Legends of the Dragonrealm Volume 2

II

The colony had lasted for fifteen years now. This world did not bow to their will as the last had and, far more important, they no longer had the strength to back their arrogant desires. Now they were often forced to do things by hand that they once would have scoffed at performing so. It was a long, frustrating fall from godhood for the Vraad, for they had, back in dying Nimth, been born to their roles. They had escaped to this world from the one they had ruined with little more than their skins and had discovered too late that, for many, Vraad sorcery would not work here the way it had before… at least not without terrible effort and more than a little chance of the results being other than what they had sought.

Yet, for all they had succeeded in accomplishing during those fifteen long years, there were many who still could not accept that the godlike days of yesteryear were at an end. They had once moved mountains, quite literally, and some were determined that they would do so again-whatever the cost. Thus, those that had some success with their spells ignored the side effects and consequences.

Lord Barakas, patriarch of the Tezerenee, the clan of the dragon, was one. He had come to this world with the intention to rule it, not be ruled by it. Even now, as he and two of his sons sat in silent contemplation of the sight before them, the dreams of what might have been and what might still be filled his thoughts nigh on to overflowing.

He stared west, utilizing the tallest hill in the region so as to get a glimpse of not just the lands but the seas farther on as well. The riding drakes, great green creatures that more resembled massive but unprepossessing lizards rather than the dragons they were, had begun to grow restive. The patriarch’s sons, Reegan the Heir and ever-obedient Lochivan, were also growing restive. Lochivan was the slightest of the three, which by no means meant that he was small. It was just that Reegan and Barakas were two of a kind, huge bears with majestic beards; two giants who looked ready to bite off the head of any who dared so much as cough in their direction. All three riders bore the same coarse features that were dominant throughout the clan, though Lochivan’s were tempered a bit by some additions passed down to him by his mother, the Lady Alcia. He also had a mix of brown and gray in his hair. Barakas and his heir had darker locks, though a streak of silver had spread across the patriarch’s head over the last few years. Other than that, Reegan was a fairly good physical copy of the dragonlord. Beyond the physical, however, the resemblance ceased. The heir lacked much in terms of the patriarch’s vision.

The sun, directly above, continued to bathe them in heat. Lochivan shifted, trying to keep cool in the cloth padding and dark-green, dragon-scale armor that clan members fairly lived their lives out in these days. Long ago, when they had been lords of Nimth, it would have been less than nothing for him to utilize his skills to make the body-encompassing armor both cool and weightless. Here, in what he considered a damnable land at best, such effort meant wasted energy and nothing more. The magic of this world still refused to obey him with regularity. Only a few had any true power, and even fewer had abilities comparable to the Vraad race of old.

None of the three were among them, though the patriarch came near. Near but not enough for what he desired.

That was why neither Reegan nor Lochivan dared to disturb their father. This period of contemplation was all that kept him from striking out at random at his own people.

“How far do you think it is?” Barakas suddenly asked. His voice was flat, nearly emotionless. That hardly meant he was in a quiet mood. Of late, the patriarch had become mercurial, going from indifference to rage at the blink of an eye. Many Tezerenee wore marks of his anger.

Lochivan answered the question, as he always did. Reegan might be heir apparent, but he lacked subtlety, something needed for times like this. Besides, Lochivan knew the answer that would suffice; it was the same one he had given his father for the past three weeks. “Not far enough to escape our grasp forever. Not by far.”

“True.” The Lord Tezerenee’s eyes did not focus on the lush lands below, but at the glittering sea near the horizon. His prize lay not on this continent but across the stunning expanse of water in another land. He had even given it its name, one that had spread to this place though he himself could not think of it as anything but “the other continent.” Across the seas lay his destiny, his Dragonrealm.

“Father.” Reegan spoke quietly, but his unpredicted interruption could only mean that he had some news of importance to convey. Reegan would never dare speak to his father without a very good reason for doing so.

Barakas looked at his eldest son, who indicated with a curt nod that the others should turn their attention to their left. The dragonlord shifted so as to see what had caught Reegan’s eye and gritted his teeth when he saw the reason.

