Still facing the window, he slowly rose. At the same time, the ghost, her arms at her side, formed before Valea. She faced not the enchantress, however, but rather Shade. Valea did not move, instead staring straight through the transparent figure.
And as he finished turning toward her, the enchantress came at last face-to-face with the one to whom she had been led.
Valea gaped-for there was indeed a face where there should have been none.
The aristocratic features were more handsome than those of her father, with the nose slightly aquiline. Dark hair hung loosely down over the forehead and the chin was narrow. It was a youthful yet ancient countenance, outwardly little older in appearance than hers. The eyes, however, were what made the true difference. They were, like the ghost’s, crystalline, albeit of a deeper shade than the female’s.
Vraad.
An expression of intense sorrow colored the startling face. In a voice that Valea knew all too well, the hooded figure muttered, “Sharissa . . . I am so very sorry.”
And the door behind Valea abruptly shut tight.
IV
“Shade,” Cabe remarked with much more calm than he truly felt. “How long have you been waiting for us?”
“All my existence,” the warlock responded with utter nonchalance.
“I saw you die!” roared Darkhorse, taking none of the situation as cautiously as Cabe. “You ceased to be! Even you were certain of that!”
“And so I was . . .”
The sudden shift in Shade’s tone to deep bitterness silenced the shadow steed. The warlock slowly strode toward his old comrades and enemies. Even when he stood directly in front of Cabe and Darkhorse and peered up at them from under his hood, his features remained indistinct.
“Gwen told us of her encounter with you . . . and your other selves,” said the wizard. “She also told us what you said to her.”
“A shortened story, I promise, young Cabe. Perhaps one day we can discuss it in more detail . . .”
The wizard shifted uneasily. “You still haven’t told us what we should call you.”
Shade chuckled darkly. He performed a sweeping bow and answered, “You may call me . . . Shade.”
“Nothing else? Not Simon, not Rork, not Joab, nor any of the countless other names you’ve had over the centuries?”
“No . . . that part of the game is at an end. I tire of this facade or that. Call me Shade, for I am, always have, and always will be, it seems . . . the shadow of a true man.”
Darkhorse snorted. “And will you now tell us that we no longer need fear if you are friend or foe? Is that a facade also past?”
The slim form pulled the cloak tight around him, making him look even more an appropriate denizen of this plane. “No, my eternal friend, that is not. But for now . . . there is little to fear.”
“He says in this of all places!” rumbled the ebony stallion.
“We may bicker until the sun shines over this dismal landscape or we may accept what is,” Shade returned without the slightest impatience. “Ephraim has spent much time planning this and we would not wish to disappoint him.”
Cabe frowned. “Ephraim?”
“It would be him. He was always the guide through which the others worked.”
This brought a mocking laugh from Darkhorse. “The Lords have fought us before, Shade, and regretted it!”
“True, but they learn.” The warlock suddenly tilted his hooded head skyward. “And he always has a twofold purpose to any plot-”
The sound of heavy flapping suddenly filled Cabe’s ears. “What is that?”
Shade turned to face something just becoming visible in the sky before them. “Their welcome.”
At first it seemed a huge black cloud flowing swiftly toward them. Then the cloud broke into a giant swarm of winged creatures that grew as they neared. What Cabe at first mistook for fiends the size of cats became so massive that he knew that they would tower over him by the time they reached the trio.
Their wings were wide, leathery, and part of their arms. Savage talons thrust out from each of the fingers, deadly blades they no doubt knew well how to use. The nearer they got, the more the wizard saw that they resembled pale, hairless bats wearing the forms of men, but bent over as if constantly running. Feet wider and longer than Cabe’s ended in nails that made the other talons seem but tiny pins. Their eyes were red and monstrous and needlelike teeth filled their screeching mouths.
“Necri,” Shade declared them. “It would be good not to let them bite you. They carry poison.”
