Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04

by Richard A. Knaak

  Something fluttered about the trees, something fairly large. Wellen doubted that a dragon could hide itself so well, then thought of the young Seeker. Could one of the legendary avians be watching him? He leaned in the direction of the noise, and an owl darted out of the trees and off into the sky.

  Wellen wanted to laugh, but there was not enough strength left for that. He satisfied himself with a brief smile, then once more concentrated on the myriad path running through the hills.

  There had been no sign of the dragon or dragons for some time now, but not once did the scholar think to turn around. He was committed. This far into the hills, he was determined to at least complete the crossing. Beyond the sloping, -turning land there was something so valuable that it needed dragons to guard it. Bedlam was certain that such had been the drake's purpose in being here, to guard what lay beyond the hills.

  The horse shied.

  Wellen twisted in the saddle, gazing up in full expectation of sighting a diving form.

  He saw nothing. The sky that was visible here was clear, save for a few high clouds. Now, there was nowhere the dragon could have hidden. Frustrated and worn, he turned to shout at the skittish animal. . . and saw the grisly remains poking out from behind some high bushes.

  They were recognizable as a horse and a man, but little more. From the shreds of clothing that still lingered on the bloody torso of the unfortunate rider, Wellen knew it was one of the expedition scouts. Some force had torn the man quite literally apart, much the way one might tear apart an orange.

  Weakened as he was already, the scholar did not have the stamina to resist the sickening sight. Half falling from the saddle, he went to his knees and vomited. Little more than spittle and blood issued forth, but the act itself was nearly enough to make him completely collapse. Wellen succeeded in maintaining consciousness, but that was all. For more than ten minutes, the hapless rider kneeled where he was, trying to pull himself together.

  No dragon had killed the man. If such had been the case, not a shred of clothing would have been found. This deed had been performed by a smaller but savage creature, something perhaps the size of a . . . of a Seeker? Wellen could not see the avians killing so, however. The legends and his encounter with the adolescent Seeker were enough to convince him that the bird folk, however dangerous they might be, were capable of more civilized methods of death. More likely, an animal of some sort had gotten the unsuspecting scout while he had been engaged in studying the landscape.

  So where were the other scouts, and why had they left his body unburied?

  He was afraid he knew the answer already. Dragging himself to his feet, Wellen took hold of his mount's reins and, forcing himself to endure the sight of the ravaged remains, continued down the path. Each step tore at his already fragile system, wracking him further. Nevertheless, Wellen continued until he found what he was looking for.

  All in all, the other two had not gotten very far from their comrade before whatever horror had murdered the first had caught up to them. One of the figures, the man Bedlam recalled as the spokesman of the trio, was actually in recognizable shape. Perhaps the beast had tired by that point. What did matter was that Wellen was now absolutely alone in the Dragonrealm. The scouts were dead, Yalso had perished, and the scholar had found no trace of Prentiss Asaalk, save the blue man's mount. Any survivors from the column were undoubtedly on their way to the waiting ships. There had to be a few, despite the thoroughness of the dragon. He had no doubt that the acting commander would order both vessels underway once he heard what had happened to the grand expedition. With such tales to tell, it was doubtful that anyone would risk returning to this continent for years to come.

  He would be alone in the Dragonrealm.

  His dream had become a nightmare.

  Wellen desperately wanted to do something about the remains of the three men, but he barely had the strength to stand, much less dig a grave or build a pyre. In fact, as shameful as it might seem, Wellen did not even want to remain in the same area any longer. In his present state, he could barely stomach the rising stench.

  Disgusted with himself, the expedition leader tried to remount his horse. The animal was understandably nervous and Wellen's first two attempts failed miserably. Wincing at the pain coursing through his body, Wellen took a tighter hold on the reins and whispered to the beast. The voice calmed the horse to a point where the young Bedlam finally felt it was safe to try again. Carefully, he started to swing himself upward.

  In the undergrowth near one of the bodies, a heavy form moved toward them. The horse shied. Wellen, caught midway, could only hold on. He did not even have the breath to talk to the shifting steed.

  The creature in the undergrowth hissed and crawled out from cover. The scholar, turned to face it by the movements of his panicking mount, marked it immediately as a carrion creature, one of the lesser drakes that always seemed to have a nose for finding the dead. Unless there were more than a dozen, such beasts rarely attacked the living. They were possibly the biggest cowards amongst their kind.

  The horse, already at its wits' end from everything else, saw only teeth and claws. It rose onto its hind legs and kicked wildly. Try as best as he could, Wellen could not maintain his grip. He fell to the earth, striking his head on the flattened path.

  The drake hissed again, but held its ground, unwilling to give up the morsels it had found. Wellen had a blurred glimpse of hooves and then was bowled to one side as the horse, unwilling to contest with the newcomer, caught him a glancing blow. It galloped off even as its former rider rolled to a stop.

  Wellen tried to rise, but much like the steed, he too was at his limit. Even when he heard a louder hiss and saw the second drake appear, the strength would not come to him. The drakes were cowards, yes, but not when it came to the helpless. Wellen had as much chance of fending them off as he did of casting a spell. The bitter irony that here his lack of true power would finally prove his undoing, made him curse the heavens for ever having created the silver mark as the symbol of sorcery.