One of the Faceless Ones. It was a parody of a man, having no features whatsoever, not even hair or ears. It was as tall as a normal man and wore a simple, cowled robe. It was also facing-if one could use the term-the three riders, watching them with its nonexistent eyes and unperturbed by the fact that the trio was now staring back.

“Let me cut it down, Father!” Reegan’s voice pretended at disdain, but a barely noticeable quiver revealed the fear that the creature stirred within his breast. Lochivan, too, was discomforted by the sight of the harmless-looking being.

“It is forbidden to do so,” Barakas reminded his son, his own voice taking on a steely edge. He, like his sons, would have desired nothing more than to crush the interfering horror beneath his mount’s clawed feet or cut it to ribbons with his sword. Anything to wipe its existence from this world.

“But-”

“It was forbidden by the Dragon of the Depths!” the patriarch snapped, referring to a being he had, over the past decade, come to think of as the Tezerenee dragon totem come to life. When the Tezerenee had faced annihilation at the hands-talons-of the bird creatures in that other land, the god had burst forth from the ground wearing a body of stone and molten earth. It had scattered the Sheekas, or Seekers, as the Vraad preferred to call them, with only words. It had taken the surviving clan members and sent them to this continent to join their fellow Vraad, utilizing only the least of its power in the process.

Two things that the Dragon of the Depths-the Lord Tezerenee’s own name for the entity-had commanded had remained with Barakas. One was that there might come a time when the Tezerenee would return to the Dragonrealm in triumph. Lord Barakas yearned for that day. The other thing touched him in the opposite manner. His god had ordered that the Faceless Ones be left unharmed. They were to be allowed to do what they desired or else.

For the Tezerenee, that was almost unthinkable. They shared more than a legacy with the unholy creatures; they shared a common origin, at least in the physical sense. It was one that kept them from ever truly feeling comfortable among their own people, even though most of the other animosities had died over time.

Barakas took up the reins of his mount. “Let us be gone from here! This place no longer soothes!”

Reegan and Lochivan acquiesced with great eagerness.

Steering their drakes around, the three urged their animals back in the direction of the city. They had some slight difficulty at first, for these animals were not mindbroke as had once been the way. Mindbreaking back in Nimth had been a simple process by which the Vraad had taken the will of their mounts and shattered it, leaving an emptiness that the master could fill as he deemed necessary. It had always made for very obedient steeds. Unfortunately, mind-breaking now had a high casualty rate and the Tezerenee could ill afford to lose many drakes. Unlike the western continent, where the Tezerenee had intended to go, drakes were fairly scarce on this continent.

Another fault among many that this place had, as far as Barakas was concerned.

The mounts finally gave in to their riders and, building up speed, raced up and over the winding landscape. The crimson cloaks that Barakas and Reegan wore, designating them as clan master and heir apparent, respectively, fluttered madly behind, looking almost like bloodred dragon wings. The refugees’ city lay in a valley and so much of their trek was downhill, though smaller hills forced them to take a route that twisted back and forth often. Here, the drakes held an advantage over their equine counterparts. Their claws dug into the slope, preventing them from stumbling forward and throwing their riders to their death. Horses had their own advantages, true, many more than the reptilian mounts, but a riding drake was more than just a beast that carried a Tezerenee from one point to another. It was a killing machine. Few things could stand up to the onslaught of a dragon, even as simpleminded a one as the mount below the patriarch. The claws would slice a man to segments; the jaws could snap a victim in two without strain.

Most important, they were the symbol of the Tezerenee.

The city soon rose before them, from the distance looking like little more than one massive wall. The new inhabitants had rebuilt the encircling wall first, making it almost twice the height of its first incarnation because their overall loss of power had made them fear everything. The city itself had been a vast ruin when the Vraad had first come, an ageless relic of the race from whom they-and countless others, it appeared-had sprung. Those ancients had been far more godlike than the Vraad could have ever hoped to be, easily manipulating their descendants into a variety of forms. They had sought successors to their tired, dying race. In what could best be described as irony, their final hope lay in one of their earliest failures-the Vraad. The Lord Tezerenee’s kind had been abandoned to their world, a construct of the ancients, where it was supposed they would kill themselves off. Instead, the Vraad had outlasted nearly everyone else. Only the Seekers still held on, but they were already in their decline, so the Dragon of the Depths had said.

