Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III
Page 63
Of course, first he had to free his brother from the shock and paranoia Kyl now suffered.
“They tried to kill me, Grath! Thossse missserable humans! I should overrun them all when I am emperor! They cannot be trusssted, the furry ssscavengers . . . but . . .” Kyl’s face twisted into an expression of extreme uncertainty. “The regent gave hisss own life to sssave mine! I would have been murdered but for him!”
Faras and Ssgayn exchanged glances that Grath noted out of the edge of his eye. They were beginning to question both their emperor-to-be’s sanity and his bravery.
He put a brotherly hand on Kyl’s shoulder. “Now isss not the time to think about all of this, Kyl. The best thing to do right now is rest. You need rest. In only a few days, the Blue Dragon, representing the other Dragon Kings as well, will arrive in the Dagora Forest. He will want to question you. This will be your moment.”
To his astonishment, Kyl pushed him away. “I don’t care about the drake lord! If they cannot accept me asss emperor already, then I will make them come to me on bent knee!” A frightening glint came into the drake’s eyes. “Could it be that Blue or one of the other hesssitant onesss sssent thossse killers? They do all have their human agentsss, do they not, Grath?”
The last thing he wanted to encourage was a fear that the recalcitrant Dragon Kings might be trying to kill Kyl. True, it was a possibility that he had considered-only minutes before, in fact-but that was something that could be dealt with once Kyl and he gained the power of the Dragon Throne. The drake lords would be less inclined to attempt the assassination once his brother was officially their master.
Grath exhaled, trying to gather his thoughts together enough to give Kyl some sort of reassuring answer. The chaos in the arena had not been nearly so draining as trying to keep his brother in line. And he is to be the emperor?
He was still trying to decide what to do when there came a heavy knock upon the door. Faras stalked toward the door, weapon at the ready. Kyl, Grath was ashamed to see, actually drew back into his chair.
The guards tensed. Faras opened the door.
Relief washed over Grath as he saw who it was who had dared to join them.
Kyl looked up at the newcomer, still wary. “Ssscholar Trassske. You desssire something of me? I am rather busssy at the moment.”
“So I see,” remarked the tutor with obvious sarcasm. Grath knew that his brother had never heard the figure before him speak with such impudence. “Busy falling prey to your fears when you should be using them to strengthen you. A ruler must learn to control his weaknesses and make them work for him.”
“I don’t have time for your sss-”
Grath allowed himself a brief smile as Kyl broke off at the look on the massive figure’s face. At last there was someone who could make his brother see sense . . . and who else was better suited?
Benjin Traske ceased glaring at the heir to the dragon throne just long enough to deal with Kyl’s bodyguards. “Leave us.”
To Kyl’s astonishment-but not to Grath’s-Faras and Ssgayn bowed and hastily retreated from the chamber.
The dragon heir rose, intending to command the two to return, but Traske stepped directly in front of him. Kyl, trying to back away, fell into the chair.
“Things are moving much too swiftly now, but we can compensate. The death of the regent, while unexpected, does nothing to change the fact that you will be emperor in only a very short time. You survived the assassination, and now it will be almost impossible for whoever was responsible to attempt something else. I will see to assuring that.”
“You will see to that?”
“In whatever way is open to me, of course,” Traske corrected. “What is more important is to consider the next step you must take on the road to the throne. If I may suggest-”
This made Kyl laugh harshly. “Teacher, you are a human I admire, I freely admit that. Your advice I would generally find good, but you could not possssibly underssstand what I am going through. You do not underssstand the challenges, the myriad pitfalls, that I face in asssuming the throne of my kind.”
“Perhaps I understand more than you imagine. . . .”
“You would have to live through it yourssself. There isss no other way to underssstand it ssso well.”
Benjin Traske started to speak, then paused in consideration. At last, he simply said, “I can see that for now I am wasting my time here.”
He was leaving. Grath could not believe that. Here was the one being able to drag Kyl back to his feet and he was leaving without having even tried. “Teacher-”
Benjin Traske shook his head. “No, Grath. I will waste no time here. I can see that Kyl needs time to let his thoughts cool.” The huge figure loomed over the heir. “Then, Kyl, you and I will talk again. Much longer, this time.”
The heir had already slipped deeper into his chair. “I have no desire to do so.”
“You will.” Traske’s tone was such that Kyl could not help but straighten. It was the voice that had kept both drakes highly attentive throughout their lessons. It was a voice that brooked no disagreement, one that Grath knew his brother had not yet learned to control completely and probably never would.
Benjin Traske turned to leave, the issue of Kyl’s permission negligible under the circumstances, but then paused. He glanced first at Grath, then at Kyl, to whom he added, “You will be emperor. You will be strong. We will see to that.”
The dragon heir glanced up. His gaze did not leave the figure of the scholar until Traske had closed the door behind him. Then, Kyl simply turned to stare at one of the walls. Grath remained where he was, silent as the night. When Faras and Ssgayn returned, he indicated silence, then pointed where he wanted them positioned. They obeyed him without a sound.
