“He?”
“The Crystal Dragon, of course.” Lord D’Farany walked past him, the verlok taking the opportunity to snarl at the blue man. D’Rance quickly followed, knowing how easy it might be to lose someone in this mire.
The floor of the tunnel was shifting beneath their feet, but where the blue man struggled to keep his balance, the Pack Master simply stepped here and there, moving along as if nothing were the matter. A misshapen tentacle of rock darted out from beside them, but somehow missed D’Farany. The northerner, on the other hand, was forced to duck, not an easy act when the ground beneath his feet continued to move.
He acts as if this is the way of the normal world! Could this be what he sees, yes? If so, it explained much about Ivon D’Farany.
Although nothing major impeded their blind trek, it was still with relief that the blue man entered the chamber some minutes later. Relief and curiosity, for he immediately saw that the crystalline room was not touched as the others were. There was no fog even though the tunnel just beyond was dank and impossible to navigate by sight alone. For once, the sentries posted here must have felt themselves fortunate, he thought.
The Pack Leader, oblivious to all else, leaned over the Quel device and visibly sighed. Removing his gloves, he tenderly touched the various crystals in the arrangement, finishing with his own addition.
“Where is Orril?”
“I regret, my lord, that I do not know where he is.” He is hopefully lost forever. D’Rance knew he could not be so fortunate. D’Marr would likely show his blank little face at the worst possible time.
“No matter.” The former keeper began to activate the magical creation.
Interest was overcoming uncertainty. He had watched closely as Lord D’Farany had become quickly adept at the use of the diggers’ tool. Watching the raider leader had been a learning experience, although soon he would not need to watch. Still, if Lord D’Farany had a plan to disperse the dank and decay-filled mist, then there were still things the blue man could learn from him. “If I may, my lord, you have a plan, yes? What will you do, please?”
He did not catch the fascinated smile on the Pack Leader’s crystal-illuminated countenance but the tone and the words were enough. “I have no plan, Kanaan. I’m simply going to play.”
D’Rance suddenly found himself envying the men on the surface. They only had the fog to fear.
X
In a place where darkness was unchallenged by light, a sleeper long undisturbed stirred briefly to sluggish life . . .
They were able to move mountains, create castles from nothing. A world had been theirs to play with and they had played ever so hard, tearing that world asunder and making it into a reflection of their own, uncaring souls.
Plool gazed down on Cabe in what appeared to be expectation. At least, Cabe thought so; the wide-brimmed hat still obscured the upper part of his incredibly narrow face. Everything about the odd figure was a parody of humanity, but the warlock found no humor in the other’s physical appearance. Plool was a creature-an inhabitant-of dreaded Nimth. Worse, he had to be Vraad, one of the terrible race of sorcerers that had created the madness of Nimth in the first place.
“You are a curious creature,” the macabre figure pronounced. “In a curious world. How curious.”
He still spoke in the peculiar, singsong tone he had used earlier, but he changed his pattern of speech now and then, almost as if it were a game with him. Plool seemed of a whimsical nature in many ways, which did not necessarily mean that Cabe could relax. Whimsy had its dark side, especially where the Vraad were concerned. From his notes he had gathered that the race of sorcerers had had a dark sense of humor.
“Tell me, curious creature, your name?”
“Cabe. Cabe Bedlam.”
“Bedlam. I like that. I am Plool.”
The warlock nodded a cautious greeting, deciding that it would be better not to mention to Plool that he had already introduced himself. So far, the Vraad was acting quite civilized with him, but he was not about to forget that Plool had slowly and quite casually burned a hole through the Aramite officer’s chest using a medallion that should have been resistant to most sorcery. The nightmarish mage was of a highly capricious nature and anything Cabe said might be enough to set him off. As long as the foul mist of Nimth surrounded him, it behooved the warlock to stay on the madcap figure’s good side.
If that was possible.
“Where is Darkhorse?”
