Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

V

The night stretched long. Too long, as far as Valea was concerned. Candle in hand, she strode through the high halls of her home, passing without gazing at wall tapestries collected by her mother or vases and other decorative gifts given to both her parents over the years. As the foremost wizards of the lands, the Bedlams had as many friends as they did enemies and among the former were some of those most influential. A three-foot tall rearing steed made of onyx and reminiscent of Darkhorse stood atop a pedestal to her right, a recent present from the ruler of Zuu, Belfour. The people of Zuu had an obsession for horses and their sculptors could fashion the most marvelous, intricate statues of the equines, but even this, a favorite of Valea’s, did not distract her.

She did not want to go to sleep. Having done so all day should have aided her in that regard, but there had been no rest in that slumber. The dream had sapped her of her strength as if she had actually expended herself physically. Valea still wanted to investigate the events behind the apparitions and the dream, but on her own terms.

Once more she stopped in the library, this time to research what history of the Manor her father had chronicled. Valea already knew that there would be no mention of an elf called Arak nor of his cousin Galani. What she did seek, however, was any mention of an artifact called the Wyr Stone. Clearly it was of great significance, if both Arak and Shade had believed it useful against the Dragon Kings.

For the next hour, she thumbed through the first journal, finding reference to other past inhabitants but not to the object in question. Discarding that tome, the crimson-tressed sorceress seized a volume related to the Dragon Masters, a band of wizards and other spellcasters of whom her great-grandfather, Nathan, had been one of the foremost . . . as had been her mother. Gwendolyn Bedlam had put down with quill all that she could recall of her days as part of the group that had attempted to oust the drakes from rule . . . even her love for her husband’s grandfather.

The story made for fascinating reading and Valea had pored over it more than once in the past, but now she hunted a specific section. Somewhere there had been made mention of the artifacts that the Masters had sought for their grand purpose and Valea wondered if perhaps one of them might be the one she hunted.

The candle sank into a waxy puddle as she perused page after page, finding nothing. One passage briefly seized her attention, for it spoke of a possession rod, but little more could Valea discern from it.

She rubbed her eyes, squinting more and more as the candle became less useful. Her father had raised her to use magic judiciously, not for every whim or minor physical activity, but Valea realized that soon she would be attempting to read in utter darkness. Raising her hand, she cast a minor light spell, one that surely her father would have seen as a very miserly use of her abilities-

A face stared back at her from the other side of the desk.

“No!” Startled, Valea pushed the chair back . . . and fell with it. She caught herself at the very end, preventing a possible broken neck but promising many bruises.

Rolling away from the chair, Valea amplified the light spell, filling the library with almost blinding illumination. Ceiling-high shelves filled with book after book, scroll upon scroll-all carefully collected by not only the Bedlams but some of their predecessors-revealed themselves to her, but of her intruder there was no trace.

Rising, Valea hurried to the doorway, but saw no sign. She frowned, recalling what she could of the face-and her mouth dropped.

Arak.

Yet, there had been something else about him, some details about his elven visage that had only partly registered. He had not been as she had seen him initially-tall, handsome, foreboding. What had changed?

She turned back toward the desk-and this time gasped as Arak once more glared at her.

Now Valea saw with horror what was different about him. He still retained elven features, but they had also become something different, something reptilian.

Arak moved, but he did not walk toward her. Rather he stared past her, his mouth working as if speaking to another in the room. Then the elf, his garments misshapen as if his body was not entirely normal any more, darted toward the far wall . . . and through the very shelves.

At the same time, feminine sobbing echoed through the corridors outside.

Valea stood momentarily torn between investigating the apparition in the library or pursuing the ghostly sounds beyond. When Arak did not reappear, she finally abandoned the chamber and hurried down the halls, wondering why no one else came in response to the anguished cries.

Not at all to her surprise, the sobbing led her back to the staircase.

Once more the elven figure bent down and once more blood pooled beneath. This time, Valea did not reach out, hoping that by holding back she would see the vision do more.

It did. Rather than finally crumple to the floor, it rose. In one hand something glittered despite no other light, a dagger fine and silver whose end was drenched crimson.

The female elf-surely Galani-shifted back toward the staircase.

Valea stared at her own face.

No . . . not exactly her own. Much akin to hers, save that the features were better defined, far more graceful. Valea’s face without imperfection.

Yet another gasp escaped the sorceress at this revelation . . . and suddenly the spectral figure looked her way.

“I had to do it, didn’t I?” Galani asked her.

The elf’s wound finally proved too much. She doubled over, the dagger dropping from her failing grip. Valea reached forward, but her arms caught no body, for Galani’s ghost vanished even as death claimed it not for the first time.