The teeth would also rip apart any flesh upon which they clamped, but Cabe saw no reason to mention that obvious fact. He made a fist, then concentrated.
Darkhorse’s head twisted around completely, an impossible thing for a true steed. “Cabe! It would be better if I fought unhindered, yes?”
Without a word, the wizard slid off the back of his mount. Darkhorse let out a thundering roar and galloped toward the oncoming mass.
“His impetuousness will be the end of him someday . . . I suppose,” Shade commented. The warlock held open one side of his massive cloak. Something leapt from its dark confines, moving so swiftly that Cabe could not make out exactly what it was. He thought he saw a beak and head like those of a gryphon, but the body was more lupine. It darted after Darkhorse, quickly catching up to him.
“I trust Master Zeree will not mind this borrowing of imagination,” the warlock said cryptically.
Cabe did not bother to ask what he meant, for the Necri were then upon them. The wizard thrust his fist at the main mass and a huge, booming explosion scattered the batlike fiends. Several dropped to the earth, where they lay unmoving.
Shade spun in a circle once, twice-and on the third time a whirlwind formed that caught those circling just above the warlock and tossed them together like leaves. The Necri collided, bones breaking. The whirlwind cut into the swarm, dragging off more of the monsters as it went.
Several of the creatures dropped upon Darkhorse, who stood below the mass as if petrified. The first of the Necri made the mistake of seeking to slash the stallion with their clawed feet-and were drawn into the eternal’s black form. They literally fell into him, plummeting to that unnamed place within.
Seeing their brethren vanish so, the next nearest Necri fluttered skyward again. However, the blur that had leapt forth from Shade’s cloak suddenly jumped up, landing atop one beast and ripping out the back of its neck before the Necri even knew what happened. As the corpse dropped, the beaked familiar abandoned its victim, landing atop another and repeating the process. Cabe, who caught a glimpse of its work, noted that it did not seem able to fly, but, given any surface from which to start, could leap wherever it chose.
A massive shadow engulfed the wizard. Breath that smelled of the grave almost made him vomit. The horrific visage of a Necri filled his gaze, the teeth snapping at his throat.
Something white and sharp thrust through the Necri’s chest, halting bare inches from Cabe’s own. The Necri collapsed in a heap, nearly taking its would-be target to the ground with it.
Shade stood behind the monstrosity, the bone-white blade of a tiny dagger retracting. He gave Cabe no time to nod his gratitude, having to turn to slash at another attacker coming at him from the opposite direction.
Lightning crackled from the wizard’s fingertips, striking in rapid succession five Necri, including one seeking to swoop down on Shade from behind.
But for every one of the winged demons they slew, there seemed half a dozen more. Sweating, Cabe caused the earth around them to rise up and bombard the swarm. The effort proved harder than he had imagined, though. Casting spells in this realm proved far more difficult than in the Dragonrealm. There, he knew how to touch and use the lines of power crisscrossing all elements of the world. Here, they were less apparent and weaker.
Another Necri landed a few yards from Cabe. Bent over like a runner, it charged him. The wizard gestured and three silver rings dropped over the beast, snaring
its legs and wings. The Necri tumbled over, struggling futilely to escape.
Shade, meanwhile, thrust the tiny blade back into his cloak and removed instead what at first seemed black lightning. The fiery shape coalesced into a jagged sword that flared darkly. The first Necri to come at him left with its head flying from its body, the latter gliding some distance before crashing into the earth. Two more were rewarded with gaping chasms in their chests, from which spurted the foul, greenish fluid which was their blood. Shade handled the blade like an expert warrior. He moved with calculated swiftness, slicing wings here, cutting off grasping hands there.
Two more of the leathery fiends dropped upon Cabe. He pointed at the nearest, the spell already cast-
Both Necri disappeared.
Certain that it was some sort of trick, the wizard looked quickly around.
All of the Necri had vanished. Even the dead and the one Cabe had secured. The only traces of the monsters were a few tracks and some blood stains. Otherwise, it was as if they had never been.
