Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

VI

“Cabe! Cabe!” Darkhorse trod without fear over the landscape. As swiftly as it had begun, the shifting of the earth had ended. The eternal immediately understood that he had been intentionally separated from the others. The Lords of the Dead no doubt feared his power and why not? He had more than once put them in their places, although he had never fought them beyond proving a point.

The huge stallion tried once more to leap into the air. He managed only a foot or so before the ground seized his limbs. So, they desired him earthbound. Darkhorse laughed loudly, certain that the necromancers would hear. If they thought him weakened by that, then they were sorely mistaken.

But what could be their intention? Likely they hoped to deal with Cabe and even Shade first, then concentrate on him. This trap was likely only to keep him busy until that time-

A malevolent giggle echoed through his mind.

Darkhorse twisted his neck at an impossible angle. “Who is that? Who is there?”

Again came the giggle, a sound that more and more reminded the eternal of the one thing he had ever truly dreaded.

But that was impossible. That one was dead, dead, dead.

He turned about, trying to make out anything in the thickening haze.

“Aah, dear, dear Darkhorse! I’ve missed you so very, very, very much! How could you stay away so long?”

A tiny, black spot formed in the mist. The shadow steed snorted, then retreated. The spot drifted toward him, growing and coalescing. It swelled to the size of a pumpkin, then began taking on a different shape. Arms and legs thrust out and the general form shrank to a doll-sized figure with no features.

No features save two ice-blue orbs that suddenly opened in the darkness that covered what should have been its face.

The giggle echoed louder in Darkhorse’s head. He reared, kicking at the ebony puppet even though it was too far to hit.

“You are no more!” he roared. “You have ceased to be! You are dead, Yureel!”

“What is death to us, my brother, who are immortal, who are without beginning or end?” Yureel floated closer. “But wait! You do have a beginning! I did create you, didn’t I?”

“And from that moment on, we ceased to have any connection to one another! I abhor everything you are, Yureel! You torture and wreak bloodshed, manipulate the minds of others simply for your own amusement!”

The puppet spun upside down, giggling. “But whatever purpose do the ephemerals serve, hmm?”

“Their lives may be fleeting compared to ours, but they earn them far more than we ever have!” Darkhorse’s eyes narrowed. “And you have already forfeited what foul existence you had!”

He reared again, clashing his front hooves together. Lightning crackled, striking out at Yureel.

But the bolts faded just before the malevolent puppet. “Shame, shame, shame, brother! It seems I must punish you . . .”

And as he spoke, Yureel swelled further in size. He grew as large as Darkhorse, then larger yet. As he grew, his form defined further, his outer shell becoming that of a monstrous knight with a horned helmet. One hand twisted, stretched, transforming into a huge spiked mace with twin heads.

“Come, embrace me, my brother!” the giant boomed. He brought the mace down hard. Thunder roared as the weapon cracked the ground, creating a chasm into which Darkhorse nearly fell.

The ebony stallion leapt over the gap, but just as before, the ground grabbed at his limbs. This time, however, Darkhorse reacted quicker. His legs shot into his body. As he landed, his torso shivered like a sack of water, softening the collision with the earth.

Immediately, eight spiderlike appendages burst free. Darkhorse raised himself up, stretching until he stood as tall as Yureel. The shadow steed’s muzzle distorted, growing wider and toothier. Little of Darkhorse now resembled the animal from which he had named himself.

“You have no soul and therefore cannot be here, Yureel! Whatever you are, you are not what you appear!”

Even as he finished his declaration, Darkhorse charged. His head sharpened to a needle point, which he plunged into the knight’s chest.

Yureel ripped in half, his upper torso flying over his adversary. The lower portion melted, turning into a huge, black puddle.

The mace came crashing down on Darkhorse, fiery sparks shooting up where it hit. Darkhorse roared in agony and lost hold of his shape. He flowed over what had been Yureel and the puddle sought to meld with him.

Another giggle escaped the monstrous warrior. Yureel’s upper half spun about, then grew a new pair of legs. “Come, come, my brother . . . let our quarrel be no more! Let us be of one mind . . . and body . . .”

