Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

IX

They would be coming soon. Whether the ghoul called Ephraim or one of the other nightmarish Lords, Valea could not say. Likely Ephraim, as he seemed the most animated of them. Whichever the case, though, the enchantress intended to be ready.

“Gerrod . . . you said to Ephraim that he ever had more than one intention whenever he did something, is that right?”

“What you see on the surface is never all there is, not where he is concerned. He looks to all details, never wastes what may be of value.”

Valea nodded. Everything about Ephraim’s plan seemed to focus on the removal of Shade as a threat, but what after? The Lords of the Dead had always desired to expand their dread might beyond their realm, to make the land of the living theirs as well. Yet, surely they expected resistance, especially from her own family, unless-

Unless the Bedlams were removed as an obstacle first.

It all began to fall into place. This was more than a final confrontation between the warlock and the Lords. They had expected all along that one or both of her parents would follow her trail, most likely her father. Darkhorse, his constant comrade, would also come. The two most powerful forces of magic in all the Dragonrealm in one place. Between them, they were certainly more of a threat to the necromancers than even Shade. The Lords would have to destroy them if they hoped to conquer the living world.

Or would they? Ephraim never wastes what may be of value.

Surely Cabe Bedlam and Darkhorse would be more valuable if they could be turned.

She stifled a gasp. If they turned her father and Darkhorse, they could use them to take down her mother, the Lord Gryphon, and Queen Erini-the most powerful mages. The Dragon Kings, already much weakened, would fall one by one. The deathly, still lands of the necromancers’ realm would spread across the continent . . . and perhaps beyond.

But they could never have expected Valea to journey here. Her decision had been but a recent one. Only when the spirit of the elf, Galani, had spoken to her in her dream-

The spirit of Galani . . .

Had the entire situation in the Manor been the creation of the Lords? Surely not. The tale had been too real, too true. She had felt Galani’s presence and the elf had, in turn, acknowledged hers.

But perhaps Ephraim had given the matter a nudge. It sounded very much like him.

And at that moment, the chill voice of the necromancer filled her ears. “You shall come with me, daughter of the Bedlam, willingly or not.”

Gerrod gasped, ever seeming so real, so alive, despite his being a ghost.

She looked up into the fleshless, ghoulish visage, steeling herself as she met the Lord’s inhuman, fiery gaze. “What could I do to stop you?”

“Pragmatic. Like death itself, this is a fate you must accept.” To Gerrod, the necromancer said, “He is here.”

The ghost dipped his head. “I know. I’ve felt him.”

“You know when he will be weakest.”

“Yes, Ephraim.”

The necromancer laughed. “Come, Gerrod! You act as if you don’t want to live again!” He suddenly clutched Valea by the back of the neck and thrust her face toward that of hooded specter. “Remember . . .”

Gerrod growled at his tormentor. “Have no fear, Ephraim. I’ll do what I must.”

The other nodded. “Then it is time to finish this.”

Valea’s surroundings instantly changed. Instead of the tiny cell, she and Ephraim now stood in a dark and foreboding chamber upon whose floor had been etched a huge pentagram. Within its interior had been inscribed countless runes. The enchantress sensed the immense forces in play the moment she appeared.

“We are ready,” Ephraim announced.

Five figures even more grotesque than he stood at the points of the pentagram. As one, they bowed their helmed skulls in concentration. A moment later, their numbers doubled as other Lords took up secondary places within the main pattern.

Valea tried not to shudder. Around her stood all the necromancers, all the Lords of the Dead. Even despite their monstrous conditions, she was aware that the group wielded tremendous power.

“Kadaria. You have the slivers?”

“Here,” said a voice whose femininity startled the enchantress further. So thoroughly decayed were the Lords that she had not even realized that one-no-two of them were women. Now she saw that hints of long hair, once possibly silver, hung limply under the edges of the helmet.

The female necromancer tossed forth two tiny spheres of glittering black. They paused in the air just before Ephraim and his captive.

“Bring forth the Bedlam and his pet . . .” the lead spellcaster commanded.

The other ten kept their heads low.

And to Valea’s horror, her father and Darkhorse both materialized within the pentagram.

Cabe Bedlam had time only to utter, “What-?” before his eyes suddenly glazed over. Darkhorse reared in fury, but Ephraim touched one of the two spheres and the eternal, too, stilled.

Tearing herself from the Lord’s grip, Valea went to her father. “What’ve you done to him?”

“He and the creature are now ours. They thought they kept their foes from possessing their bodies, but that was not the point to the attacks. Our pawns took what we wanted, small slivers of the wizard’s soul and a bit of the demon’s essence. Enough to garner us control over them . . .”

So she had been correct in that assumption. They had wanted the might of her family for their vile plans.

“Through them,” Ephraim continued. “We shall take your mother, your sibling, the lionbird, and the rest. They shall all be made to serve us in bringing the perfection of our rule to the realm of the living.”

“No longer will there be a line between life and death,” added one of the newer arrivals.

“Now, girl,” the lead necromancer uttered, reaching out to Valea. “It is your turn. Shade is coming . . . and you must be made ready.”

As one, the other Lords began chanting, their words in some language that Valea had never heard. The entire pattern suddenly flared bright, the runes burning like fire.

The enchantress felt a sense of vertigo-then discovered herself once again before Ephraim. However, they were no longer alone, for a third figure now hovered next to the prisoner.

The ghost of Sharissa.

“Twins born out of sync,” murmured Ephraim. “Such perfect reincarnation! Such uniqueness! It is almost as if time itself seeks to guarantee our victory over our cousin and mastery over the living lands!”

“Get on with it,” rumbled the male who had last spoken. “This must be done!”

“It will be, Zorane! It will be because I have planned it so!”

Ephraim spread his hands to encompass both captives. Valea found that she could no longer move save to breathe. The tiny stone she wore rose and fell as she did, ever touching her skin.

The necromancer slowly brought his hands toward each other . . . and as he did, Valea felt another presence begin to melt into her body.

Sharissa’s spirit filled her . . .