Legends of the Dragonrealm Volume 2

VII

“Gerrod.”

He looked up at his sudden guest, the enveloping hood masking any surprise he felt at the newcomer’s intrusion.

“Master Dru.”

In the light that did succeed in invading the hut, Dru Zeree was a fearful sight. Gerrod’s eyes narrowed. The sorcerer’s hair was going gray, and there were lines across his visage. He was worn out from something, yes, but Gerrod recognized something else, something that those who saw the elder Zeree every day would not pay so much attention to because they themselves were probably suffering a similar fate.

The sorcerer was aging. Not at so great a pace as the Tezerenee was, but aging nonetheless. Gerrod shivered. It was yet another confirmation of his fears about this land. Still, the warlock could not help thinking selfishly, Master Zeree has at least had the luxury of enjoying a healthy life span of a few thousand years or so. Why is it I who is cheated?

“I need your help, Tezerenee. You know him better than I, and I think you have the ingenuity that will enable you to follow him wherever he has taken her.”

The warlock shifted, knowing he looked more like a bundle of cloth than a man. He did not care. The cloak and hood allowed him to withdraw from the world for a time. His few visitors also tended to believe that his appearance was designed to unsettle them. “You might explain a little what that statement is supposed to mean to me.”

Dru sighed, trying to remain calm. “Barakas has Sharissa. I’m sure of it.”

Despite his best efforts, Gerrod could not prevent himself from jerking to attention. “What do you mean? Does he think he can hold her in his private little kingdom? My sire has always been mad, but not stupid! What’s happened? Is it civil war at last?”

His visitor waved him to silence. “Let me… let me explain better.” Dru visibly collected his thoughts. “At some point probably three days ago, Sharissa and Darkhorse vanished…” He shook his head. “You don’t know of Dark-horse, do you? I suppose I have to explain him-”

“I know him. Continue on.”

A puzzled look flashed across Dru’s visage, vanishing the instant he resumed his tale. “They disappeared. No one noticed until the next day. I should have, but Sharissa often lost herself in projects lasting through the night. As for Darkhorse, the pocket universe supporting Sirvak Dragoth seems to dull my perceptions of his presence. It wasn’t until I left the citadel and returned to this world that I noticed his absence. Soon after, people began asking about Sharissa. I found she had ridden out of the city in this direction-”

“She visited me. That was how I knew of your Darkhorse.” Gerrod mouthed the words with care, not wanting Sharissa’s father to know just how upset he was becoming. The sorcerer might then wonder why this Tezerenee would be so torn over his daughter’s disappearance. They were known to be friends, of course, but still…

“She returned from that visit. I found that out later on. After questioning a few more trustworthy souls, I learned she was last known to be at work in her chambers. Someone said I should look for a man named Bethken, who had evidently sought Sharissa out for some reason, but I couldn’t find him. His quarters were empty. Anything he could have carried was gone.”

“You think he’s under my father’s protection.”

Dru took a deep breath. Gerrod knew that the worst was yet to come, and he had to admire the elder Zeree’s ability to remain coherent throughout what must surely be an ordeal of the greatest magnitude for him. “I journeyed to the eastern sector of the city, not wanting to believe the patriarch would do something so foolish, but rumors, substantial ones, kept insisting otherwise.” The sorcerer shook his head. “I’ll not go over what I discovered concerning Darkhorse, save that I think he fell to your clan also. His disappearance… total disappearance…”

He touched his temple, indicating that Darkhorse was beyond even his higher senses. Gerrod had already suspected that. He, too, had noted the absence of the creature upon waking that morning. Not knowing any better, he had merely assumed that Darkhorse had departed on some exploration with Sharissa. It would not have been at all surprising. She hated teleportation, and the phantom steed gave her a way of crossing distances in little time.

Gerrod looked up and saw Dru anxiously waiting for him to digest what had already been told. “And what did my father say about all this? I assume he gave you some imperious speech.”

“The sector was empty. They were all gone.”

“What?” In his shock, the warlock knocked over a sheaf of notes, spilling them on the stone floor he had so carefully constructed for this, his latest abode. He ignored the scattered sheets. “What do you mean? Gone? Preposterous!” Yet, despite his words, Gerrod recalled his own past and how swift the clan could be when it desired to move from one location to another. It was one of many aspects of his father’s constant war games, the need to move while the enemy was distracted.