As Yureel combined with him, Darkhorse felt the horrific presence of his counterpart. Despite the stallion’s denial, this was Yureel-or at least a part of him. There was something else, something magically created that enhanced what was actually Yureel-and surely had to be the work of the Lords of the Dead.

“You will be me and I will be me again . . .” whispered Yureel’s mocking voice. “I will step forth from this boring place of shadows and again play with your favored world! I will write an epic of blood that will encompass all!”

And he swallowed Darkhorse.

They had been separated, just as Shade had expected. He had thought that perhaps it could be avoided, but his cousins had planned better. Still, he felt secure that he could overcome whatever they had in mind for him.

It would involve the daughter. Ephraim surely had seen in her the truth long ago. Once, perhaps, twice, maybe, but never so often. Cabe Bedlam did not realize the secret his daughter held, perhaps unknowingly.

How many times have you been reborn, Sharissa? I knew you as Galani and twice others, but there likely were more. Now you are Valea Bedlam, your soul combined once again with the bloodline from which you first sprouted . . .

That was hardly the necromancers’ work. They dealt in death and undeath, not life and reincarnation. No, this was most likely the intention of that which Shade feared more than any other, which had sent him on his path of immortal madness.

But you will not have me . . . he told that invisible foe. Twisted though my soul has become, you will never have me!

Did the Lords know that they unwittingly did another’s bidding? Surely not. Not even Ephraim could foresee that. Only Shade recognized his ultimate foe, the same one he had battled since the son of Barakas Tezerenee. It was that foe, the warlock suspected, who had turned awry Shade’s spell, the one that would have made death for him but a word. It was that foe who had sought his destruction, but who had failed. Shade had lived, albeit cursedly so.

And now his ageless adversary sought his life again through the necromancers. The irony was not lost on him.

Shade had no doubt that Cabe Bedlam and Darkhorse faced evils of their own, but to turn back to help them would only serve the purpose of Ephraim and the others.

The haze closed about him, forcing the warlock to choose his steps carefully. He sensed the ever-present spirits, but they were nothing to him. The one he had feared most was not among their invisible horde.

But no sooner had he thought that, when he noticed the outline of someone walking toward him. Instinctively, thousands of years of hardening slipped away. The booming voice and arrogant tone echoed through his memories and Shade almost cringed.

Yet, when the silhouetted figure spoke, the voice was one more calm, more concerned-and not that of Barakas Tezerenee.

“I hoped I would find you here,” the ghost said.

If Shade’s blurred features could have evinced surprise, they surely would have now. “Master . . . Zeree . . .”

“Ever the formal one,” the bearded figure replied with a sad smile. He stood nearly seven feet tall and his narrow features were handsome in their way. He had a hawklike appearance that was complemented by the thin, groomed beard that matched the brown that was the color of most of his flowing hair. To one side of the ghost’s head, a streak of silver darted back, but, unlike the Bedlams’, it was an affectation, not a sign that he was a spellcaster. This one had lived before that had become the mark of the mage. “I would permit you to call me Dru, Gerrod.”

“I will not call you that out of respect, Master Zeree . . . and you will not call me who I no longer am.”

“Ever the stubborn one, too, as I recall.” The specter stepped closer. The hazy landscape could be seen through his faded gray robe.

“They have sent you,” growled the faceless warlock, unable to completely hide his anxiety. “What malignant purpose do you serve for them?”

The ghost of Dru Zeree smiled sadly again. “None, G-friend. Ephraim and the others know nothing of my presence here. If they did, they would be quite shocked.”

“As they are the lords, masters, and creators of this infernal pocket world, I find that hard to believe even from your ethereal lips, Master Zeree.”

“Your threat awaits you in the castle. I come as one who knew you and felt your fear-”

“I fear nothing and no one!”

Dru chuckled, an unearthly sound even to the jaded warlock. “Your father would beg to differ.” His tone darkened. “They will be here quickly. You must listen to me. The death you fear is your victory . . . that, and her.”

“Her?” Shade waved him away. “You can’t possibly mean who I think, Master Zeree . . .”

