One of the books farthest away flew into the air, the covers flapping as if wings. Another book nearer to her did the same.
Scores of ancient tomes took flight. Even as she backed away in surprise, Valea knew that they had not done so at her command. The enchantress already understood just how foolish her demands had been. Surely, her father or the Gryphon would have long ago made similar requests. Without the aid of the librarian, though, she had done the only thing of which she could think.
But now the libraries acted of their own accord.
The books darted about like a vast flock of startled birds. They flew close to Valea but never came near to striking her. Nevertheless, she stood ready to defend herself. Nothing like this had ever been mentioned by anyone else and the enchantress had no idea how it would end.
One tome abruptly ceased flapping. The bulky book dropped like a stone. Another followed suit, then another, and another. Everywhere lay strewn volumes, leaving the scene a shambles.
Yet, not every book fell. More than a dozen fluttered around Valea. They flew up before her, gathering together.
And as they massed, they somehow formed an image, a blurring figure that Valea could just make out.
A great bird. A great bird rising from a fiery pit. Behind it, barely visible, stood a single mountain.
Vaguely had Valea time to register the image when those books also fell to the floor. At the same moment, a furious growl arose from one of the corridors behind her.
“What is the meaning of this?” piped an ancient voice.
She anxiously looked over her shoulder to see a short, thin figure clad in dark robes that dragged over the floor. The bald, wizened head shifted back and forth as the librarian drank in the chaos.
He fixed upon Valea. “What sort of madness possesses you, my lady? Just look at this! I’ll have to spend hours trying to sort this mess out!”
“My apologies!” Despite the fact that it might mean discovery, she added, “I’ll certainly help put them away—”
The librarian—it was never known if he or, assuming there was more than one, they had names—cut off her apology and offer with a curt wave. Straightening to his full possibly four-foot height, he more calmly asked, “How may I serve you? What knowledge do you seek?”
Valea looked around anxiously. “I—never mind! I must be going.”
“As you like.” Without another word, the gnomish figure bent to retrieve one of the books.
Cabe’s daughter started to concentrate on returning to the chamber of the tapestry. She already had a spell ready that would transport her away from any danger the golems might still present. What concerned her more was another matter.
“Master librarian . . .” When he paused in his efforts to look up at her, Valea quickly asked, “Can you avoid mentioning that I was here?”
It was a tremendous gamble. Simply by asking such a question, she revealed that her excursion here had not been one permitted by the lord of Penacles.
“If he does not ask, there is no need to speak of this,” the librarian flatly replied.
“Thank you,” she said, much relieved. Staring again at the books, the enchantress added, “I should truly help—”
“There is no need.” With that, he returned to his task, his tone and stance utterly dismissing her.
Biting her lip, Valea vanished.
THE LIBRARIAN STRAIGHTENED. He dropped the book back onto the pile, then snapped his fingers.
The books disappeared, moments later reappearing on the shelves as if never having moved.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at where the enchantress had stood.
“The phoenix . . . ,” the librarian whispered to himself. “May the land preserve us, he searches for the phoenix . . .”
III
IN THE SHADOW OF THE DEAD
A CHILL COURSED through his bones, jarring him from the darkness. A sound echoed in his head, the clattering of hooves. The clattering was slight at first but steadily grew.
Shade awoke and the sound ceased.
His gaze focused, revealing a desolate land shadowed by night, with only the half-seen crimson moon, Styx, giving anything resembling illumination. The sorcerer knew instantly where he had sent himself, even though the casting had been random, or at least it should have been.
“The Hell Plains . . . ,” he murmured.
A sound again briefly assailed him. Shade stiffened, realizing that it was one heard with not his ears but rather his mind.
Seizing the edges of his vast cloak, he wrapped himself deep within the garment. Only his eyes remained uncovered.
Silence reigned again, silence punctuated by an occasional rumble of the ground. The Hell Plains never remained completely still, their seismic activity a reflection of their lord, the Red Dragon. Even though this particular Dragon King was young in comparison to the others—his sire slain by Cabe’s mad father, Azran, and Azran’s deadly creation, the sword mockingly called Nameless—he was still a potent threat.
But it was not the drake lord whom Shade sought to evade. Barely a breath after he had secreted himself with his power, a huge, equine form charged into sight.
The stallion was so black that he stood out even against the night. He was larger than any mortal beast and appeared as much shadow as substance. Ice-blue orbs without pupils glittered with a light of their own as the steed reared.
The creature surveyed the area. Nostrils flared. The stallion snorted as if in frustration. Returning to all fours, the horse angrily scraped one hoof against the hard ground, and despite the volcanic heat having sealed it harder than ordinary rock, the hoof easily gouged a ravine.
Shade remained perfectly still and protected, yet the stallion looked his way. The sorcerer did not flee, did not try to defend himself.
With another angry snort, the nightmarish steed raced off to the southwest. His hooves made no mortal sound, just as they had made none prior to his arrival, and did not even quite touch the ground as the supernatural beast rushed into the distance.