Move over a thousand people during the dead of night? The patriarch would hardly leave his followers behind, not if he was planning a new empire. “Where did they go? East seems likely.”

“I can’t say for certain. Darkhorse’s presence could very well be shielded from me, I suppose.” The elder Zeree was tired, so very tired. Gerrod could sympathize, being just as driven in his own way. If anyone knew of his research and the hope and fear some of it stirred inside him, they might be tempted to put an end to the warlock… or praise him as a hero to his folk. Gerrod had no desire for either destiny. He was not even comfortable with his great discoveries. They promised death as much as they promised life.

“They must have left some trail!” There was something amiss. Something more that the master mage had not yet revealed to him.

He was given the answer almost immediately. “There is a trail, a vague and possibly false one, but I lack the ability to follow it to its conclusion. I told you about my time in the Void and how I finally escaped, didn’t I?”

“You are surely not suggesting…”

“Darkhorse can open… paths… into other realms. He did so for me that once.” Dru’s features relaxed for a moment as his memories surfaced, then, recalling his daughter’s predicament, the sorcerer continued. “I may be crazy, but it explains why I can find no trace. I’ve searched east as far as I dare, but I’ve known from the start that they didn’t head that way. No, I think that perhaps because they held Sharissa, Barakas was able to force Darkhorse to create a path for the Tezerenee to march through-a path I believe must extend, not to anywhere on this continent, but to a domain the patriarch hasn’t been able to forget despite the last fifteen years.”

“The Dragonrealm.” Gerrod said the name his companion could not, the cold tone in his voice much like the tone he might have used greeting his father, the clan master. It was almost too much to accept, but it was so very like the elder Tezerenee to plot such madness and make it work. Paths beyond this world that led to the Dragonrealm. His father, after years of bitter loss, at last having the means by which to build himself a grand empire. The magic of the creature called Darkhorse doing so easily what, to the warlock, was a feat even the Vraad at their most powerful would have had difficulty in performing.

Sharissa stolen.

“Will you help me?” Dru asked in expectation.

“What is it you want of me?”

“A way to follow them. I know you, of anybody, must have some theory. Silesti and I have more than enough volunteers. This time, the drake and his children will be made to pay!” The sorcerer’s hands crackled with power.

Gerrod marveled at the power before him even as he was revolted by it. Each time Sharissa had come to visit him, he could not help thinking how this same power had, under the control of the founders, made creatures like the Seekers from men who had once resembled the Vraad.

“You seem far more capable than I in this matter,” he pointed out. “If anyone has the ability, it’s you.”

The glow faded with an abruptness that made Gerrod blink. Dru put his face in his hands. “I can’t! Nothing I know is sufficient!”

“Your blank-faced allies-”

“Walk about as if all is right in the world! If I had less faith, I might believe they were, in part, responsible for no one finding out until after it was too late! A thousand souls and who knows how many drakes and other animals… and they vanished overnight!”

Recalling how their sorcerous servants had acted toward the creature from the Void, in the end exiling him for what was supposed to be forever, the warlock did not doubt that, from the first, the not-people had seen Darkhorse as an agent of chance disturbing their carefully crafted experiment. It was not beyond his imagination to visualize their pleasure at the shadow steed’s sudden departure. That Sharissa had also been taken was merely incidental.

Gerrod knew his belief in this was built on his own distaste for the featureless beings, but he cared not a whit. They were, in his eyes, the enemy. It was one of the few opinions he shared with his former clan.

He stared for a time at the one Vraad other than Sharissa he had truly come to admire. Dru ran his hands through his graying hair, the silver streak somehow remaining unmussed throughout the motion. Gerrod realized that Dru had probably not slept since discovering that Sharissa’s disappearance coincided with the departure of the Tezerenee. There was even enough worry left over for the monster the mage called friend, although Gerrod was only mildly interested in the ebony stallion’s fate. It was Sharissa who mattered.

The warlock came to a decision. It was not one Gerrod liked, but, he admitted, it was the only choice he could have ever made. “I may be able to do something. I need five days.”