“I always knew how you felt, as did Sharissa.” The ghost shook his head. “Your cause was not so hopeless as you think. You were just . . . at the crossroads at the wrong time.”

“How eloquently put . . . and how useless to me now. If that’s all you’ve to say, then begone with you!”

Dru Zeree’s crystalline eyes narrowed. “Ever the stubborn one. Despite that, she’ll try to do what she can for you . . .” He suddenly peered into the mist. “They’re near.”

Glancing in the direction his ethereal companion had looked, the hooded warlock saw nothing. “Who are-”

But the phantom of his past had vanished.

And almost immediately, Shade sensed the approaching figures. Five of them, a good Vraad number. They were spread all along the path behind, moving unafraid of his notice. They wanted him to know that they were there, the better to force his hand.

The Lords of the Dead were on the hunt.

Shade started away. He was not weak in their domain, but certainly weaker than he liked. They had planned long for this moment, perhaps even centuries, and it did not behoove him to wait to confront them, not yet.

As he picked up his pace, he probed with his mind his pursuers. Images flashed in his head of each. He saw the monstrous, armored warriors, the ancient symbol of their clan still visible upon their rusting breast plates. They marched toward him whether or not they still had flesh and bone with which to carry themselves. Some merely drifted along, bits of human ivory dangling limply across the ground. Most had no flesh upon their half-hidden faces, but all had fiery orbs that represented what truly remained of them after so long. They were a macabre, ghoulish parade, completely unaware that no life existed in their decaying shells. They were more ghosts than the slivers of souls that they collected.

But they were powerful, powerful ghosts.

He dared probe deeper, identifying each and recalling well when they had been of the same blood. Hirac and Ghan, the brothers. They strode near one another, the former with one leg, the latter, both arms gone and his jaw hanging loose. Delio, the giant among the necromancers. Nearly eight feet tall and almost intact. A few bits of flesh still hung to his emaciated form. Xarakee, the closest in bloodline to Shade, almost a half brother, if ancient rumors held truth. He was little more than a rib cage and a head.

And Zorane. Ephraim’s shadow. Also lacking legs, although he, like the rest, moved as if fully bodied. Shade recalled Zorane and his immaculate beard, his fastidious attitude when it came to himself. The warlock envisioned the five as they saw themselves, proud sorcerers of Clan Tezerenee and members of the Vraad race. Once stout of chest and perfect of face and form, their egos would not let them see the truth.

A fearsome, chill gale exploded, nearly sending the warlock tumbling. Shade dug in his boots, but still he was pushed back in the direction the necromancers desired him to go.

They would expect him to resist. He focused on Ghan, opening the earth beneath the latter. Ghan stumbled, seeking to retain his footing, and, as Shade had expected, Hirac moved to aid him.

The warlock reached into his cloak and pulled out a tiny, winged figurine honed from marble. He whispered to it and it disappeared.

In his thoughts, it reappeared before the distracted Hirac. Now the size of a man and screeching loud, the huge marble eagle pounced on the necromancer.

But no sooner had his golem attacked Hirac then the gale became a full storm, pummeling Shade relentlessly. It shoved him along the Lords’ route. The warlock leaned against it, but allowed the magical tempest to do its work.

He felt Zorane’s satisfaction at this apparent victory. Ephraim might have been more suspicious, but Zorane took matters more at face value. Shade was being forced toward the castle; therefore, all was as it should be.

Keep assuming so, cousin, the hooded figure thought as he pretended to lose track of a spell he had been about to cast.

With an almost contemptuous thrust of his hand, Hirac turned the marble eagle into so much dust. Ghan, meanwhile, levitated over the chasm. Emboldened, the necromancers regrouped and solidified their efforts against Shade. They had him on the run, so they believed, and he did nothing to dissuade them of that notion.

And as the storm forced him up and over a ridge, the hair on the warlock’s neck bristled. Holding his cloak tight around him, Shade looked in the direction in which the Lords of the Dead sought to force him.

There, perched on the next hill, the immense stone sanctum balefully greeted his gaze.

“So,” he muttered in half satisfaction, half anxious anticipation. “It’s almost about to begin.”