chamber, but nothing approaching conditions on the surface.

He did not have to ask how it had come to be here. Cabe recognized the thing in the center as a creation of the Quel. It was a new creation, for he could not recall it being here during a previous encounter with the subterranean race. What its original purpose had been was impossible to say, although the warlock had some suspicions. The wolf raiders had usurped it for their own desires, obviously recognizing the potential power but not respecting the likely danger of trying to use the device.

By its side lay another body, but this one was different from the rest.

Cabe had never seen a blue man, although they had been mentioned briefly in one or two of the Gryphon’s dispatches. Moving to the corpse’s side, he inspected the body. The hood of the man’s outfit had fallen away, revealing the silver mark of the warlock in his hair. His one hand was a burnt and ravaged horror that made Cabe greatly desire to look elsewhere. Shock and blood loss had likely killed him. Judging by the trail he saw, the foreign sorcerer had walked toward one of the tunnel mouths and then back again, as if he had not even noticed his life ebbing from him. Evidently, his dead counterpart had overestimated his skill in manipulating the power and had paid with his life . . . or perhaps Plool had overestimated it. Glancing up at the hole again, he began to have some idea of what the Vraad might have wanted and what the blue man might have been offered.

Where
was
the Vraad? Cabe could not sense him nearby, but with Plool that did not mean much. Plool was like nothing he had ever come across before; it might be that the Nimthian sorcerer was invisible to his senses most of the time.

Rising, he studied the damage to the device. Crystal sorcery was not Cabe Bedlam’s forte, but he understood the basics. Much to his regret, however, what he knew in no way aided him in deciphering the scattered array before him. In his death throes the blue sorcerer had pushed almost everything aside. Cabe had no idea how to even begin re-creating the original design.

Yet, as he touched some of the crystals, certain images played in his mind. He picked up one piece, wincing briefly in pain when he raised his arm too high, and positioned it. Once that was done, the warlock chose another piece and placed that in a position on an angle from the first. Around him, blue lightning crackled to life, but as it was high above him, he paid it little mind. After assuring himself that the piece was in its proper place, Cabe searched the pile again. It almost seemed logical that the next two crystals that he chose went where they did. So did the two after them.

Before his eyes, he watched the arrangement take place. Everything he picked up had its niche. There were some crystals that interested him not at all, no matter how many times Cabe tried to find a spot for them. He felt as if his hands were being guided, but not by any source without. Rather, the sorcerer felt he was being guided by some force within.

Had his grandfather, Nathan, known crystal sorcery? Was that what guided the warlock’s hands? The thought that he might be drawing upon Nathan’s past did not at all surprise Cabe. Nathan Bedlam had known something about everything and had tried to pass on as much of himself to his grandson as was magically possible. There seemed no end to the skills the elder Bedlam had possessed. If he lived to be three hundred, the warlock wondered if he would ever feel he had lived up to his grandfather’s legacy.

As Cabe re-created the pattern, he noticed that the hole’s pulsations decreased. The lightning, which had played about the chamber throughout his work, now ceased. Encouraged, Cabe worked faster, trying to align everything. He soon depleted his supply of usable crystals, but still the array was not complete. Searching the floor, the warlock located several pieces around the body of the blue man. He reached down to gather them up, then paused. Just noticeable under the body and arm of the corpse was something that was not a crystal but still cried out to him to be used. Cabe gingerly moved the body to one side.

It was a carved object. A talisman. Whoever had carved it had fashioned it into the shape of a jagged tooth reminiscent of a hound’s or a . . . a
wolf’s.

An Aramite talisman. To be more precise, a
keeper’s
talisman. The thing radiated such power that he almost pulled his hand away. Yet, a feeling inside insisted that the warlock add it to his collection. The pattern would not be complete without it.

Cabe reached forward and started to wrap his fingers around the carving.

It flew backward from his grasp, heading in the direction of one of the cavern mouths behind him. Cabe turned, intending to give chase.

A hand caught the talisman. An elegant figure clad in the black armor of the wolf raider empire stepped forward. Despite his aristocratic features, there was a definite hint of insanity in his eyes. Sometimes the eyes focused, more times they did not. It almost seemed as if the newcomer were uncertain about which direction in life he preferred. Cold sanity or even colder madness. Cabe recognized the scarred visage from glimpses in the Crystal Dragon’s sanctum during the battle of wills. Here was the victor of that battle.

“My precious . . . prize! My treasure! What . . . have . . . you done . . . to my . . . prize?”

He pointed the talisman at Cabe.

With but a thought, the warlock shielded himself. Tendrils sought to snare his arms and legs in a viselike grip, but his own spell held. The tendrils could find no grip on his person and slipped off. They tried again with the same result, then faded away.

The Aramite sorcerer did not even pause before striking with a quick, swordlike slash. Cabe parried a long, gleaming blade that formed from nothing with a magical blade of his own. The two traded blows for several seconds before the wolf raider withdrew. Cabe, his head and heart pounding and his arm in agony, did not try to seize the advantage. There was too knowing a look on the raider’s marred face. He
wanted
Cabe to come to him.

The Aramite caressed the carving. “Who are you, warlock? I felt the tooth call to me, for we are bound together as two halves of a soul. Did you think that I would not notice? Kanaan should have known better, but I see that does not matter any longer. A pity for him.”

He did not bother to answer the wolf raider. Cabe debated his chances of teleporting safely while continuing to fend off the attacks of the Aramite. From their brief exchange of spells, he could already see that his opponent was quick and a master of power. Cabe doubted his chances of simultaneously escaping and defending himself against the sorcerer. That meant it was to his benefit to take the offensive.

