Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

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.

With a roar, Darkhorse took to the sky. But as his hooves left the ground, the latter reached up and snared them. The eternal let his limbs stretch as thin as needles, but still he could not escape the grasping earth.

Another hill rose between Cabe and Darkhorse, cutting off the latter from the wizard’s sight. The landscape, churning violently, sent him flowing farther and farther from his companions.

Concentrating as best he could, Cabe muttered. Immediately, a golden sphere surrounded him. It froze him in position despite the attempts of the earth to move him elsewhere.

He managed to catch his breath. Around him, Cabe could see only haze and ground. In the distance, he sensed Darkhorse and Shade, but which direction they were, Cabe could not say with utter certainty.

Then darkness loomed over him. He looked up, saw a wave of earth come crashing down on him. The sphere would never hold against its intensity.

Going down on one knee, the wizard thrust both hands up, his index and little fingers pointed at the oncoming avalanche.

The blue force that burst from his fingertips shattered his own shield, but Cabe cared not. The powerful, primal force continued up, striking the dropping earth with all the force that the wizard could muster.

The results were devastating. The gray sky filled with dust and bits of rock. Cabe covered his face with his own hood, then attempted to recast his sphere spell. However, the effort that he had used to shatter the attacking earth had drained him too much. Without a strong and proper source of energy from which to draw, the best he could muster was a weak travesty of the original.

Cabe folded himself into a ball, well aware that even if he survived the downpour, he would likely suffer terrible injury.

But after the first few pellets of dirt . . . the deluge ceased.

He did not stir at first, fearing some trick. Yet, when after several tense breaths he was still not struck down, Cabe finally gazed up.

Empty, gray sky greeted his dumbfounded eyes.

Slowly, cautiously, the spellcaster rose. The land beneath his feet had stilled once more. Cabe took a tentative step, but nothing happened.

The wizard dared exhale.

And that was when the voice said, “The necessary brute force, but hardly the proper dignity for my progeny . . .”

A fear that had lain dormant in Cabe for so very long burst to life. Gone were all the years of training, fighting, and learning. Suddenly he was again the young server from the inn who had been cast into a conflict that was his only because of his bloodline.

It took all his nerve to muster the strength to turn, to face the cause of his fear, the eternal fixation of his nightmares.

The black of the other’s outfit-more like a uniform than anything else-was complemented by the navy blue band around his collar and his wrists. The red emblem of a dragon impaled upon a sword decorated the chest. Boots, hip-length in front, and gloves completed his clothing.

But if the garments were not proof enough of just what evil stood before Cabe, he had only to look at that face, that damnable face, to verify his worst horror. It too much resembled his own, but was older, darker of eyes, and the mouth continually wore a contemptuous smirk. Worse, the short beard and close-cut hair bore that impossible yet familiar half-and-half look, black on one side, silver on the other.

“Do close that chasm of a mouth, my boy,” the bearded figure sneered. “Unless you’d like to say hello to your papa?”

Azran . . .