To Lord Barakas, the rebuilding of the city was a waste of effort that he had only condoned while he bided his time.

“Dragon’s blood!” Lochivan swore, pointing at the path ahead. “Another!”

Near the very gates of the city there stood a figure identical to the one that they had left behind no more than moments before. For all Barakas knew, it was the same being. They had the power to flaunt. The Faceless Ones were, after all, all that remained of the minds of the very ancients who had built the city. They still sought, in their own mysterious way, to manipulate the future of their world-meaning the Vraad. The Lord Tezerenee gritted his teeth; it was by his doing that they had been given physical forms through which to interfere further.

Of their own accord, the gates swung open in time for the returning Vraad. The Faceless One, like his predecessor, remained passive as they neared. Barakas could not help touching his own face as they rode past the still figure. The skin Barakas touched felt like the skin he had always known, but it was of the same origin as the body that those ghosts now wore. Every Tezerenee, save one, wore a shell created by the now-lost combined magical might of the clan. Even a few non-clan members, outsiders whose loyalties had extended to the patriarch, had such bodies. It had seemed like the perfect solution when no way had been found to cross from Nimth to the Dragon-realm in a physical manner. Through the aid of one Dru Zeree, the only outsider Barakas respected, the Vraad had rediscovered the secret of ka, or spirit travel. The ka, guided by others, could cross the barrier that the bodies could not. There was only one major stumbling block: the spirits needed a suitable host.

It was Barakas himself who had come up with that solution. Though they could not cross, the Vraad could influence their future world through sorcerous means. It meant a dozen or more individuals acting in concert for even the slightest of spells. For the arrogant Vraad, that was an impossibility that only the Tezerenee, who were used to working with one another, could overcome. Under the patriarch’s masterful guidance, they had created an army of golems whose ancestry could be traced to the larger, more majestic cousins of the very mounts he and his sons now rode. Those soulless husks were to have waited for the tide of Vraad immigrants, but things had gone wrong after only a few hundred had been molded. First, those to whom the task of manipulating the spell of formation had fallen vanished without a trace; Barakas suspected that the ancients had been at fault there, also. Then the damned ghosts had stolen most of the bodies for themselves.

The creature was lost from sight as the riders moved farther on into the confines of the city. The patriarch drew no comfort from that. As far as he knew, there were probably half a dozen more of the horrors observing him and his sons from less conspicuous posts. It was their way.

Dru Zeree had once explained to him that the last of the ancients had released their spirits into their world, giving the lands themselves a mind of sorts. The golem forms provided by the patriarch’s plan had offered an opportunity for that mind to provide itself with hands to further its work, an apparent oversight the founders had not thought of until it was too late. Barakas had never known how much of that explanation to believe and did not really think it mattered. What mattered was that an army of ghosts had stolen not only his creations, but the empire he would have had if the rest of the Vraad had been forced to swear fealty to him in return for access to their new world. Worse yet, each of the walking monstrosities reminded him that a part of him lay rotting back in foul Nimth… unless some scavenger still living had already devoured him.

The gates closed behind them, the magic of Dru Zeree flaunting itself once more. As hard as he had strived, he could not match Zeree’s abilities. Even his counterpart’s daughter, Sharissa, was more capable. Yet another bitter pill he had been forced to swallow each day of each year.

A few Vraad wandered about, looking much more scruffy than they had back in Nimth. Without nearly limitless power to see to their every whim, they were being forced to maintain their appearances through more mundane means. Some were not proving adept at the process. They wore robes or shirts and pants, all fairly simplistic in design considering the extravagant and shocking garments most of them had once worn. Several Vraad were clearing rubble from another crumbling dwelling. They were sorting out the good pieces for use in either building the structure that would replace this one or for some other project, perhaps another useless tower. To Barakas the working Vraad looked more pathetic than industrious.

The gods have fallen, he thought. I have fallen.