“Five days.” There was no life in the master mage’s voice when he spoke. Dru Zeree was no doubt thinking what could happen in five days. His daughter might be dead or, as far as Gerrod was secretly concerned, suffering a fate worse than death.

Becoming a Tezerenee through marriage to one of his siblings, likely Reegan.

It was no secret that the patriarch coveted her abilities. He was likely convinced that she would pass her powers down through her children-a possibility to be considered, the warlock admitted to himself. Dru saw Sharissa as only a hostage for Darkhorse’s cooperation, which was just as likely. Given time to recover his reason, he would recall the second choice, too. By then, however, Gerrod hoped circumstances would change.

“Five days, yes. I want you to do something for me during that time.”

“What?”

Gerrod leaned forward, whispering as if the two of them were being watched… and who could say for certain that they were not? “Keep a careful eye on the not-people. Note what they do and do not do. Observe what they observe.”

“What is it you expect me to find?” Given a task, Dru Zeree was restored to life. His love for his daughter was a weakness, but Gerrod knew that it could also be strength. Yet, where he himself was concerned, the warlock thought love was fine, but not when it went so deep that it prevented one from thinking straight. He considered himself fortunate that he had never reached such an extreme. Those who cared too much, be it for one of their own blood or even a lover, tended to allow themselves to be drawn into foolhardy predicaments.

“It is too soon to say,” he said, finally responding to the other’s question. The warlock was sincerely thankful that his visage was more or less obscured from the other Vraad. It would not do for Dru to see his expression at this moment. “Trust me that it’s necessary.”

“All right.”

“There is no more to say, then. Good day to you, Master Zeree.” Gerrod turned away and pretended to reorganize his notes. He heard Dru shift for a moment, as if the latter was uncertain how to handle the curt dismissal. Gerrod continued to play with the sheets until the silence had stretched more than a minute. At last, with a casual air, he turned back to where Dru had stood. The sorcerer was nowhere to be seen. The warlock shook his head. For all his ability, Dru Zeree was helpless without Gerrod’s aid. Under other circumstances, it might even have been comical.

Rising, he began to search among his few belongings for a box he had stolen, unbeknownst to either Zeree, from their citadel back in Nimth. Master Zeree might realize that the request for five days was a ploy, although the warlock doubted that. It was best to begin now, however, on the off chance that the sorcerer might return early for another reason. If so, Dru would find that Gerrod had exaggerated a bit about the time he needed for preparations. Not five days, but rather five minutes. Five minutes or not at all… if he succeeded in finding the box he sought.

Gerrod pulled aside a ragged bit of cloth that had once been a bag and stared down at his prize. He picked up the box gently and carried it over to the floor, opening it even as he knelt.

The warlock mouthed a few nonsensical syllables as he surveyed the contents, the sounds acting as a memory trigger that slowly began awakening the power that slumbered within him. From the box, he picked out a single perfect crystal, a prize from Dru Zeree’s lost collection. You will do for a focus, I think. What, he wondered, would the other Vraad do if they knew that he had recaptured some of what they had lost in crossing over? What would they offer him for a return to at least a shadow of their glory days, their days of godhood?

What would they offer him for the chance to truly call upon Vraad sorcery without draining their own lifeforce?

Nothing he wanted.

His nose began to itch. Gerrod sniffed the air. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he had returned to Nimth. The same sweet, decaying smell permeated everything. It was always so when he dared to awaken the link he had wrought. The seemingly impenetrable barrier that the founders’ sorcerous servants had placed around Nimth had finally given in to his onslaught, albeit at great cost. Gerrod could now draw strength from the world of his birth and use it in this one rather than burn away his own lifeforce as his brethren did. However, there were limits. Even though he had breached the barrier, the warlock could not widen it. He had tried more than once, risking the contamination that Vraad sorcery spread in small doses over his new homeland… and himself. Perhaps it was even some subconscious hesitation on his own part that made him fail to open the breach further; he could not say.

Still, it was not enough. With time, he suspected he could extend his life span, but not truly give himself the immortality he had come to desire. There had to be another way.