A shower of rock struck the Aramite sorcerer from behind. As he moved to defend himself, Cabe unleashed the second half of his assault. It materialized above his adversary’s head, a leathery thing as large as a shield and resembling nothing more than a sheet. The wolf raider, engaged in repelling the rock storm, did not notice the danger above him until his head was suddenly covered. He reached up to pull the sheet off, but the covering would not be removed. It wrapped itself tight around the face and helmet of the raider, cutting off his air supply.

Then it dissolved.

Cabe stepped back. The eerie eyes turned his way again. In the Aramite’s grasp, the talisman fairly glowed. “I ask again, warlock. Who are you? I think you must know the Gryphon, our friend. I think that is why you are here. That would make you one mage in particular. What was the name? Yes . . .
Cabe Bedlam.
”

From behind the raider came the sound of many armored men running. The first of the soldiers reached the entrance, but when he sought to enter, the Aramite sorcerer waved him back. From the soldier’s quick obedience, it was obvious who was in command of the invaders.

“Your chance to yield has forever passed, Cabe Bedlam.”

The talisman flared.

Cabe tensed, but there was no attack against him. He glanced back and forth around the chamber, never letting his eyes completely shift from the raiders. Still he saw and sensed nothing.

Then, from all around him, there came horrible, wrenching noises. He could not place the sounds save that they reminded him of metal scraping against rock. The warlock took a step back and tilted his head enough so that he could see more of the right side of the room while still keeping an eye on his foe.

What he saw turned his stomach and almost made him forget the threat before him.

They struggled from the wall, freeing themselves slowly but surely with a strength far in excess of that of any living man. With eyes as blank as the sorcerer who controlled their strings, the dead sentries, the lances still piercing their torsos and limbs, shambled toward Cabe. Some had their weapons ready, but others merely reached for him. Caked blood splattered the floors and walls.

The warlock fought against the unreasoning panic rising within him. Necromancy was the darkest use of sorcery. Cabe’s first introduction to it had been when Azran had sent the rotting apparitions of two of Nathan Bedlam’s old companions, the sorcerers Tyr and Basil, to kidnap the young Bedlam and bring him to the mad mage’s keep. That horrific meeting had forever left its mark on him, although he had never admitted such to Gwen. Cabe Bedlam disliked shapeshifting, but he
feared
necromancy.

Fear, however, did not equate panic. Not quite. He stepped around so that the Quel device stood between him and the Aramite. The wolf raider stirred, but, as Cabe had prayed, his adversary still held some hope of making use of the artifact and therefore hesitated to cast any spell that Cabe might deflect to it. That hesitation gave the warlock the extra breath he needed to combat the more immediate threat. Even if the barriers he had raised held, the unliving army was too great a distraction. If Cabe let them surround and harass him, he would eventually fall to his true opponent.

It was the metallic lances that skewered each of the undead that finally inspired him. Cabe lunged forward and reached among the crystals he had arranged earlier. Drawing upon the same knowledge that had let him create the pattern before him, he transposed three of the pieces.

A storm broke above his head. A lightning storm that raced so swift from one end of the room to the other that it created a web of ever-shifting design. The warlock ducked back as the bolts struck the array as well, creating a bluish glow about the artifact. From the other side of the Quel device, he heard the keeper shout in frustrated realization.

From his studies, Cabe was familiar with the attraction of lightning to metal rods. So, too, it was evident, was the wolf raider.

The chamber shook as the bolts struck. There was no escape for the undead, pincushioned as they were by so many lances. Some were struck several times in a single moment while others were touched but once. One or a hundred times, however, the effect was still the same. The raw power behind those bolts was more than enough to incinerate the stumbling corpses. Some few burst into flames while others simply dropped, their forms charred black. More than one literally burst, sending gobbets flying.

Cabe crouched on the floor, his cloak protecting him from the awful rain. From where he was, he could see that the other spellcaster had backed all the way into the tunnel. The raider’s spells might protect him, but armored as he was, he evidently thought himself too tempting a target for the magic lightning.

The last of the unliving legion fell. Cabe felt some small pity for the unfortunate men, but reminded himself of what they had been. Whatever decency had once existed in them when they had lived, the Aramite war wolf had worried it to death. The Gryphon had spoken of many gallant folk among the raiders’ race, but the soldiers of the empire were, with very few exceptions, not among them.

Risking the storm that still crackled above, the exhausted mage stood. Much to his dismay, the keeper chose that same moment to dare to reenter. Cabe would never be able to sufficiently describe the expression on that ravaged countenance, but he knew that the next duel between them would be the last.

The duel was never to be, though, for as the raider commander raised the talisman, the chamber shook anew with a frenzy that nearly sent both men to the floor. Someone cried out about earthquakes, but this was no natural tremor. The walls, floor, and ceiling were being buffeted from within, almost as if a ghostly fist was trying to battle its way out of the cavern. Only the shield that Cabe had raised against the Aramite mage was preventing him from being tossed and battered like a piece of soft fruit. As it was, each passing moment left him weaker and weaker, for the pounding was growing stronger with each wave.

Across from him, the wolf raider was also struggling against the tremor. In his one hand he clutched tight the talisman. Beyond the sorcerer, Cabe could make out the faces and forms of several of the soldiers. To his surprise, they moved as if barely hindered by the quake. The greatest force was confined to the chamber itself, at least for now. Once the crystalline walls began to crumble, who was to say how far it would spread.