Shivering, the younger Bedlam gazed unblinking at the site where the elf had been. No blood, no Galani, no-

The silver dagger still lay on the floor.

No blood covered the tip now. Biting her lip, Valea approached the weapon, waiting every moment for it to vanish. When it did not, she cautiously pushed at it with her slipper.

With a slight scraping sound, the dagger slid a few inches away.

The sorceress hesitated, peering around. No one had as yet come in response to all the noise and that bothered her. This entire scene had been played out for her and her alone and now the weapon that had evidently ended Galani’s life lay tantalizingly nearby. All she had to do was pick it up. Surely then with some spell she could divine some of its secrets.

But with her fingers only inches from the silver artifact, Valea paused. By taking the dagger, she also risked falling prey again to the ghostly apparitions. The Manor played some sort of macabre game, one that went well beyond her interest in the phantoms inhabiting her home.

Valea pulled back.

The dagger flew from the floor, thrusting itself hilt first into her hand-

Her face stared back at her.

No, not Valea’s face, but rather Galani’s. Valea sat at a high, gold-framed mirror, an emerald brush, not a dagger, clutched in her hand. The brush dropped from her grip as she studied the elven features closer. Still strikingly similar to her own, they had undergone some changes. The beauty was now not quite perfect, for there were dark circles under the eyes, which held much, much sadness. There was also a small scar on the left edge of the chin, a recent scar.

Valea recalled Arak’s moods and grew angry. If he had done this-

An intense rumble of thunder suddenly made her forget all about the male elf’s transgressions. The entire building shook as the rumbling continued. A bolt of lightning flashed outside, almost seeming to strike just beyond the walls.

The invisible barrier was supposed to protect the area even from the elements, but already two drake assassins had entered. Valea wondered if perhaps the Dragon King was also responsible for the storm.

Again thunder rocked the Manor. A crystalline vase toppled from a fireplace mantle and across the room an exquisite tapestry of what might have been the elves’ forest homeland slipped free, landing in an inelegant heap.

Although Valea had control of Galani’s body, unbidden from her mouth came her cousin’s name. “Arak!”

Not certain where she headed but feeling that somehow Galani would guide her, the sorceress ran from the room, hurrying down the corridor leading to the staircase. The sense of urgency rose with each second. Something had gone terribly wrong; both she and her host knew that. Whatever Arak desired, it was not what he would reap.

To Valea’s consternation, her path took her not to the grounds, as she had expected, but rather toward what would be the library in her parents’ day. Even now, the room was much as it should have been; the same shelves greeted her along with sleek, well-crafted mahogany table and four matching chairs, the latter leather-padded and all the furniture under the same centuries-long preserving spell as the rest of the Manor.

Letting Galani’s memories continue to guide her, the sorceress reached one of the bookcases near the rear. Her right hand went up, passing along three black tomes, then touching a crimson one two shelves below.

“It is here,” the elf murmured. “I know it was here he touched.”

Suddenly, the entire bookcase vanished, revealing a passage descending below, a passage carved into the mighty tree that made up this half of the Manor.

A passage none of the Bedlams had ever uncovered.

Muttering echoed from deep below. Valea recognized spellwork, but not of a type akin to her own.

The narrow passage wound around and around like some parody of the staircase. Valea constantly collided with the walls, which looked to have been formed from the tree’s very roots. For a time, the steps seemed without end, but then at last the bottom appeared, opening up into a much wider corridor lit by small, glowing spheres of blue.

The muttering grew louder but still remained incomprehensible. An unsettling gray light radiated from a chamber ahead, devouring the blue illumination without mercy.

Planting herself against the nearest root wall, Valea peered around the edge. Acutely sensitive to magic, she had to steel herself before looking, so wild, so manic were the powers in play.

Before her stood Arak . . . and before him, the Wyr Stone.

It was not what she had expected. Valea had imagined some massive, glittering emerald or ruby. Perhaps even a pure white, transparent crystal. Certainly not this.

The Wyr Stone was just that . . . a stone. It was no larger than Arak’s fist and was only vaguely round in form. It might have been found in any quarry or canyon. At a first glance, the sorceress would not have even paid it any mind-if not for its coloring.

One second it was brown, then gold, then red, then a myriad display of other colors. Never did it cease shifting. There were brief periods when more than one color displayed itself and sometimes impressive patterns played over the artifact. Several of the colors Valea could not even put a name to. The Wyr Stone constantly changed, the pace increasing with each phrase spoken by the elf.

And as the Wyr Stone changed, so, too, did Arak.