What if one could bind the sorceries of the two realms together…? Gerrod found himself abruptly wondering. He swore at himself and forced such dangerous notions from his mind. He would save Sharissa and the creature Darkhorse and that would be the end of it. His other goals, his dreams, would have to wait for a different solution. To touch upon the lifeforce of this domain would be tantamount to surrendering to it the way the others were, one by one. It would also open him to a fate worse than dying-becoming a monster like the Seekers.

The Tezerenee knew he was stalling, that he was, deep inside, afraid to take the final steps.

“Sharissa.” His own blood held her prisoner. The lord drake and his children. His father. His father had Sharissa.

Gerrod slammed the crystal onto the floor, knowing it would take harsher treatment than that to crack the artifact. Afraid he might be, but he would hold back no longer. If nothing else, the warlock would go through with the rescue, not just for the sake of the woman, but to shatter the arrogant dreams of his former people… and especially his not-so-dear father.

He smiled as he thought the last.

“That was not there when we came this way,” Rayke commented.

“Yes, I think I would have noticed it,” Faunon retorted. He reprimanded himself immediately after, knowing that Rayke’s statement was born of un-certainty, possibly even a little fear. Faunon could not blame him or any of the others for that fear; his own rash reply had sprung from the same emotion.

“Where did it come from?” one of the others asked. The elfin leader was certain each and every member of the party had asked the same question over the last hour.

Well? he asked himself. Where did it come from?

They peered through the woods at the huge stone citadel, a masterful yet oppressive piece of building. It looked massive enough to house a few thousand folk, and its principal tower rose so high into the air that Faunon almost wondered if it overlooked some of the lesser mountain peaks. He knew the last was only a trick of the eye, but still…

“No elf ever built something like that! No Seeker, either!” Rayke’s hand squeezed the grip of his sword.

“Not in only a few days’ time.”

“Look there!” whispered a younger elf to Faunon’s right.

A drake rose into the sky. The elves shunned the creatures out of principle; they were ill-tempered monsters who tended to try to take bites out of anything that moved. Drake meat was not all that tasty, either. It was not the beast that caught their attention, however, but what journeyed with the draconian horror.

“Someone rides it!” Rayke blurted. His eyes grew large. Faunon stared in wonder at the rider. It was roughly the size of an elf, though much more massive. The dark green armor it wore blended with the skin of the drake, making the two almost seem like one. A ferocious helm that mirrored the toothy visage of the mount obscured the rider’s features. Faunon was not even certain the newcomer resembled anything approaching elf. While it appeared to be shaped akin to the members of the expedition, the same could have been said of the avians or the Quel.

“There is another one!” someone else whispered.

“More than one,” Faunon corrected. Behind the second duo came a third and a fourth. “It is a patrol.”

“We should leave here, Faunon!”

“They might find us any moment-”

“Be silent!” Rayke hissed. “Lest you help them find us all the sooner!” Faunon’s second turned to him. “What do you say? Do we leave or do we risk it longer? This must certainly be of interest to the elders!”

“But not at the cost of our own lives. We should move farther back and to the west. We will find thicker cover there, but a much better view.”

The party took heart from his rapid decision. Faunon hoped they felt calmer than he did. This was hardly what he had expected. When he had asked himself who would be the future rulers of this domain, he had hardly expected the answer so soon. It was very obvious that these newcomers had arrived with the intention of conquering themselves an empire. Sooner or later, they would cross paths with the elves. It behooved the party to discover what they could of these potential-potential?… certain! — adversaries.

Moving with a silence that would have done them proud even among their own kind, the elves abandoned their position. A good thing, too, Faunon saw. The route the flyers were taking would soon bring them too near the elves’ former location. Had the group stayed where they were, the patrol would have seen them from the sky.

Against aerial combatants, Faunon knew his men had no chance. It would take more than a few arrows to pierce the hides of the drakes and, judging by the skill with which the armored figures controlled their beasts, trying for an eye or mouth would be nearly impossible. The newcomers did not wear their armor purely for show; they moved like warriors born.

Time passed far more quickly than the elfin leader would have preferred. He glanced back and saw that the drakes had not yet reached the abandoned position. That struck him as a little odd. Their pattern of flight should have brought them over the wooded area by this time. It was that danger that had made moving quickly so critical.

