Legends of the Dragonrealm: Shade

by Richard A. Knaak

  Thank you for purchasing this Gallery Books eBook.

  * * *

  Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  Contents

  Chapter I: The Sorcerer

  Chapter II: The Libraries

  Chapter III: In the Shadow of the Dead

  Chapter IV: The Manor

  Chapter V: The Artifact

  Chapter VI: The Emperor

  Chapter VII: The King and the Demon

  Chapter VIII: Plans in Motion

  Chapter IX: Land of the Hill Dwarves

  Chapter X: The Walls of Penacles

  Chapter XI: The Dwarves

  Chapter XII: The Ghosts

  Chapter XIII: Chaos Below

  Chapter XIV: The Mists of War

  Chapter XV: The Ice Dragon’s Lair

  Chapter XVI: Sacrifice

  Chapter XVII: Memories Stirring

  Chapter XVIII: The Wizard’s Ploy

  Chapter XIX: Beyond the Tear

  Chapter XX: The Necromancers

  Chapter XXI: The Tower

  Chapter XXII: The Black Dragon

  Chapter XXIII: Revelations of the Past

  Chapter XXIV: Plots Within Plots

  Chapter XXV: Blood Ties

  Chapter XXVI: Uneasy Alliances

  Chapter XXVII: Lords of the Dead

  Chapter XXVIII: The Sorcerer, the Dragon, and the Phoenix

  Chapter XXIX: Beyond the Tower

  Acknowledgments

  About Richard A. Knaak

  For those who fight, fought, and sacrifice for us

  I

  THE SORCERER

  IRILLIAN BY THE SEA remained a prosperous city even during the uncertain times now spreading across the land. It was a major hub for import and export and its ruler was known for relative fairness to his subjects, be they of his kind or of other races.

  Not all dragons were so benevolent.

  Tall, three-masted ships filled the harbor, many of them loading or unloading cargo. A sleeker vessel with all the hints of being a state-sanctioned privateer began to pull away from the dock. Workers and sailors in free-flowing garments designed for quick movement went about a multitude of tasks as they intermingled with fishmongers, traders, and customers. Armed patrols marched through the throngs, wary guards keeping an eye out for any disorder. Children scurried among the adults, ignoring reproving eyes. At first glance, Irillian might have been any other city in all the world . . . save that many of its inhabitants were scaled.

  Humans dominated in numbers, but it was clear that they did not dominate in power. While signs of respect did pass between them and members of the other prominent race, authority without a doubt rested in the latter. After all, were the drakes not the dragons’ children?

  Most stood taller than the humans around them and appeared even taller yet due to the varying crests atop their slitted helms. The males all appeared as armored warriors, even those obviously part of the ships’ crews or occupying positions as traders and dockworkers. Yet, while the crests of the guards and their captains were intricate—nay, almost lifelike—representations of fierce dragon visages, those of the drakes performing more mundane tasks were crude, even in many cases non-existent.

  What was consistent was that all the adult males were of a sea-blue coloring and that the faces hidden within the helms were scaled in a manner identical to the drakes’ mail armor. The eyes were reptilian and the lipless mouths contained the sharp teeth of a carnivore.

  If it appeared that there were no drake females within the crowds, that was due to the fact that what seemed a number of exotic, azuretressed elven women were, in fact, the counterparts to the males. However, though superficially they seemed much more akin to the humans, evidence of their true nature was revealed each time the mouths opened and the smaller but still no less sharp teeth of a predator were displayed.

  The humans among them treated all of this with much disinterest. For generations, both races had served the Blue Dragon and his predecessors, and while in other lands drakes and humans were bitter foes, here they lived in relative harmony, with generally the ambitions of outsiders their major concern.

  And into their midst came one such outsider.

  He formed in the black shadows of an alley and seemed to remain a part of them even when stepping away, so enshrouded was he by his dark hood and cloak. The deep hood obscured his face entirely, making it appear as if only emptiness existed within. The sorcerer, for he could be nothing other, straightened, then cautiously peered around. Seeing no witness to his arrival, the figure glanced toward the direction of the nearest street. There, far beyond him, he watched with brief interest as a drake captain astride one of the large lizards called lesser drakes that were used as mounts gave orders to a human complement more than a dozen strong.

  Their orders received, the sentries dispersed. The captain surveyed the area, his burning eyes finally fixing on the alley.

  But by then, the sorcerer was gone.

  The shrouded spellcaster materialized next in the midst of a shop not far from his initial point of arrival. He had no trouble finding his way around the darkened shop. From previous observance, he had determined that the shopkeeper closed his place of business immediately upon the arrival of the fifth hour after noontime, as did many here. The clientele for a place such as this generally went to dine at that hour and no practical merchant wasted time and money on the slim chance that there might be a late peruser.