  "Such, such language," came a voice.

  The drakes froze, then scattered as if one of their more violent cousins had come for them. Wellen tried to turn over and see his rescuer, but that was now beyond him.

  "Where . . . who . . . ?"

  Darkness coalesced in front of him, taking on the vague shape of a cloak and hood. In the deep shadows cast by the hood, he barely made out the general visage of a man. That was all he could tell about his rescuer. The massive robe all but buried its wearer within.

  "You should be more careful, Dru," the cloak said. Wellen tried to speak, but then even breathing became difficult and he passed out.

  Chapter Five

  Xabene stood by the long-dead campfire, her silence condemning the Necri in front of her as no words could. The Necri refused to be cowed by this mortal creature. It had performed its part as commanded.

  At last, the enchantress turned on the monster. "You were caught up in your entertainment, weren't you? You were too busy with your playthings to keep an eye on the leader of the newcomers!"

  The pale, batlike servant hissed. Through its own peculiar method of communication, it had let known all that had happened, but Xabene still did not believe it.

  She shook her head. Time and time again she had warned her masters that the Necri had only limited uses. They were too savage, too single-minded. While it had vented its eagerness upon the outsiders' scouts, the dragons had struck at the column itself, slaying most and scattering the few survivors. The winged monstrosity claimed it had followed the short one who was leader, but somehow the two had become separated in the hills. The dark sorceress was certain that she would not have lost track of a man, but then men were her forte.

  What bothered her most was the sensation she had felt at roughly the time the Necri indicated it had lost sight, both normal and magical, of the human. It was a feeling she had only associated with two other forces, the gnome and the Lords of the Dead . . . yet she was ce
rtain it was neither.

  "We have to find him again! You"—she stared into the white, dead eyes of her inhuman partner—"have to find him, or the failure will be on your head!"

  The Necri bared its long, glistening teeth, but it did not argue. Their masters were not ones to debate the reasons for failure, they would merely execute punishment. Still, both knew that it was just as likely that they could find fault with Xabene. After all, it had been her duty to back up the Necri in its mission.

  Yet, she too, only came up blank when she sought to tear away the darkness that had enveloped the outsider leader.

  At least we have your face, she thought. The Necri had been able to relay that much to her. A short man, true, but not unsightly. A learned man from what the Necri's sensitive ears had picked up during its visitation to the men's camp.

  Also a man who wore the mark of the warlock, the sorcerer, yet did not display any power whatsoever.

  You will be so much more entertaining then most, she thought to the mind image of the one called Wellen Bedlam. She hoped that her masters would leave something of him when they were done; it was rare that she encountered a man who wanted more than conquest, riches, or even women. Here was one that wanted knowledge, too.

  Certainly he would make a better companion than that! Xabene decided sourly, giving her monstrous counterpart a glare that would have chilled most mortal creatures. The Necri only twitched its long ears and waited for her to return her attention to it. She buried all personal thoughts of the missing outsider in that secret part of her mind that no one, not even the Lords of the Dead, could touch.

  "He has to be somewhere," she told the Necri.

  Its nose wrinkled as if it had smelled something unpleasant, though what a carrion beast such as this could find unpleasant was a good question. Xabene knew what the response truly meant; the Necri was not one for the nuances of human speech and thought. Its kind had no use nor could even comprehend the use of obvious statements such as the last.

  "We have no choice but to search until we find him."

  This time, it shook its head. Searching the hills would take it days, perhaps weeks, even with the use of its sorcerous powers.

  "Would you rather we go to the masters and tell them of our—"

  The Necri had begun to vehemently shake its head, but then something beyond Xabene made its soulless orbs widen in outright fear.

  The sorceress whirled about, thinking that perhaps the Dragon Kings had seen past her spells of concealment.

  An odd, greenish hole had opened up behind her, one that stood in open air. It was nearly a third again her height and twice as wide as the Necri. Though nothing was visible within, she could already detect the sweet scent of decay emanating from the hole.

  Now beside her, the Necri hissed. It was not a challenging call, but rather a meek, fearful response to something they both recognized.

  The Lords of the Dead already knew of their failure, and they had come to their own decision concerning the twosome.

  From within the hole, a second Necri emerged.

  "Awake, are you?"

  Wellen opened a pair of protesting eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings. For a time, there was little more than a vague light. Then, things slowly began to take form.

  To say he was in a cavern was to understate matters. This simple cavern was tall enough to house a castle in its midst. Much of it did not seem natural, as if some ancient had carved out most of it, then left a good deal abandoned. He wondered whether it was the same being that had possibly shaped the landscape.

  "No, the cavern is not the work of any Dragon King."

  The scholar rose quickly to a sitting position, then waited for the wracking pain to punish him for his transgression. When nothing happened, he looked down at himself. Not only were the blood, scars, and dirt gone from his hands, but his garments looked new. Wellen put a hand to his nose and delighted in the sensation of skin touching skin. There was no blood when he pulled the fingers away. A quick inspection of his forehead wound revealed that it, too, neither bled nor pained him.