Rayke came up beside him, trying to make out whatever it was that disturbed his companion. “What is it? Have they seen us?”

“It could be nothing…”

They heard a faint crackling in the woods to the east. To Faunon, it sounded like a death knell… for all of them.

“Ready yourselves!” he whispered. “They are coming for us!”

More than a dozen toothy monstrosities, each carrying one of the armored figures, burst through the woods not more than a breath or two after his warning. That was time enough for the elves, however. Arrows flew from those who had carried bows, striking at the forerunners. Each struck a vital part of some rider’s body, but, unfortunately, the armor proved too strong. Even tinged with elfin magic, the shafts only bounced off, save one lucky strike that went through one of the eye holes of the nearest rider. The figure fell backward, dead in that same instant, but his stirrups would not allow him to fall off and so he bobbed up and down like some macabre puppet while his mount kept pace with its brethren.

“Archers! Mounts first!” Faunon knew the riding drakes could not be maneuvered so well this close. The trees and bushes worked to his advantage for the moment, but soon the drakes would be close enough to make use of their talons and teeth. He wanted them dead before that.

Though the results were, for the moment, unseen and unfelt, a second battle had also progressed. Elfin magic met a sorcery that felt so vile, so self-destructive, that Faunon wondered what sort of creatures they fought. He had hoped his men would have an advantage there, but such was not to be. At the moment, the two warring magics were at a stalemate, though how long that would last was anybody’s guess. Faunon suspected the tide would not be turning in the elves’ favor. Already he could feel the strain on his mind, and he was only shielding, not attacking, with his somewhat lesser sorcerous ability.

The riders were being forced to spread their line because of the trees. An arrow burst the eye of one drake, causing the draconian horror to halt in its charge and seek in vain to remove the cause of its pain. The rider struggled for control.

We have a chance! Faunon thought as he readied himself for the first attacker.

He heard the beating of wings above him and knew they did not belong to the Sheekas.

The aerial patrol had known their position all the time. “We have been tricked!” With a sinking feeling, Faunon watched the drakes descend even as those on the ground continued to surge forward. Of the dozen who had burst through the trees, two were dead. Nine riders still lived, but four of them were on foot. Perhaps if his men broke for the thicker foliage, they might be able to regroup and make a better stand there-

“Faunon! Watch your back!”

The voice was Rayke’s. Faunon rolled to one side and heard a whoosh! as one of the flying drakes soared upward again, its wicked claws thankfully empty.

Another elf was not so lucky. One of the archers, paying too much attention to the armored figures darting in and out of the trees, did not notice the diving horror until he was plucked from the ground. The hapless victim had only time for a short scream before the drake took his head in its massive maw and bit down.

Faunon turned away, wanting then to heave the contents of his stomach out. He fought the nauseating feeling, but only because he knew others might suffer while he was giving in to his lesser emotions. Better to turn those emotions to energy.

Watching the sky for any other threats, he moved into the trees to his right. The battle on the ground had been joined, with three of the attackers taking on their elfin counterparts in hand-to-hand. Riders on drakes rushed back and forth, chasing after elusive prey. Faunon’s men knew what he also knew but could not acknowledge. They would die here. Outnumbered and outflanked, they would perish, but not before taking out as many of the newcomers as possible. That was what the elfin leader planned, also.

The drake riders above had forgotten him in the chaos, his one attacker perhaps thinking his mount had slashed the elf to death even though it had not succeeded in grasping him. Whatever the case, Faunon was going to use his anonymity to his best advantage. If he could get behind the armored foes, he could come up on them one at a time and take them down until someone finally noticed him. It was not the most admirable way to fight, but Faunon had always been a pragmatist.

A drake came bounding toward his hiding place, but its rider was nowhere to be seen. Faunon held his sword ready, hoping he would not have to waste himself on the leviathan. Providing it did not kill him, the noise would certainly alert the enemy.

Fortunately, the wind was Faunon’s ally and the creature itself seemed more interested in flight than battle. Faunon saw why: one of its eyes was closed and bloody, and it was bleeding profusely from a neck wound. Part of the elfin blade that had performed what would be, in a matter of minutes, the killing stroke, still remained lodged in the wound. That meant its owner was probably dead. He hoped the unknown elf had at least killed the monster’s master.