  What light glimmered through the drawn curtains of the establishment was just enough to illuminate a vast, eclectic collection of wares that seemed to have originated from every point on the compass. There were statuettes of tree nymphs that might have come from the vast Dagora Forest, intricate vases from Gordag-Ai, fine horsehair brushes created in Zuu, and ancient, crested swords probably forged by the reclusive dwarves on the far northwest part of the continent. Other items could not be identified as being from any of the thirteen lands that made up what had been for centuries referred to individually and collectively as the Dragonrealm. Irillian benefited from its vast natural harbor and strategic location on the eastern shore. Both traders and privateers brought riches and unique items from every civilized and uncivilized place in the known world.

  And it was for just this reason that that sorcerer had come. The castings had all pointed to this place as holding the possible key to his quest, a quest upon which he had been on far, far longer than most could imagine and even fewer could appreciate.

  At last, there was hope that he might free himself of his curse.

  From the voluminous robe emerged two nimble hands gloved in grey. They matched well the intruder’s stance, marking him as one apparently in the bloom of life. Yet, as with so much else about him, that was misleading. With perhaps a few exceptions, he was far older than anyone or anything else alive.

  A simple gesture brought forth a tiny, emerald light. A twist of the left hand sent the glowing dot darting about the overfilled chamber. Now and then it would hesitate near some object but then move on. While those other items evidently held some interest to his studies, they were not that for which he had come.

  The sounds of activity increased outside. The deep hood turned briefly to the window, then ignored all but the search again.

  The light abruptly stopped over a decorative box. Even when the sorcerer signaled it to move on, it remained frozen over the piece.

  The shrouded spellcaster vani
shed, then reappeared next to the table upon which the box and several other antique pieces sat. His gloved hand hovered between the light and the box. A faint white glow stirred from his palm, then quickly faded.

  This is it . . . but what is it? he wondered. Even after so much research, he barely knew more than any of those walking past the shop. As gingerly as a mother picking up her newborn, the sorcerer lifted up the small box. He gently opened the lid.

  The box was empty.

  A primitive growl escaped the recesses of the hood. Pent-up frustration nearly made the sorcerer throw the box across the room. However, at the last moment, reason returned and instead of destroying the offending container, he curtly pointed at the interior.

  The light darted inside, spreading over bottom and sides before reforming. Immediately, it shot upward, then raced farther back into the shop. The sorcerer followed on foot.

  In the back of the shop, the light flew directly toward a side wall. A few small and rather mundane illustrations decorated the wall. The light appeared to notice neither the decor nor the wall itself, soaring toward them at its greatest speed.

  The emerald point struck.

  The wall flashed bright green, and as it did, it also became transparent.

  In the center of the wall stood a hinged metal door three feet by three feet.

  The image faded away as the light vanished. The sorcerer did not care. He reached for the wall where he had seen the door. His hand sank into what appeared stone, then touched what felt like the handle he had briefly seen.

  The momentary revelation had also shown that the door required a key, but that hardly disturbed the cloaked form. Concentrating, he tugged on the unseen handle.

  The wall flared. The illusion dissipated, revealing the shopkeeper’s special vault. It was not unknown for prosperous merchants these days to pay for a few magical safety measures. While magic utilized by humans was still frowned upon in most of the lands ruled by the Dragon Kings, Irillian was more like the freed kingdoms, where such abilities were now rising again and, in the process, making some of their possessors wealthier for offering such services.

  The thought brought a rare chuckle from the intruder. He had witnessed generations where even the slightest talent for magic by a human would have had that would-be wizard scorched to a cinder or executed in a thousand other unique manners by the cautious drake lords. Now magic was becoming almost as ordinary as when he had first—

  Fragmented, somewhat surreal memories of his own distant youth swept away any amusement and bitterly reminded him of why he was stooping so low as to break into a shop. The sooner he had his prize, the better.

  There was no sound, but the sorcerer immediately sensed that he was no longer alone. The hood swung to the right, deeper into the back of the building.

  “By the moons!” gasped a bearded, elderly man. In one hand he held a brass oil lamp. In the other was a small crossbow, not nearly as powerful as the larger weapon after which it had been modeled, but still strong enough to kill. Two metal-tipped bolts just over half a foot in length pointed directly at the intruder.

  But the shopkeeper had lost all apparent interest in firing on the would-be thief. He stood as if frozen by the long-slain Ice Dragon’s glance, but not through any direct action by the spellcaster. No, all that made the unfortunate merchant helpless before the sorcerer was the elderly man’s astonishment and horror at the face now revealed within the hood.

  Or rather . . . the hint of a face. Even in the direct glow of the curved brass lamp, the sorcerer’s countenance remained a blur. There were traces of what should have been eyes and perhaps a nose beneath them. Of the mouth, only a vague slit was evident. It was as if the merchant were seeing the face through murky water, for at times it even rippled slightly.

  The sorcerer gestured just as the shopkeeper’s shaking hand finally tried to fire the crossbow. A grey mist swirled around the elderly man. He stiffened, this time the result of a binding spell from which he would only wake long after the intruder was gone. The merchant would no doubt be surprised to find himself among the living; having recognized the hooded figure, the elderly man had probably believed a horrible death awaited him. At least, that was what the legends would have made most expect . . .

  And, unfortunately for the sorcerer, the legends were not entirely wrong.