He looked taller, more gaunt, and his hair had begun to gray, although perhaps that was a trick of the peculiar light emanating from the stone. More dramatic, however, was his visage, which had elongated and grown scaly. His nose had nearly vanished. Valea could not see his eyes, but felt certain that they had also been altered.

The elf raised his hands . . . and in them the sorceress could see a dagger identical to the one the ghost of Galani had wielded.

As she watched, Arak took the dagger in his right hand, then stretched forth his left, revealing the wrist. Already the elf’s limbs looked misshapen, his fingers curled and clawed, his arms twisted at odd angles. Undisturbed by his transformation, Arak held the blade over his wrist, then drove the weapon deep.

Stifling a gasp, Valea watched in horror and wonder as he held the bleeding limb over the Wyr Stone. Droplets of blood dripped from what should have been a terrible wound, spilling onto the artifact while Arak calmly waited.

She expected some force to burst free from the stone, but instead, it seemed to draw from around it. A sense of vertigo touched the sorceress and Valea suddenly realized that the stone was absorbing the magic around it. She drew back, fearful.

“Kaladi Dracos!” shouted Arak at the wall beyond. “Kivak Dracos!”

The vertigo lessened. Now the vampiric powers of the stone had been focused elsewhere, made to draw only from one specific source.

And recalling what Galani’s cousin had preached, Valea could guess what source that was.

The Dragon Kings.

The Wyr Stone now soaked in his blood, Arak pulled free the blade. As he did he turned just enough for her to see his face.

The eyes were crimson, pupilless . . . and more inhuman than any drake.

It was Valea, not Galani, who stumbled back with a slight scraping noise. It proved enough to attract the attention of Arak. He turned toward the passage, arm leaving a shower of crimson in its wake.

She fled, certain that even in control of the elf’s body her skills were no match for the elf. Trying to be silent, Valea rushed up the passage, praying that Arak had not noticed her. Could this be the moment of Galani’s death that she had witnessed? But in the image, the elf had worn blue, not the gold she wore now.

The entrance to the library beckoned. Breathing heavily, Valea pushed to the top. As she did, a noise below caught her attention. Certain that Arak followed right behind her, the sorceress glanced over her shoulder. To her relief, Valea saw nothing-

She collided with a solid form.

Hands seized her by the shoulders. A struggle ensued until Valea heard Shade’s calm voice whisper, “Quiet. If we depart now, he’ll not know you were here, Galani.”

Grateful for his presence, Valea let the faceless warlock lead her quickly away. Behind them, the opening had vanished, once more simply a bookcase.

Shade started to guide her to the elf’s chambers, but Valea did not want to go there. She feared that Arak would still come up there looking for her and whether or not it was Galani’s body that perished, the sorceress feared that this time it would be she who died.

“Take me away from here,” Valea demanded of the warlock.

“The gardens-” he began.

“No! Far from here! Somewhere he won’t be able to find me!”

“Galani-”

She clung to him, stared into the murky eyes. “Please!”

From the direction of the library, they heard footsteps. Shade glanced past her, then suddenly wrapped his shroudlike cloak about her, completely engulfing his companion.

A sense of displacement akin to that she had felt when first pulled into the ghostly memory overwhelmed Valea, but this time she did not wake up. Instead, her feet came down hard on some rocky surface. Shade caught her, then immediately after removed the dark veil from her eyes. A cold rush of wind made her shiver and her eyes widened to saucers as they took in the view around her.

The two of them stood atop a narrow mountain ledge overlooking an endless chain of ominous peaks.

Having visited Talak many times in the past, Valea readily recognized the Tyber Mountains.

“Your cousin won’t find us here,” Shade solemnly promised.

Perhaps he would not, but certainly others would. The Tyber Mountains-the vast, jagged peak called Kivan Grath, especially-were the domain of the most powerful of the Dragon Kings. Here, the Gold Dragon, emperor of his kind, ruled the entire continent. This would be no young, human-raised novice like Kyl; this would be a monster, an inhuman beast who would snap up two interlopers without a second thought.

“I come here many a time,” her companion suddenly remarked. Shade stared at the stunning view. “The cool air refreshes the mind.”

The dying light still enabled Valea to see far too much. She tightened her hold on the warlock, finding comfort in his stolid presence. Shade no longer tensed at her touch.

Not her touch, the sorceress reminded herself. It was Galani who was fascinated with Shade, not her. Valea only felt what the elf experienced.

She could not blame Galani, of course. Weeks, even months, must have passed from the first memory to this latest one, and there had only been Shade to be of comfort to the elf. Arak’s mad work-and even now Valea was not certain if he could truly do what he desired-had taken its toll, turning a once-loved cousin into a monster akin to those he sought to destroy.