Kyl continued to stare at the wall, but from where Grath stood, it was possible for the younger drake to see the look on his elder brother’s visage. Still brooding, but now Kyl was at least thinking. It was the first stage to recovery.
“Grath? What do you think of our esssteemed tutor?”
How to phrase it best? Grath hesitated, then responded, “He came here to see you made emperor, brother. He is not the kind to let years of work go for naught. When he says that you will be emperor, he means it.”
“Ssso I felt.” The dragon heir hissed. “I sssometimesss wish that Toma had sssucceeded our sssire after all. He would have brooked no threat from asssasssin or king, human or drake.”
“There isss much to admire in Toma,” Grath ventured. “He was loyal to our sire.”
“Ssso I was thinking.”
The young drake smiled at such a response, but only because his brother could not clearly see his face. Faras and Ssgayn could, but they were of no consequence; they knew their places.
“Perhaps, when you are emperor, you will be able to arrange to talk with him.”
The notion made Kyl blink. “I could do that, couldn’t I?”
“As emperor, who would stop you?”
“Who, indeed?”
Behind the emperor-to-be, Grath allowed himself another smile.
XVI
Cabe frowned as the night aged. The evidence he had hoped to find had failed to turn up, but still the warlock could not abandon his suspicions. He wanted to, very dearly in fact, but some part of him forced the mage to push on.
Twice already he had contacted his wife and the Gryphon. There had not been much to report from either side. Thanks to a private conversation between Benjin Traske and Kyl, the heir had at least calmed down. He remained secluded in his chambers, however. Gwendolyn reported some lingering signs of his earlier nervousness, but it appeared that Kyl had his fear under control. There was nothing else to report from the Manor. Aurim and Ssarekai were still afflicted by the mysterious spell Toma had cast upon them, but so far it had not affected anything but their memories concerning the renegade.
The news from Penacles was little better. Order had been restored and most in the kingdom seemed perfectly satisfied with the ret
urn of their former monarch, but the lionbird had been forced to admit that the spells of searching that he had cast upon the remnants of the two assassins had revealed nothing new. He had, however, promised the warlock that he would keep the garments under guard until Cabe or Gwen had the opportunity to study them thoroughly.
In a wooded area near the northern edge of the Dagora Forest, Cabe sat on a high rock contemplating the lack of success on everyone’s part. Even he had not had anything to report. It had been his decision to continue the search through the entire night if necessary, for, in his mind, each second he delayed meant more danger to Darkhorse. Fortunately, he could revitalize himself for a time through the simple use of sorcery. Cabe did not like substituting magical energy in the place of normal rest-it was a danger in the long run for many reasons-but he did it rarely enough that now would not cause him trouble. What did bother him was the possibility of finding his last clues as useless as the others. Then, the only choices left to him would be to confront the source of his suspicions, or forget the matter-and Darkhorse-forever.
He could never do the latter, but the former unnerved him almost as much.
Exhaling, the warlock floated off the rock and slowly descended to the ground, where he landed in a standing position. Cabe surveyed the area, seeing it well despite the darkness. For once, he had dared to adjust his eyes to better see at night. As much as Cabe disliked altering any portion of his form, especially something as sensitive as the eyes, the missing Darkhorse deserved at least that much effort. The warlock was willing to give his life, if that was what it took to save the ebony stallion.
I should’ve sensed something! What am I missing? What, indeed? Cabe had tried to follow Darkhorse’s trace, but so far it had led him nowhere. It was as if his last few days had been erased from-
Then it at last came to him. He cursed himself for a fool. I should’ve seen that before! And people think of me as a master sorcerer! I’m a novice, that’s what I am! A wet-behind-the-ears, all-knowing, first-day novice!
The traps set for Darkhorse had been designed in a variety of manners, but one consistent trait had been the creator’s use of one bit of sorcery masking another. What better way, then, to cover the trail of the shadow steed by use of the same, or rather, similar technique?
Tensing, the spellcaster reached out and looked at the world anew. There were different levels of vision, and while Cabe made use of both the mundane and magical, he did not usually utilize all of the latter. He could not remember a time when he had been forced to reach beyond the most common of the magical dimensions. Cabe had viewed the world from every level, but only for practice. He had never had to truly make use of them until now.
In the first shifting, the land around him became fluid, but everything still held its basic shape. Trees and rocks wiggled like overfilled water sacks, yet did not burst when he touched them. The night sky was blue. Lines of force, the same forces that Cabe’s body drew upon when he utilized sorcery, crisscrossed everywhere. Colors were askew, with green things now red and brown things now yellow.
Unfortunately, for this realm, everything was as it was meant to be. There were no variations that would have signaled the necessary aberration that Cabe was hunting.
He tried the next level beyond. Now, the night was green and everything, including himself, was pierced by a thousand tiny blue lines. The fact that all else was normal by human standards did nothing to keep him from becoming disconcerted by the strands. He was almost grateful to see that there was no evidence of the masking sorcery on this level.