  He finally recalled the voice and also remembered the murky figure that had rescued him from the minor drakes.

  It . . . he . . . was seated on a stone throne overlooking much of the cavern. Only the voice lent any clue to the identity of the figure and that only of the gender. The hood and robe obscured so perfectly that Wellen Bedlam would have almost assumed he was staring at a pile of clothing rather than a man.

  "I took you for another," the cloak said. "I sometimes forget that so much time has passed. He's likely dead by now, don't you think?"

  "Who?" the confused Bedlam asked. He thought of Yalso, but the figure surely did not mean the sea captain.

  "Dru . . . but then, you didn't know him. Still, I see him in you."

  "Who are you? I mean . . . I thank you for what you've done, but I don't know where I am or why you—"

  The robe waved him to silence, revealing by the act the fact that the figure did indeed have a hand. A gloved one. Like the robe, it was dark gray. Everything about the figure seemed to be gray.

  "I've watched you for the past day. You're here because I thought you someone else . . . then it was too late. I decided to continue rescuing you, after all."

  Wellen began to wonder whether his host was completely rational.

  "No, sometimes I lapse and forget where and when I am." The hood leaned forward, revealing just a bit of proud chin and stern mouth. "The forgetting of when is by far the worst, I warn you."

  "Are you reading my thoughts?"

  "Something like that. It is so much easier when you are conscious, though. Besides, you've hardly kept them hidden, now have you?"

  Though he had never manifested power, Wellen did know of mental shields from his studies. He raised one instantly.

  "Now is that any way to build trust?" The hooded warlock rose, but made no threatening gestures. "Well, I've always believed in the sanctity of one's privacy, so I have no qualms if you desire to protect yourself." The hood tilted to one side. "Besides, I'm certain we'll come to an understanding before long."

  "Who are you?"

  The warlock turned from him, seemingly caught up in other matters now. He moved to a table where a collection of artifacts and drawings were scattered and began to collect the latter. The table, as far as Wellen was concerned, had not been there a moment ago.

  The cloaked figure finally managed to respond to the scholar's question. "I am the shadow of the past, a ghost of your past . . . and even mine. Whatever name I had, it hardly matters now. Those who knew it are dead. Dust. My people live on in you and those above, but the memory of greatness has been forgotten." The warlock shrugged, his back still to Wellen. "You may call me Shade; it's appropriate as anything and I have become attached to it over the past few centuries."

  "Past few—" Bedlam cut off the remainder of his stunned reply. He knew that spellcasters could extend their lives, but that was generally limited to three or four hundred years. Though the one called Shade had not indicated otherwise, Wellen suspected that he was speaking of much more than four hundred years. There was a presence about the warlock so alien, so ancient, that the expedition leader would have been willing to judge the sorcerer in terms of millennia rather than centuries.

  He realized that his fantastic host had turned to him once more. In the left hand was a plate upon which fruit had been piled. Wellen was aware that the plate had been nowhere in sight, just as the table had been earlier.

  "It would be best if you ate. I have tended to your wounds and replaced your clothing. You will need to be at your best when the time comes."

  The temptation to ask the warlock exactly what it was the scholar had to be ready for was great, but Wellen decided to wait until after he had eaten. The food would give him strength he might need in case his host proved to be too unstable. The shorter man did not know how he might defeat a master warlock, but he was prepared to try, if necessary.

  "
I thank you. I could use food."

  The plate floated from Shade's hand and landed in Wellen's lap. "When your constitution is a bit stronger, then perhaps you can try something other than the fruit. For now, it will serve to revive your strength."

  Wellen tore into the food, finding his hunger suddenly growing into a monster as huge as the dragon that had slaughtered his men. Thinking of the drake made him pause. The warlock also paused, as if he, too, knew what his guest was thinking. Bedlam wondered just how strong the mental shields he had put up really were. Was Shade reading his mind again?

  "Something disturbs you?"

  "I was thinking about the dragon and the attack."

  "Oh." The cloth-enshrouded spellcaster shrugged again, apparently deciding that the deaths of so many good men were of little consequence to him. "You find that such things happen here."

  "Is that all you can say?" At last roused to anger, Wellen Bedlam rose, spilling the plate of partially eaten fruit all over the smooth cavern floor. "They died needlessly!"

  Quietly, patiently, the warlock said, "I have seen more deaths in my life than there are fish in the seas. Only my own now concerns me . . . even after so many failures."

  The scholar stood where he was, shaking in frustration. He could think of nothing to say to his host that would likely break through the apathy that had built up over a lifetime at least tenfold, possibly a hundredfold or a thousandfold longer than his own.

  Bitterness growing, Wellen reached down and retrieved the fruit. There would come a time, he reflected, when the warlock would regret those words. When death finally came for the man, the angry scholar hoped Shade would recall what he had said now and how he had reacted. Wellen's men at least had their leader to mourn them; no one would ever wish to mourn for someone such as Shade.

  For a time, he ate in silence. The dark spellcaster seemed satisfied to simply stare his way. He tried not to stare back, but more and more the shadows that hid the warlock's visage bothered him. What did Shade truly look like? What effects would living so long have on mortal flesh?