  Impatience boiling over, the spellcaster returned his attention to the vault. He reached out with his power and sensed safeguards about the door, but they were primitive, useful only for keeping out those without skill at magic. Dismissing them with barely a thought, he tore open the door.

  A number of pouches and small boxes lay within. However, there was no need to hunt for that which he desired, for a hint of the emerald glow now bathed one small leather bag secreted in a corner. An eager hand tugged the pouch free. The sorcerer undid the strings and poured the lone piece within onto his palm.

  The medallion, forged from that most durable and age-defying of metals, gold, was scarred and beaten and clearly very old. Despite that, the centerpiece of the design remained quite evident. A phoenix, a creature so mythic even in a world ruled in part by shapeshifting dragons, reared up over a blazing fire while two circles hovered over the magnificent bird’s head. The artisan had gone to great lengths to perfect the stylized figure, but most of that effort was lost upon the sorcerer, who had searched for the artifact for more practical reasons. All that concerned him about the design was that it was, indeed, a phoenix.

  The bird suddenly moved, a wing shifting and the beak and talons turning to the sorcerer.

  Before he could react, the image of the phoenix enveloped him. The wings and talons became bonds of white fire that sealed his arms to his sides and forced him to drop the medallion. The sorcerer cared not a whit for the artifact anymore; the piece was a fake. Worse, it was a fake purposely designed to dupe him.

  The phoenix opened wide its sharp beak, then swallowed his head. As that happened, the last vestiges of the bird dissipated, leaving the sorcerer immobile in a cocoon of energy. His concentration wavered despite his efforts, the magical forces penetrating his mind wreaking purposeful havoc on his thoughts. If he could not think, he could not cast.

  The spell was a masterful one whose caster he recognized, a wizard who had been both his friend and his foe in but recent times. The sorcerer did not blame his counterpart for arranging this admittedly cunning snare. The wizard had surely spent months of careful planning on it and perhaps sought the aid of others who knew the intended target even better, such as the inhuman lord of Penacles—the great City of Knowledge.

  Well played, Cabe Bedlam! the sorcerer thought. Well played!

  He thought no more about his adversary save that Cabe Bedlam’s work meant there was little chance of there being some weakness in the spell. Still, a search was better than simply accepting his fate, although Cabe surely had no intention of slaying him. Instead, the wizard no doubt intended to “kindly” imprison his prey until such time as he and the others could come up with a “cure” of their own for the curse. A thousand lifetimes might pass before that improbable event . . . and already had for the sorcerer. He would not wait a thousand more.

  All those thoughts came in jumbled fragments forced together even as he delved into Cabe’s spell. Too quickly he saw that it was as he had feared; the energies had been intertwined expertly—in fact, so expertly that he saw the Gryphon’s furred and feathered hand in it, too. While that verified the sorcerer’s suspicions as to the lord of Penacles’s participation, it also further lessened any hope that there would be some chance of escape.

  He considered one last option. Death was no desired choice, even for one for whom it would not be permanent. The curse had already taken a turn for the worse in a manner that he could not have expected, and risking a new incarnation might prove the final straw.

  Had his features been defined, the sorcerer’s frustration would have revealed just a hint of fear in it, too. Imprisonment or the other path. He c
ould not say which was the more damned fate.

  That the wizard or his allies, and surely somehow Cabe, had made some pact with the Dragon King here but had not yet come for him bespoke not their great confidence in the snare, but rather his own perpetual efforts to mask his presence wherever he went. The spellwork had muted any alarm the trap might have sounded, but Cabe would quickly realize something was amiss, if the wizard did not already know.

  The sorcerer found a weak point in the trap.

  It was minute but still so very unexpected for a spell cast by one as skilled as a Bedlam. He at first thought it another trick, yet saw no choice but to act upon it. That he had held his focus as much as he had this long was a credit to his determination, but he was weakening fast.

  He poured his efforts into the defect.

  The spell collapsed, the energies scattering in every direction. He fell back as the brunt of the escaping forces struck him hard. In an attempt to keep himself from dropping to the floor, the sorcerer grabbed for the edge of a table covered in tapestries.

  His outstretched fingers went through the wood.

  He landed in a heap, the voluminous robe for a moment making him look more like a pile of loose cloth than anything human. Sparks of magical energy continued to dart over the sorcerer, each bright burst inflicting pain. Despite all that, he managed to push himself up to his feet.

  “I see I’m just in time. It ends here, Shade,” a so-familiar voice sadly declared. “It must.”

  The sorcerer turned to where the shopkeeper had stood, not at all surprised to find the elderly man vanished and, in his place, a young male in blue robes. He had a strong head of black hair save for a great streak of silver running from the front to a good part of the back. By the standards of the heroic tales sung by bards, the newcomer was not glorious of face, but with his strong jaw and slightly bent nose he had a ruggedness that appealed to many women, and especially one in particular. The newcomer looked little more than two decades old unless one stared into his solemn brown eyes and saw the bitter experience there. Cabe Bedlam was more than twice the age his appearance indicated; one of the benefits of being a spellcaster was the ability to hold one’s youth for potentially some three hundred years or more.