In the distance, something fluttered among the mountains. At first, it looked like a man-sized dragon, but then Valea made out limbs almost human save that the knees were reversed. It was also of a dusky gray color and had a face like a bird of prey. Had it stood next to her, it would have towered over her than Shade.

He felt her renewed tension. Following her gaze, Shade eyed the distant figure. “The Seeker will not try anything. His kind has learned not to where I am concerned.”

As if to prove that, the avian suddenly swerved gracefully away from their lofty position. The wide, beautiful wings beat faster and faster, quickly sending the Seeker out of sight.

“I want to leave,” Valea whispered.

“First, tell me what you saw.”

She looked at him. “Arak has become a monster.”

He cocked his head to one side much as Lord Gryphon, who shared with the Seekers an avian look, did when concentrating. “A monster?”

The words came tumbling out as Valea described what she had seen. The renewed memory caused her to shiver again. Perhaps misunderstanding the cause of her action, Shade wrapped both his arm and cloak tighter around her. The sorceress fought back the great temptation to bury her head in his shoulder as she finished her tale.

“His transformation is temporary, Galani,” A touch of concern tinted his words. “But he’s gone beyond what I suggested. The Wyr Stone is powerful, seductive. I warned him of its tendency to magnify one’s desire beyond what one truly wishes! When they tried to save themselves in the end, it only quickened the changing, made them worse than what they might have been-”

“Who?”

“Friends. Loved ones. Fools.” He would not let her press further. “It should have remained lost. I should have never told him about it.”

“Sh-Tylan. What is he trying to do with the Wyr Stone? I know he’s trying to destroy the Dragon Kings, but how? What will it do to them?”

For a brief second, she saw an expression, one that hinted of gratitude. “You always call me Tylan. Your cousin calls me Shade, just as all others do. The names I pick are always remembered, but in the end everyone calls me Shade. I strive to be more than the dark legend, to once again be the man, even if always a slightly different man.” A gloved hand rose and caressed her cheek ever so slightly, then withdrew as if having presumed too much. The gratitude vanished from the warlock’s voice as he finally answered her question. “Arak is an elf. Your people do not seek to destroy. Such an act is anathema to them. However, your cousin has found a way around that, so to speak. You cannot destroy what does not exist.”

“What do you mean?”

In answer, he extended one arm toward the vast tableau before them. “Imagine if you could make it so that these mountains had never been. Imagine if you could cause them to revert to their state before the violence of the world thrust them up toward the sky. So will Arak do to the Dragon Kings, if he is successful. A much smaller scale than transforming a mountain chain, but difficult nonetheless.”

Valea frowned, trying to make sense of what he said. “Do you mean that somehow he will unmake the drake lords and their people? They will cease to be?”

“In a sense. The Wyr Stone is the antithesis of this land. Some say it was a part of the essence of the Void, that great emptiness beyond our realm. When it was sought by the others in the past, they saw in it a way to reverse what the land did to them. It will take the magic around us, turn it inside out-so to speak-and make of the drakes what they would have been had not this cursed world played its own game.”

He spoke of the Dragonrealm as if it was a living thing, a notion her own father had pushed from time to time. If she understood Shade, somehow the land itself had transformed other creatures into the drakes, creating their race. The Wyr Stone would undo this, a phenomenal concept.

No Dragon Kings. Instead, there would be a world of elves and humans-and whatever harmless race Arak would make the drakes become. Surely not so bad a thing. On the surface, Arak’s arduous efforts looked to be worth any cost. How often had Valea heard her father or Lord Gryphon or especially King Melicard speak of a world where the Dragon Kings had never caused so much calamity?

“It’s-it’s incredible!”

“Incredible and dangerous . . . and from what you describe to me, perhaps beyond your cousin’s reach. Clearly the Wyr Stone is overwhelming him in the process and he is only halfway to his goal.”

“Halfway?” From what the sorceress had seen, the elf had looked very near his goal, too near.

The blurred face seemed even more so now. “Did you imagine erasing an entire race from the world a simple task? Why do you think those who originally used the Wyr Stone failed? When Arak told me he had found it, I was at first astounded, but your cousin is an elf of exceptional ability. When he claimed to understand why those before him had failed to control it, I made the mistake of believing him. I see now how terrible a mistake that is. He must be stopped before he destroys himself-and possibly much around him.”

It did not matter any more that all this had apparently taken place long, long ago. Valea only knew that something catastrophic was happening and that Galani’s cousin might not only bring down the Dragon Kings, but possibly himself and much of the rest of the land in the process.

“What can we do?”

Shade paused, then, with even greater hesitation than earlier, answered, “To save your cousin, Galani-and perhaps much, much more-you must put a dagger through his heart.”