Shade continued to hold his place long after the ebony stallion had vanished. Finally, the spellcaster slowly drew back his cloak and stepped from his hiding spot.
It was not fear of the creature that had made him hide, but rather the unnecessary and certainly violent confrontation that would have taken place. He could ill afford anything that might prevent him from pursuing his quest, especially this. The two of them had fought titanic battles in the past and never had there been a clear victor. That was likely in part because they knew each other better than any . . . and because they had been friends as much as they had been enemies.
Steer clear, old companion, he thought with one last glance at the path the fearsome stallion had taken. This time . . . I may be more than willing to vanquish you. This time . . . I know how . . .
Finally satisfied that the demonic steed would not return, Shade turned to his left. There, he beheld a sight nearly as familiar to him as the shadowy horse. There was little left of what had once been a towering citadel, the ash and tremors so constant in this forsaken realm doing their best to bury the remnants of a place even more foul.
Here had once stood the hidden sanctum of Azran Bedlam.
Had his features been distinct, they would have revealed something of the sorcerer’s disturbed thoughts at the understanding that his “random” flight had taken him so near to the ruins. Bad enough for anyone to find themselves in the Hell Plains, but to pass so close to the madman’s citadel was to risk life and limb—and soul.
The ground trembled again. Shade adjusted his balance and cautiously trod toward the ruins. Wisdom warned him to leave the area; desperation drove him forward.
As if to emphasize the last, a gut-wrenching pain sent him doubling over. Gritting his teeth so as not to call out and possibly alert minions of the Dragon King, Shade dropped to one knee. He started to bring one gloved hand to his face, then paused when he saw the hand.
The appendage—glove and all—was
transparent.
Forcing himself to focus despite his agony, Shade stared at the hand. Slowly—much too slowly—the hand solidified again.
He exhaled in relief.
A feminine chuckle echoed through the ruins.
No longer concerned with secrecy, the sorcerer spun toward the sound. The hand that had been transparent now radiated dark blue light.
What remained of a stone wall shattered, the fragments hurtling yards in every direction. Those that soared toward Shade struck an invisible barrier just inches from him.
Now, is that any way to greet your own blood, Gerrod?
Hearing the name disturbed him as much as the woman’s voice reverberating in his head, for it stirred more memories, memories so old yet so powerful that they could never completely die.
“Gerrod is dead,” he whispered to the unseen speaker. “I have seen his ghost . . .”
You are his ghost . . .
Turning toward an area deeper in the ruins, Shade cast once more. Icy crystals fell upon the area and, where they touched the ruins and the ash covering them, turned brittle, then dissolved.
But this only served to amuse the speaker, whose voice, while alluring, also had a hollowness to it that reminded the sorcerer of the grave . . . and with good reason. You are becoming your father’s son at last . . . a few millennia late . . .
“Show yourself,” he grated. “Show yourself or I’ll bring the Eternal One back here . . .”
And he would be just as likely to pursue you as he would to fight us . . .
The last word further stirred his sense of foreboding. There were others. She was not alone.
But I shall grant you that small favor . . .
Even as the words faded, Shade noted a presence in the eastern section of the ruins. A figure clad in breastplate and mail and wearing an open helmet with a small dragon crest took form. It was quickly evident by the curve of the breastplate and the flow of silver hair from beneath the helmet that the shadowy form was female, but that was all. The cloak fastened to her shoulders billowed even though there was no wind in that direction and somehow even obscured most of her body, especially the legs.
“Kadaria . . . ,” Shade murmured, at last recognizing the voice.
So delighted you remember . . . She turned her head slightly and the crimson light of Styx briefly revealed a striking woman with a slight sardonic smile on her dark lips. Yet, it was not that smile that most demanded attention, but rather her eyes.
They were crystalline. Styx made them seem as if they burned with fire.
Kadaria shifted her gaze and her face vanished into shadow, only the helmet visible now. The land is playing with you again . . . the land will have you, as it has all . . .
His laugh held no humor. “Even the vaunted Lords of the Dead?”
We have . . . an agreement with it, let us say . . .
“Gods must make agreements? Very limited gods, you are.”
He struck a chord. The air took on a dryness that bespoke the crypt, decay. Kadaria might not have shown it, but this mockery did not sit well with her unseen companions.
You have this one chance to return to us . . . to join us . . . you need our strength, our skills, to keep you whole . . . just look at your hand again . . .
He did, and saw that once more it was transparent. Not so much as in times previous, but if he did not maintain his concentration, it would worsen.
Still, he shook his head, wishing that for this moment, he could reveal his disgust at the offer. “The art of necromancy presents only the facade of life draped over the emptiness of death.”
How poetic . . . Once more, Kadaria’s face briefly appeared. The mocking smile had grown. Her lips did not move as she added, And do you really hope that the tower will offer you better?
Although his face could not betray him, his stance evidently could. As her own pale visage returned to the darkness, the necromancer laughed more harshly. This time, she was also joined by unseen companions. The laughter of the Lords of the Dead resonated through the sorcerer’s head, making it pound.