He followed the bleeding drake’s path until it was safely away, started to turn his attention back to the task at hand, and then returned his gaze quickly to where the beast had vanished.

Barely visible among the trees was a trio of riders clad akin to the attacking force. These, however, sat and watched with a confidence that marked them as the leaders. One, as massive as any bear the elf had ever come across, even wore a crimson cloak. He and the others seemed to be watching the pitched battle with mild interest, nothing more.

Faunon decided to change his choice of targets.

The sounds of battle were beginning to die behind him as he made his way to the threesome. That meant the others were either dead or captured. Faunon was ashamed with himself for leaving them, even if it had been to try to inflict worse damage on their adversaries. Still, there was little he could have done once the airdrakes had joined the battle, and now he had a clear opportunity to deprive the invaders of hopefully one or more leaders. It was possible that these riders meant little in the hierarchy of their people, but it would make some of their kind a bit more wary of simply going out and slaughtering elves if they knew that they, too, were at risk.

“Get out of there!” someone barked.

Faunon jerked to a halt, thinking he had been discovered. A second later, a warrior on foot appeared, the sword in his left hand being used to prod the wounded drake ahead of him. They were moving in the same general direction as the elf. He held his breath and waited. Neither seemed particularly inclined to attentiveness, which was his only hope. It did lessen his chances of success, however. He wondered if there were more warriors lurking in the woods around him and if he could avoid them long enough to at least take one of the patrol leaders down.

The drake had stopped and was sniffing the air. The armored figure poked at it with his weapon. “Move or you’ll rot right here! Dragon’s blood, you’re a stupid one!”

A chill ran down Faunon’s spine as the drake turned and began to sniff the air in the elf’s direction.

The wind had started to change.

Unmindful of its cursing warden, the wounded animal started back. The elf readied his sword and, as an afterthought, tried to prepare a spell. While his higher senses were acute, his practical abilities were less than most of his kind.

It was why he could only shield himself with sorcery during a battle. Some, like Rayke, could do battle on both the magical and physical planes, and at the same time.

Slowing, the drake sniffed again. It was only a few yards away now. The armored guide joined it and tapped the beast’s side with the sword one more time. “Turn around!”

The drake swayed, its injuries draining more and more of its energy, but it would not turn. It hissed at the trees shielding Faunon from the sight of the warrior.

“Is there…” The armored figure grew silent, then studied the area that so interested the drake. Faunon knew his luck had run out.

“Lord Reegan! There’s one of them he-” The warning was cut off as the elf burst from his hiding place and jumped his discoverer. Raising his sword, the warrior tried to defend himself, but, not apparently expecting the reflexes of an elf, moved too slowly. Faunon pushed the blade aside and thrust at the place where the helm and the breastplate met. Unlike Rayke’s successful strike at the Draka, the elfin leader was unable to put the point of his weapon through his opponent’s throat. The blade cut a crimson trail across the one side of the warrior’s neck.

“Kill!” the armored figure shouted, his breath coming in gasps. He backed away, hands clutching at the wound and his helm, which had been shoved upward and was obscuring his vision.

Faunon had no time to finish him, for the drake, though dying, was still a deadly foe. It snapped at him, trying to avoid its handler as it shifted for better position. The elf jumped away, trying to keep close to the wounded warrior, who had, to the former’s surprise, fallen to his knees.

Somewhere, he knew, the three riders were converging on him, but he dared not take his eyes from his present predicament. The drake clawed at him, but weakness made it come up just short. Faunon tried to impale its one good eye, but the drake, perhaps having learned from the loss of the other eye, shied.

No longer needing to fear discovery, the elf unleashed a spell. It was a haphazard one, his first having been lost at some point in the battle, but he thought it might give him the precious seconds he needed.

A voice, coming from an invisible source behind the drake, commanded, “Back! Away from him! Now!”

The reptilian menace halted and sniffed the air. It was puzzled and uncertain.