The beaked wolf dropped to the ground just before Shade. The warlock opened the side of his cloak and it leaped into the shadows within, vanishing as readily as their foes.
As Darkhorse returned to them, Shade dismissed the unsettling blade to the other side of his cloak.
“You used that with skill,” Cabe commented as the murky face of the warlock turned toward him.
“A family tradition,” the warlock returned somewhat dourly.
Cabe raised an eyebrow at this further revelation. He had learned more about Shade’s familial past and understood less than he ever had since first meeting the hooded spellcaster.
“We have vanquished the demons!” roared Darkhorse. “Let the Lords beware!”
“We held our own. What do you say, Shade?”
“Our strength was tested. They know our mettle.”
He seemed poised to say more. “But that wasn’t all?”
“Ephraim would have more in mind, yes. We shall just have to wait and see.”
“And in the meantime?”
One gloved hand gestured in the direction that they had been heading before the attack. “We continue on.”
Darkhorse snorted, but said nothing. His torso indented on the side, making footholds for Cabe. The wizard mounted and the gaps filled again. The shadow steed did not offer a ride to Shade nor did the warlock look at all inclined to ask.
Something had been bothering Cabe and he finally had to ask, “You watched her arrive. You saw Valea when she first came here.”
The warlock no longer looked his way. “I did not see your daughter, but I sensed her.”
“You should’ve done something to send her back!” Cabe felt his rage suddenly build. If Shade had let her continue on, it was because it suited his purpose. In that, he appeared no better than the Lords of the Dead.
The warlock wrapped his cloak about himself. “There was nothing I could do at the time. I could have no more stopped her than I could have this confrontation, Cabe Bedlam. It has been decreed. It is as it must be.”
And with that said, Shade started off.
“So many necri dead,” muttered one of the Lords.
“There are always more Necri,” pointed out another.
From his place at the center, Ephraim said, “They served their purpose. Our cousin and the others think we have taken their measure, which, in part, we have. They are not aware of what we also did.” His fiery eyes stared down at the crystal. “And now their doom is set. Soon, we shall have not only our cousin at our beck and call, but the eternal and the wizard as well.” Ephraim surveyed his comrades. “And then, at last, we shall stretch our influence to the realm of the living . . .”
V
Valea whirled as the door slammed behind her. She could sense no magic in the action, yet clearly some spell had come into play. However, before she could study it, the hooded figure said again, “Sharissa . . . You should’ve known better . . .”
Turning back, Valea saw the ghost vanish. She and the prisoner stared at one another as if both had sprouted second heads.
His eyes narrowed. “You are not she . . . but you are.”
“She?”
“My Sharissa-no-she was never my Sharissa.” He looked down in shame. “For her entire life, she never knew that desire.”
From what Valea had seen of the ghost, she doubted that this Sharissa had been so ignorant of the man’s interest. He had held some place in her heart, if not the one for which he had hoped.
She took a step toward him. “Who are you?”
“The fool of fools, the coward of cowards, the sorrow of my father’s grand existence . . . Gerrod, by name, Tezerenee by birth, my unfortunate lady.”
The last meant something to her. It was a name out of one of her father’s journals, from his study of the Vraad. She could not recall what it was that had been written about them, though. “Why are you a prisoner?”
“Because my cousins are malicious and obsessive.” Gerrod’s features twisted into distaste. “And quite gruesome.” He forced the expression away. “But come! I’ve been remiss! So seldom do I get a visitor other than them! In fact-never!” He indicated the bench. “Please. Sit. I’d offer you something, but-but I’ve nothing.”
“I’ve no intention of staying here,” Valea informed him. “The two of us are leaving.”
She looked at the door, concentrating. For a brief moment, it trembled.
Then, nothing.
“You fail to understand, my lady,” Gerrod said, coming up next to her. “They expected you to come.”
“How do you know that?”