“The black beast? Following my imagination, the black beast is. Following my imagination the better so that we may speak. He, I understand. A thing of chaos, a thing that is not what he seems. You . . . you are different.”
Different? “I’m simply who I am, Great Plool.”
“And that is why you are so different! You are so much what you seem, so . . . constant. Constant you are, never changing. Yet, how long will you last, Bedlam?” Plool’s head shifted under the vast hat. He appeared to be observing the shrouded landscape around him for the first time. “This is a new place; I’ve not seen its like formed before. Not ever, ever not. Will it stay long?”
Cabe had no idea what the other was referring to and so kept silent.
“All so . . . still. Quite a different little variation, with all you ephemerals running around and the land so unchanging. Like you . . . a novel thing.”
Unchanging? The wary spellcaster tried to recall what else he had gleaned from his research on the Vraad and the ancestral world of Nimth. There was very little, but one other thing that had been hinted at was that in the violent, magic-tossed realm, everything, including the creatures who lived there, faced dismal and horrific existences in which they were twisted and reshaped almost continuously. Nimth was supposed to be a world ever decaying, ever collapsing. Yet, it still existed even now.
The ground beneath his feet suddenly burst upward.
Cabe barely had time to stumble and readjust his balance before he found himself on a column of earth nearly the height of Plool’s rocky seat. The column then began to twist and turn, drawing the warlock closer and closer to the madcap creature. Girding himself, Cabe did nothing to prevent or even slow his journey. If Plool had wanted to cause him harm, he would have done so. It was more likely that he simply wanted to better study the young warlock.
The column came to a halt just before the Vraad. Cabe noted that Plool had worked it so that even at full height the warlock would be a head shorter than the seated Nimthian.
“You are a most peculiar-looking piece of work,” Plool commented. How he saw anything from under that hat was a miracle. “Everything’s so orderly. Would you like me to change that? It must be awful for you. Awful it must be.”
“Thank you, but I’m happy with the way I am.” The words flew from Cabe’s lips. The dark-haired sorcerer tried to hide his anxiety. He did not even want to imagine what the Vraad might have in mind. A form like his? Never!
“Are you certain?” As he spoke, Plool at last lifted his head enough for the warlock to view the rest of his narrow face.
Cabe almost gasped aloud. It was only with the best of efforts that he prevented himself from stepping back in shock and possibly falling from his perch.
Only in Nimth could Plool have become possible. The lower half of his countenance, while peculiar, was not overly unusual. Even the nose, long, narrow, and pointed now, was within the realm of reason.
But the eyes . . .
Both were set on the left side of his face.
They were positioned one right atop the other, like some madman’s portrait. On the right side of the face, there was a blank area of skin where the one eye should have been. Had he been born that way or was it a later legacy of Nimth?
The eyes blinked. Once over the sight of the lids closing and opening in unison, Cabe discovered another peculiarity about them. Around the pupil, they looked almost crystalline, so crystalline, in fact, that they probably glittered in sunlight.
The disconcerting eyes were fixated on him.
“You and yours are a strange sight; a strange sight you are. So much is strange this day. When I saw the hole, I could not be but curious, yes, curious I could not help but be. Where did it lead? Where had it come from? There are so many things of wonder in my world, but this . . . I think this is not Nimth.”
Cabe remained silent.
The eyes blinked again. “The hole. It pulled me in and I found myself here. Then it was gone. Why is that, do you think?”
The warlock shook his head. He had ideas, all involving wolf raiders and Dragon Kings, but he was not about to relay any of them to Plool. The less the bizarre mage knew, the better.
Plool rose, at the same time extending the height of the earthen column so that Cabe was still a head shorter. The odd-looking figure stood atop the formation and once more gazed around at the mist-covered land. It was still impossible to see beyond a few yards, yet the Vraad studied his surroundings as if the fog did not even exist.