“Back, I said!” The voice was that of the warrior whom Faunon had wounded. The warrior himself lay sprawled on the ground, blood over half his armor. Confused, the drake hissed at the world in general and remained where it was. Its limited mind could not comprehend that the tiny creature before it was playing it for a fool. The mimic spell that Faunon had cast was one he had used on occasion in the past to success. He carefully raised his sword, ready to try one last strike should the drake disobey the voice, as it had before, and charge the elf.

Panting, the wounded beast started to turn. Faunon began to slip back into the woods, hoping he still had a moment or two before the others came for him.

He screamed as a mind-numbing pain shot through his right side. Looking down, he saw an arrow protruding from his thigh.

“Well?” asked a gruff, disappointed voice. “Why don’t you finish it off?”

“The drake or the elf?” countered another. There was a convivial tone to this one’s voice, as if he might be as willing to offer Faunon a drink as he might be to kill him.

“What do we need the elf for?”

“Father will want him. You know he said he wanted a captive.”

Faunon’s entire body throbbed. He heard the sound of drakes trotting and looked up at his captors. It was, of course, the trio that he had been trying for before the wounded beast had given him away. The massive figure with the crimson cape was looking at a thinner warrior to his right who carried in one hand a bow. Behind both of them came the third. He evidently had a lesser place in the hierarchy, for his posture was that of one who is among his betters only by sufferance. All three still wore their helms. With all that had happened, Faunon still did not know what they looked like.

“We have that other one,” rumbled the bear.

“He will be dead before long, Reegan. I only wounded this one so he could not run. He should satisfy Father.”

The one called Reegan turned to the third member of their party and pointed at the limp, armored form by the weary drake. “See to him.”

Faunon was beginning to feel neglected. Had they forgotten he still had a sword? He held it before him, daring the one who had dismounted to come closer.

The calm rider shook his head. “Put that down. It will not do you any good.”

“Come to me and see!”

“I think… damn!” Reaching up, the armored figure took hold of his drag-oncrested helm and removed it. Faunon saw a pale visage that, if it struggled, might be called handsome in a poorly lit chamber. He studied the ears. Unlike an elf’s, they were rounded.

The eyes were the most disturbing feature. They were crystalline. He had never heard of such a thing. Beautiful but cold. Round where the elfin orbs were almond-shaped.

Could they be…

“Bothering you again, Lochivan?” the ursine rider asked. For the first time, Faunon noticed how that one’s helm had been designed so as to allow the heavy beard to flow free.

Lochivan was scratching at his neck. “I must be allergic to something here! It’s been worse since we crossed!”

The third rider, who had been inspecting the warrior sprawled in the grass, called out, “He’s dead. Blade severed the artery in his neck.”

“A good strike,” Reegan complimented. “Let me see your weapon.”

“You don’t think-” A force that nearly tore his fingers off yanked the long, narrow sword from his grasp. It went spiraling through the air, at last landing perfectly in the left hand of the massive warrior. Reegan turned and nodded to his companion, as if proud of what he had just accomplished.

“I told you. The power has returned to us. I don’t know how or why, but it has.” Lochivan had ceased his scratching. A vivid red mark covered his neck. He smiled slightly at the wounded elf, who was starting to sink to the ground from a combination of exhaustion, pain, and simple frustration. “Reegan is very fond of weapons,” he explained companionably. “More so than most Tezerenee.”

“Is that what you are… Tezerenee?” It was not a name familiar to Faunon, yet it filled him with relief. Their bearing, their arrogance, had reminded him of something else, some fearsome demon from stories that his mother had told him.

“We were born to the Tezerenee, the clan of the dragon,” Lochivan offered. He replaced his helm, and Faunon, studying it, could not help but be drawn by the eyes of the dragon. They matched those of the man who wore the helm. Lochivan indicated Reegan. “My brother and I. These others, they are Tezerenee by adoption; that is why they fight with less skill. All of us, however, are known together as the Vraad.” The warrior cocked his head in what might have been actual curiosity. “Being an elf, I thought you might have heard of us.”

Faunon pressed himself against the tree that was still, at least in theory, supporting him. He stared without hope at the two mounted riders.

“I think we can take that for a positive response,” Lochivan finally said. He glanced at the warrior standing ready by the corpse of his fellow.

“Bind him and drag him back to the citadel.”