He looked at her in open surprise. “Why, Ephraim told me so.”
“And who is-”
“I am Ephraim,” came a voice from behind them.
Valea let out a gasp of surprise, then turned. Another gasp escaped her, this one of horror.
The figure stood a head taller than Gerrod and was clad from head to toe in black armor with the symbol of the dragon emblazoned on his breast plate. A thick, dark cloak hung over his shoulders and draped his back nearly to the floor. His helmet was topped with a savage dragon head crest.
But her horror came not from the sinister garments themselves, but rather their monstrous condition-and, worse, that of the wearer himself.
She took a step back as her eyes fixed on the rusting metal, the gaps where bone barely covered by dry skin could be seen. Within the helm itself the enchantress could make out part of the leering, fleshless mouth and the two gaps where the nose must have once been.
And the eyes . . . they still had the appearance of crystal, but within them flared a crimson light, an evil force that in itself stirred revulsion.
“Ephraim,” Gerrod remarked almost casually.
“Gerrod . . .” the ghoul rasped. “You see? I brought her for you . . . as promised.”
“You know that she is not who you pretend her to be.”
“But she is,” the Lord raised one gauntleted hand, his bony wrist just visible enough to shake Valea further. “Or are you blind?”
“I know what she looks like and what lurks within her . . . but she is still not her.”
The Lord stepped toward Valea. Instinctively the enchantress raised her hand in defense.
A guttural chuckle escaped the ghoulish necromancer. “In this place you have no power.”
Despite his words, Valea attempted to cast her spell. Nothing happened. She could faintly sense and see the lines of force crisscrossing the chamber, but they were, as so much else in these still lands, ghosts of what they had been.
Ephraim reached up and, with the arrogance of one supremely in command, took hold of Valea’s face by the chin. He turned it for Gerrod to see. “Look beyond the face, which already tells the tale, and read into the eyes what you seek.”
Gerrod’s crystalline orbs reluctantly stared into her own frightened ones. Some of Valea’s fear dwindled as she felt the sadness and shame of the hooded figure as he
intruded in her very soul.
But as Gerrod invaded her, he, in turn, revealed something of himself. It was not intentional, merely a fact of his existence. Valea sensed it just as she had earlier sensed Shade’s magical signature.
Which was, in fact, also Gerrod’s.
The knowledge so startled her that she managed to pull free of Ephraim’s grip. Gerrod, in turn, pulled away from the enchantress, again looking ashamed.
Ephraim, of course, laughed.
“What did you do?” asked Gerrod angrily.
“While you learned of her, she learned of you.”
The prisoner scowled. “Ever you had more than one reason for doing anything!”
Valea eyed him. Shade’s magical signature. She knew of no manner by which anyone could so duplicate it . . .
Gerrod was Shade?
Before Valea could delve further into the matter, the necromancer continued, “Well, my friend? You are convinced?”
“Whether I’m convinced doesn’t matter, Ephraim.”
The macabre figure tilted his horrific head, the lipless mouth ever in its eternal, mocking smile. “But it does, for it means you will do as I have requested. You will, won’t you . . . dear cousin?”
“At least leave her out of this!”
“But like you, she is key.” Ephraim leaned toward the enchantress again. “And in one manner or another, she will serve the purpose. You, Gerrod, have only to tell us how.”
She looked from the ghoul to the prisoner and found the latter no more comforting. Gerrod wrestled with his decision, upon which her life clearly depended.
His shoulders slumped. “Very well . . . it’ll be as you planned.”
“Excellent!” Ephraim chuckled. “Then soon, very soon, Sharissa will be yours . . . and you will once more have hands with which you can finally hold her.”
Despite her growing horror, the last statement made Valea frown. “What does he mean by that?”
The Lord evinced actual surprise at this question. “Dear cousin, have you been so hesitant? I would have expected you to try to welcome her with open arms-even though you do not have any!”
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III Page 90