“And so where am I, Bedlam? Where has the great Plool, Plool the Great, found himself? What do you call this little place?”
“This is Legar.” The answer was safe enough. It told Cabe’s companion nothing, which was all he wanted Plool to ever know. Somehow, there had to be a way to return him to Nimth.
“Legarrrrr . . .” The spiderlike figure mulled over the word. His crystalline eyes closed for a time. When he opened them again, they were even brighter and livelier than before. “An amusing name.”
“Great Plool, if I may ask you a question?”
He almost preened himself. “You may do so.”
“Where was this hole you came through?”
Plool looked sly. “Trying to rid yourself of my presence?”
Cabe actually was, but he was not going to admit that to the Vraad. “I share your curiosity about things, about your world.”
The answer satisfied Plool. He nodded, thankfully obscuring his unnerving eyes, and responded, “I like you, Bedlam. Would you like to see the hole?”
“If it is safe.”
The Vraad shrugged, chuckling all the while. “What is safe, Bedlam?”
Cabe blinked. They now stood atop the peak of one of Legar’s taller hills. The warlock looked down and saw nothing but the dire mist; he was on the edge of a precipice. Cabe quickly backed away, only to bump into Plool, who floated, legs crossed in a sitting position, just high enough to gaze down at the young mage.
“Sweet, sweet Nimth,” the spiderlike Vraad nearly sang. “Your loveliness envelops all . . . and chokes it to death.”
He doesn’t sound very eager to return. I hope there’s no trouble. Somehow I have to convince him to leave. “I don’t see the hole, Great Plool. Where was it?”
“The hole is closed, but the door remains.”
“And the door?”
“Below us.”
Cabe turned his gaze downward once more and saw only murk. He could not even see the rest of the hill, merely a few feet of earth below them. Fog obscured the rest. “Down there?”
“Yes, here.”
Every muscle in the warlock’s body grew painfully taut as he once again found himself transported to another location. Plool had a habit of teleporting others from one spot to another without warning, something that Shade had often done and even Darkhorse still did without thinking. Cabe had never liked being pulled along in the past and he certainly did not like it now.
They were down in the murky soup he had just been observing from above. From where he stood now, Cabe could not see the top of the hill. How high did the fog go? All the way to the sun?
He reminded himself that it was not the fog that mattered. For now, he needed to concentrate on the magical doorway that had allowed all of this, including his erstwhile Vraad companion, to enter unchecked.
The object of his desire lay between them. A sphere. At first, Cabe studied it with some confusion. He had expected a portal or a tear in reality. Certainly not a glass ball. It looked more like a container than a doorway.
“Can I touch it?”
“If you like.”
He did. A mild shock made him pluck his hand back. Plool chuckled. Cabe steeled himself and reached out again. The same mild shock coursed through him, but it was only momentary. Slowly he ran his hands over the artifact. It was not glass after all, but crystal. There was also still something inside. The mage could not be certain, but it appeared to be more fog.
“This is how you came to be here?”
There was a hint of annoyance in the Vraad’s voice. “This is how I came to be here; I came to be here because of this. Do you want to ask again, Bedlam?”
“I’m sorry,” he quickly responded, “it just amazes me.”
Plool squatted. His legs seemed to be built for that. He now resembled the spider again or perhaps a spider and a frog combined. The round torso was so great in girth that it was a wonder the spindly legs could maintain such a balance, yet they did. “Came I through this little sphere, Bedlam, but the opening was much more vast. When I saw what had been the cause and it tried to fly away, I brought it down to this spot and with my might forced it to the ground. It stays there now until I deign to release it to its master.”
To its master . . . There was only one being that Cabe could think of who might have been responsible. Certainly not the wolf raiders. Now he was certain that it could only have been the Crystal Dragon.