Still, the city had regained bits of its ancient glory. Someday, it might be completely whole again. Children were becoming more numerous than they had back in Nimth, though that was not quite so impressive as it sounded when one considered there had rarely been more than a few dozen young at any time during the old days. Near-immortals with no taste for familial relationships did not tend to make ideal parents. Those few who chose to do so generally ended up fighting their offspring at some point. Barakas, in creating his clan, had turned that energy outside rather than inside. His people, the only true clan in Vraad society, now numbered over one hundred again, not including additional outsiders who had sworn loyalty to him during the past decade and a half. Children were rampant in the section of the city that he had taken over.

Some of the locals turned away at sight of the three Tezerenee. The patriarch ignored them, their anger being both misdirected and petty in his eyes. Faced with the loss of the majority of the golems, Barakas had sent his own people through, effectively abandoning his former allies for the most part. If they wanted to blame anyone, he had argued in the beginning, it should be the Faceless Ones themselves. He had acted as any of them would have acted. The clan came first.

At least they were no longer clamoring for the deaths of every Tezerenee. It had been the dragonlord’s people who had helped them cope with their new, mundane lives, for the Tezerenee were adept at surviving with only their physical abilities. Barakas felt justified in thinking that this colony would have been dead if not for his folk. Even Dru Zeree and Silesti, the third member of their triumvirate, could not argue with that. There were not enough adept sorcerers to guarantee everything.

His thoughts were disturbed by the appearance of a tall, well-formed woman with flowing silver-blue hair that nearly fell to her waist. The white dress she wore clung to her form, marking its perfection. Her gait indicated a confidence she had never had before her arrival in this world. She was possibly one of the most accomplished spellcasters they had now, though, being less than four decades old, the newcomer was little more than a child by Vraad standards.

She was Sharissa, daughter of Dru Zeree.

Barakas pulled back on the reins, slowing his mount in gradual fashion so as not to appear overanxious. He glanced quickly at Reegan, whose eyes were wide as he followed every movement of the young woman. The patriarch had been encouraging his eldest to pursue the lone offspring of his rival for quite some time, and Reegan had been only too eager to do just that. While Barakas prized her for her status and sorcerous abilities, he knew that his son saw her in more coarse terms… not that the patriarch could deny her beauty. Sharissa had changed somewhat in the time since their coming. Her face was rounder, though the cheekbones were in evidence. Like other Vraad, she had crystalline eyes, aquamarine gemstones that grew brighter when they widened. Her brows were arched, giving her an inquisitive look. The expression on her face seemed to be one of mild amusement, but Barakas knew that it was actually because her mouth curled upward naturally.

“Lady Sharissa,” he called out, nodding his head.

Her thin yet elegant lips parted in what he knew was a forced pleasantness. She did not care for many of the Tezerenee-save self-exiled Gerrod, came the unbidden thought. Barakas quickly smothered any further notions concerning that son. Gerrod had chosen his own way, and it had meant a hermetic life that defied everything Barakas had taught his people. As far as the patriarch was concerned, the relationship had ended there.

“Lord Barakas. Lochivan.” She smiled at them, nodding in return, then finally added, “Reegan. How do you fare today?”

“Always well when I see you,” Reegan blurted.

Barakas was almost as surprised as Sharissa at his eldest’s words. The young Zeree colored a bit; she had not expected such complimentary bluntness from the hulking figure. The patriarch held back a smile. She could hardly claim that he had engineered that comment. It was too obvious that Reegan’s stumbling words had been his own. For once, his son had taken the initiative. If there was one thing that Sharissa had no defense against, it was honesty.

“How is your father?” he asked, filling the silence that had started to grow too long for his tastes.

“He is well,” Sharissa returned, looking a bit relieved. For all her skill and knowledge, she was still naive in the ways of relationships. Her father had kept her away from most of the other Vraad for the first twenty years of her life-and she was less than twenty years older now. A short time to the long-lived Vraad race.

“And his mate?”

“Mother is also well.”

Barakas took note of her use of the term. The Lady Ariela Zeree was not Sharissa’s mother; she was not even a Vraad, but an elf from this world. Dru’s daughter had never really known her birth mother, though, and she had come to care for the elf so much that it seemed only natural to call her father’s mate mother. Barakas hid the distaste he felt. The elf was a lesser creature, wife of Zeree or not. She did not belong among the Vraad.

He realized that Sharissa was waiting for him to say something more. It disturbed him that he found himself drifting off so much more of late. Had it something to do with the white hair he had discovered of late… or the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes?