His third attempt gave the warlock the ability to see the world as a land of glittering spheres. Each time something moved, be it by its own choice or simply the touch of the wind, the tiny spheres went flying hither and yonder. The landscape also glittered, making it appear that the trees, rocks, and all the rest had been formed out of volcanic glass. It was one of the most exotic and most beautiful of the magical planes, and Cabe made a note to himself to view it again when things calmed down.
There among the beauty he finally found the black trail. To his eyes, it appeared as a jagged scattering of black glass. In some places there lay only a single piece, but still there was enough to follow. Cabe reached out with his power, which in this level was represented by a gleaming blue stream, and linked himself to the trail.
It was childishly easy to follow it through a series of hops. Each time he materialized, the warlock expected to find some difficulty, some barrier, but there was none. Cabe began to fear some trap, but if there was one, it was so subtle that it escaped his careful monitoring.
On the twelfth hop, he came across the hooded figures. The suddenly still warlock did not know exactly where he was, although the region reminded him of somewhere near the ruins of Mito Pica, but location hardly mattered now. What did matter was that he had no doubt whatsoever he had found the ones he sought.
As he saw the world, the dismounted riders were mounds of black steel among the glass trees. The images disconcerted him until he shifted his vision back to night sight. Even then, however, the silent figures were ominous shapes. They wore cloaks identical to those of the assassins, huge things that only now and then revealed the race to which their wearers belonged.
They were men and drakes. Three of the former and two of the latter, all seated around a fire that was little more than embers and so gave some heat but hardly any betraying illumination. It was a surprising but not unbelievable sight, and whether it confirmed his suspicions, Cabe could not say.
Shielded by a pair of tall oaks, the silent mage surveyed the group. One of the humans seemed to be in charge. He muttered something to one of the drakes. In the drake’s hands was a small box that, at first, the warlock’s gaze passed over. Only when he belatedly sensed the strangeness of it did he probe the object. To his surprise, it resisted his best attempts to unveil its contents, but what he learned about the container made him shiver.
It was Vraad . . . or at the very least, based on Vraadish sorcery. It was by far not the first artifact he had been confronted with over the years. In the short time that the alien magic had thrived in this world, millennia before, it had certainly left its mark, the warlock thought. A black mark, in his opinion.
Suddenly, he had a horrible feeling he knew what the box contained.
“We wait, then,” grunted the leader. “I can have a little more patience.”
Wait? For who? For the assassins? That seemed peculiar, considering that the two had clearly been intended to die regardless of their success or failure. Was the leader then waiting for reinforcements, or was someone else planning to join them?
A quick but cautious search of the surrounding region revealed no other intruders. The warlock came to a decision; he would have to strike now lest he lose this one chance. Cabe had no doubt that he had found what he was searching for, and so in his eyes waiting only threatened to lessen his opportunity to take the foul container without a greater struggle.
He knew that there was magic about the riders, but could read nothing more. They might have enchanted daggers or be untrained but lethal mages. It might even be their cloaks alone, which he had already discerned had some spell interwoven in them.
Magic or not, it was time to act. Reaching out, the warlock sent tendrils of power toward each of the figures. With any luck, the battle would be over before any of the five noticed what was happening. A simple sleep spell, one that should be effective regardless of the sorcery he sensed. Surprise was ofttimes a more useful tool in magical combat than all the power of an archmage. Surprise mixed with caution, that is. There were many instantaneous spells that he could have unleashed, but Cabe wanted to take no chances. It was his way. If this failed, then he would be more direct, more instinctive in his attack.
He encountered no barriers, no protective spells. That made sense. Unless one was very skilled, protective spells tended to be noticeable. This was not a party that wished to be noticed, as the pitiful fire had already indicated.
Still the hooded figures seemed unaware of what he was doing. The ease with which his plan progressed worried Cabe. Despite his vast power, he always expected the worst to happen. If he was wrong this time, so much the better, but until then . . .
Before he realized it, his spell was finally ready. When he chose to, each tendril would strike the head of the figure before it, unleashing the unstoppable command to sleep. He had drawn enough power into the making of the spell to down five times the number of riders before him. That, unless he had miscalculated horribly, would be sufficient to overcome each.
So why are you waiting? Having no good answer to the silent question, Cabe Bedlam unleashed his spell.
Two of the men and one of the drakes collapsed.
The human leader and the drake who held the box rose. Their hoods kept their faces all but obscured, but Cabe could read consternation in the dragon man’s movements. The human, however, was furious.
An armored hand shot forward as the leader pointed directly at the warlock’s hiding place. “There! He’s there!”
Shifting his prize to one hand, the drake pointed a taloned finger.
One of the oaks burst, sending tiny spears of wood flying. The warlock folded himself into a ball as the deadly shower enveloped him, his robe making a seemingly insufficient shield against the storm of tiny but lethal spears.
“Give me the box!” growled the leader as the fearsome rain poured down. He pulled out a short sword. “Go and make certain that he’s finished!”
The drake thrust the container into the human’s hand and stalked toward the curled figure, his speed increasing the nearer he came. When he finally stood over Cabe, the drake raised one hand high in preparation of a new spell. The hand glowed with pent up power.