“The tower may be able to aid me,” Shade replied without a hint of his pain or his tumultuous emotions. “But for some, there is only lingering putrefaction . . . forever . . .”
The laughter ceased. Kadaria grew more indistinct. A willing fate, if tremendous power goes with it . . . you know that power too well . . .
“And dealt harshly with those who wielded it, Kadaria.”
She chuckled. There was little visible by the light of the moon now save her silhouette. But that was Gerrod Tezerenee who did that . . . and, as you said, you are but his ghost . . . which makes you a slave to our domain . . .
The ground stirred, but Shade sensed that it was not tremors that caused it to do so. Everywhere around him, the earth pushed up, as if large beasts were burrowing to the surface. He could think of a few such creatures, such as the armored Quel of the Legar Peninsula, but with the Lords of the Dead so near, the sorcerer knew what arose.
The skeletal forms burst through the baked soil. The skulls ended in sharp beaks and the arching frames that had once been wings shifted back and forth as if the undead could still fly.
Living, they had been known to most as Seekers—a bastardization of their original, lost name that was yet apt, considering their ways—and these dead had unwillingly served Azran Bedlam up to the point where the predecessor of the current ruler of the Hell Plains had attempted to assault the citadel. That day, a Dragon King had perished, along with many of his servants, but so had these and a great number of other creatures enslaved by Cabe’s father.
The skeletons threw themselves at Shade, their browned talons still sharp enough to rend, their beaks still able to snap through bone. Had they lived, he would have had to concern himself with their magic, too, but Shade took no consolation in the absence of that threat considering the powers that controlled them now.
Muttering, he drew his finger across the line of ghoulish forms converging upon him. A brief flare of reddish energy followed in the line’s wake and as it moved along, the upper half of each skeleton tumbled off as if cut by a scythe.
But although the first line fell easily, more and more neared. Shade inhaled and snarled, “Stop!”
The voice was not his own but perfectly altered to be that of Azran’s. In life, these avians had been compelled to obey through the mad sorcerer’s magic and such had been the power of Cabe’s father that the residue of that spell even now caused the skeletons to hesitate one vital moment.
Seizing that vital instant, Shade crouched, scooped up a handful of the broken soil, and threw it into the air. At the same time, he cast.
A tremendous dust storm blanketed his monstrous assailants yet did not touch him. Even as the sharp beaks and talons again sought his flesh, the dust caked them. They tried to continue forward, but more and more dust clung to their bones. Within a few seconds, the skeletons could no longer even move, so buried were their lower halves.
Shade gasped for breath as he seized his cloak and literally curled within himself. As he vanished, Shade felt the magic seeking to take him from this place but also sensed the power of the Lords of the Dead attempting to pull him back.
They’re stronger . . . they shouldn’t be, but they are . . . Shade had no idea how they had managed to regain such might, but then, he had thought them vanquished, at last sent to the oblivion that they had long evaded. In that he had erred, so why not also err in his estimation of their awful might?
He rematerialized. The stench of sulfur was enough to warn him that he had not traveled far.
A wave of vertigo struck him. He would have fallen save that he had apparently appeared next to some rocky formation. A bit less focus, and Shade knew that he could have just as easily become part of that formation.
You need not rush off . . . , Kadaria’s voice murmured with amusement. Shade managed to turn and, thanks to the moon, noted the silhouette of the ruins on the horizon. Unfortunately, the ph
ysical distance meant little to the necromancers.
A thundering tremor shook the entire area. The formation cracked. Shade threw himself from it before large chunks could crash down on him. At the moment, he could not trust that he had the concentration to protect himself from the deadly rain.
However, retreating from the crumbling formation only placed him nearer to the center of the quake. The ground heaved as if breathing, or as if something of tremendous size sought to break to the surface.
It only occurred to Shade then that somewhere in this vicinity had perished a Dragon King . . . and that anything dying violently surely fell under the sway of the Lords of the Dead.
He tried to gather his concentration—only to see that both of his hands were somewhat translucent. Shade could not imagine how the rest of him appeared. Whatever turn his curse was taking, the flight from one struggle to the next was adding too much of a toll.
You will join us one way or the other . . . cousin . . .
Shade was tempted to snap some last, futile rebuke, but then something glowing faintly near another, larger formation caught his eye. It was a vaguely seen figure that immediately flitted out of sight by walking directly into the rock.
The name escaped him before he could stop it. “Sharissa?”
He remembered now what he had thought he had seen before passing out. His seeing her again—and although this second sighting had been a murky, questionable one, Shade felt certain that he had seen the young woman with the silver-blue hair—could be no coincidence. Indeed, the logical assumption should have been that he had been shown her image as a ploy by the necromancers . . . for had she not been dead for thousands and thousands of years?
Yet, despite being aware of all that, the sorcerer pulled himself together and ran. The ground shoved up under his feet, almost tossing him more than once to his knees. Shade concentrated on protecting himself as he moved on, ever aware that he might simply be charging straight into his enemies’ trap, but compelled by something to believe that the Lords of the Dead could not have cast this vision.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Shade Page 4