“Lady Sharissa, you know a little about those creatures, don’t you?” Lochivan suddenly asked. He did not have to elaborate as to what creatures he referred to. Everyone knew he meant the Faceless Ones.

The Lord Tezerenee glanced at his younger son, but held his peace.

“I know a bit.” She was cautious. Like most of the Vraad, she was ever wary of their desire for domination. Barakas wanted very much to assure her that she need not have worried; there was already a place for her among them. Such vitality and power could not be wasted.

“Have they shown any purpose? Do their actions mean anything at all? All they do is stare… if you can call it that, since they have nothing with which to stare! I keep thinking they know something. Fifteen years of staring must have some purpose! It’s gotten worse during this past year, too!”

She was interested; the patriarch could see that. Sharissa was interested in anything that had to do with her new world. “You noticed that? They seem more attentive of late; I thought that, too. I can’t think it means us any harm, however. They want us to thrive.”

Do they? Barakas wanted to ask. Again, as with so many other things, he held his tongue.

“What about your father? Dru works with them in their citadel. Surely, he knows more.”

Sharissa shook her head, sending fine hair cascading back and forth. Reegan was having trouble keeping his interest in her from growing too obtrusive. He had always had that trouble.

“Father always says it’s like working with a jigsaw puzzle with more than half the pieces missing. Somehow, they teach him things, but he never realizes it until afterward.” She smiled at Lochivan, seeming to forget for the moment that he was a Tezerenee. “It frustrates him no end.”

“I can imagine.”

The two of them talked to each other with an ease that stirred Barakas. The patriarch was truly the father of his people, having cultivated no less than fifteen sons and several daughters over the centuries… likely many more that he had forgotten about, too. Of those he recognized, the two most intelligent had proven bitter failures to him. Rendel had betrayed the clan, seeking his own way in the Dragonrealm. He had died, thanks to his own foolishness. His shadow, younger Gerrod, was no better. It occurred to him now that here was one who could fill the gap of knowledge the other two had left. He had only thought of Lochivan as superbly obedient, never intelligent. Yet…

Sharissa was glancing his way, and he wondered when she had turned her attention to him. She was now all artificial politeness again. He had slipped and allowed his thoughts to show, something he would have never forgiven any of his people for doing.

“If you will excuse me, I must prepare for an excursion. Someone came across one of the founders’ earlier settlements.”

“Oh?” Lochivan leaned forward. “Where?”

“Northeast. I must be going now. Good day to you all.” She nodded to the trio and departed at a pace that emphasized her sudden desire to be away from them.

Reegan’s pained expression reminded Barakas of a sick drake. Lochivan turned to his father the moment Sharissa was a fair distance away, and the two of them exchanged glances. Northeast was where Gerrod had, of late, made his home. It might be coincidence, but, then again, it might not be.

“Shake yourself out of that stupor, Reegan,” the Lord Tezerenee ordered at last. He then returned his attention to his other offspring. “Lochivan, I give you leave to depart. I know you, too, have things that you must attend to. Yes?”

It took only a moment for Lochivan, who had not had any duties to attend to, to understand what his progenitor was saying. He nodded. “I do. My thanks.”

The younger Tezerenee twisted the reins and urged his mount away from the other two. Barakas turned one last time to his eldest, his heir.

“Dragon’s blood, idiot! Snap out of it and come along! You can’t very well sit there mooning all day!” He had miscalculated Reegan’s desire for Sharissa. The last thing he needed was a lovesick hulk. When desire ruled, the mind became worthless-and with his eldest that was doubly so.

Reegan managed to stir himself, urging his mount to follow that of his father. Barakas hid his disgust under a mask of blandness. He should have known that Reegan’s words to Sharissa had not been born of any cunning but of true infatuation for the young Zeree.

His mind awhirl with thoughts concerning the future of his clan and the potential that Sharissa Zeree promised that future-if the patriarch had his way-Lord Barakas could not be faulted for not noticing yet a third of the featureless entities he so loathed. It watched the backs of the two Tezerenee grow smaller and smaller as they rode away, then, evidently losing interest, it turned and started off in the direction that Sharissa-then Lochivan-had gone.