But why? This seemed a strange defense for a leviathan who had turned the might of the Ice Dragon back. It was, for all its strength, a rather halfhearted and in most ways foolish sort of attack. Cabe was certain that he, in the Dragon King’s position, could have devised more than a score of countermeasures much more efficient and less haphazard than the unleashing of Nimthian decay. What happened if the deadly mist became permanent? Might it not also spread?
He sighed. Why was nothing ever simple? It was terrible enough that he had been forced to come here and seek out both the lord of Legar and the Aramites, but now he had the fog and a Vraad to deal with.
The Dragonrealm does like to play with us, doesn’t it?
Thinking of that, he suddenly had a wary thought. Plool would not know the lay of the land, but he might know enough about this region in general to answer a few questions. “Great Plool, are we far from where we first met?”
“Nothing is far away . . . but Nimth now.”
So perhaps the answers would not be forthcoming for now. Trust Plool to speak in riddles and poetry. Standing, Cabe studied what little he could see of the hill formation. The one thing he was certain of was that he was high in the sky. These hills were the closest Legar had to true mountains and only some arbitrary decision by ancient mapmakers had prevented them from falling into the other category. He could recall only one area in all the peninsula where such high hills were located. If his estimates were correct, and it was still quite possible they were not thanks to the concealing fog, then he was in a region very near the underground city of the Quel and the caverns where he suspected the Crystal Dragon’s clans made their home. That would also put him near enough to the shoreline of the peninsula, which meant that the wolf raiders, too, might be his neighbors.
This is not what I had in mind when I began this journey. He looked at Plool. Could he convince him to leave Legar? The hills of Esedi would be the most likely place to reunite with Darkhorse, although what the demon steed and the Vraad would do when faced with each other worried him. Darkhorse he was certain he could calm, but the madcap figure beside him was more unpredictable. He had clearly been responsible for separating the two.
Cabe saw no other choice. His best chances for putting a finish to all these matters lay in combining his skills with those of Darkhorse and Plool, the latter because of his ability to work and exist in the Nimthian mist. Cabe also wanted Darkhorse with him in order to keep a better eye on the Vraad. True, the ebony stallion was weakened by the very fog that Plool thrived in, but between the two of them they should be able to keep him in check. The warlock hoped it would not come to
that, however. Plool was not evil, not exactly; his was simply a different world. He might be willing to help if only because he found the situation entertaining.
“Great Plool, there is another place we should go, a place where there is someone I hope to meet. I think you’ll find it a fascinating place, so alive with stability and so unchanging.” I begin to sound like him.
“The black beast. You hope to meet him.”
He had been careful not to mention Darkhorse, but Plool had made the connection regardless. “His name is Darkhorse. He means no harm to you.” I hope! “He is my friend and companion on this journey.”
Indignation. “I am Plool! I do not fear anything! I can create castles in the air! I can make monsters from mud!”
“I didn’t mean-”
The indignation vanished, to be replaced by curiosity. “But so much . . . unchanging . . . not even Nimth has created such!” The eyes blinked. “I will enjoy this world . . . yesss . . . I will come with you and see this place, talk to the hole, too. The hole I will talk to, this Darkhorse!”
“Good,” Cabe returned once he had pieced his way through the Vraad’s quick and confusing words. The warlock had no idea what he would do if Darkhorse was not there. Return to Legar with Plool, he supposed. Not to this location, however. Better to choose one of those he was vaguely familiar with from long ago. Plool appeared willing to listen to him, although who knew why, and with the Vraad to aid him he should be able to find a better place to materialize than here.
First, however, he had to find a way to get Plool to teleport the two of them to Esedi. The Vraad had been quite agreeable so far to teleporting them from one place to another. Maybe he would do so again. Cabe did not want to risk his own sorcery if he could avoid it, not here in this malevolent mist. “Master Plool, if you could be so kind-”
The eerie figure executed a bow, an act that, considering his shape, bordered on the absurd. “I am ever benevolent to those in need; to those in need benevolent I ever am.”
“My gratitude. First let me-”
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III Page 19