Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04

by Richard A. Knaak

  "Mito Pica."

  He glanced at the warlock. "What?"

  "Mito Pica." Shade indicated the village. "It will be a grand and glorious city in another century or two. Much traffic flows through it."

  "How can they hope to build anything with the dragons loose?" Despite his question, Wellen Bedlam could already see that the village was thriving. There was new construction going on in the western portion of the village.

  "The Baron of Mito Pica obeys the edicts of the ruling Dragon King. His people perform the tasks that come down from the ruling drakes. In return, they are left in peace."

  "They . . . they deal with those beasts?" Throwing off the warm cloak given to him by Shade, Wellen took a few steps forward in order to better view the village. Sycophants! An entire community of them! Dealing with murderous monsters that—

  A restraining hand caught his shoulder. Wellen discovered two things. The first was that, in his anger, he had started down toward Mito Pica. The second was that the warlock was not only a being of great magical power, but also great physical strength.

  "It would not do to go wandering down there. Not for our needs. As to your question, they deal with the dragons because doing so allows them to live and flourish. The Dragon King's folk have become dependent on many services performed by the . . . the humans." Shade seemed reluctant to actually use the word human to describe his fellows, but apparently had come upon no other word that satisfied him.

  "What could they want that humans have?" Besides the flesh on their bones, Wellen added bitterly.

  Shade shook his hooded head and looked down at the scholar as a disappointed schoolmaster might at student who has not lived up to his potential. "The drakes are not mere beasts. They are thinking creatures. Despite their savage nature . . . " Here the warlock paused, seeming to drift off. "Yessss . . . their nature has always been rather savage."

  Wellen was already thinking of his brief contact with the mind of the attacking dragon, an act he still had no satisfactory explanation for. In retrospect, he could recall the complex workings of that mind.

  "The humans tend their food herds," Shade continued, not, evidently, noticing his own lapse. "They act as trade emissaries between the various clans because two drakes of opposing groups tend to become combative after a time. Humans are beneath them, but the Dragon Kings know their skills at trade. There are many other ways that the human race has proven itself worthy of survival. The population has grown continuously because of that." The warlock shook his voluminous cloak, as if trying to rid himself of something not to his taste. "Not bad, considering how few survived the original chaos."

  Forcing himself not to ask about the last statement, which he knew that Shade would not explain anyway, Wellen decided to deal with his own immediate future. "And we have some reason for coming here now?"

  "We do, but our route will be quicker and more subtle." Wellen barely had time to prepare himself before they teleported again.

  This time, he found himself in, of all places, a smithy. The smithy, actually a barn, was filled with all sorts of metal creations, including a few that he could not identify. To Wellen's right, an open doorway taunted him with false promises of escape. Ahead, a heavy, muscular man, nearly bald, was hard at work on something that his back hid from the sight of the scholar.

  "Master Bearn."

  The smith seemed not at all startled by the voice. With great deliberation, he put aside what he was working on and turned to face the twosome.

  "Master Gerrod. Good to see you, sir."

  Wellen made note of the educated tones of the smith, but his interest focused more on the name Shade had given himself. He debated whether or not Gerrod might be the warlock's true title, then decided that the cloth-enshrouded spellcaster would hardly have utilized it. Shade had probably chosen the name at random, not because it had any meaning.

  Bearn seemed not to notice the scholar, which was fine with Wellen.

  The warlock's visage was shadowed by his hood, but his voice hinted at his anxiousness when he asked, "And have you completed my task?"

  In response to the question, Master Bearn seemed to shrink. He now appeared only slightly overwhelming. His tone was bitter. "I have not. In the year since last, I have made many breakthroughs, but none worthy of your project." Bearn spread his hands, "If you should choose to go to another, I would understand."

  "You are the most suited for the task, Master Bearn, as your father and grandfather were before you. Each of you has presented me with discoveries which, while not of use for that which I have described, have proved worthy in other ways." The almost soothing voice of the warlock surprised Wellen, who had not expected to find so much humanity still remaining in the shrouded figure.

  "Here." A pouch materialized in one of the smith's empty hands. The smith gripped it, causing the pouch's contents to jingle. "Until next year, Master Bearn."

  "I have not earned it—"

  For a brief breath, the crystalline eyes burst through the darkness caused by the overshadowing hood and glowed with an inner fire that, even after millennia, had evidently not been extinguished. "When you or your descendents have completed my commission, smith, it will be worth all the money your family has been paid . . . and more!"

  Bearn went down on one knee and thanked the warlock. Shade gripped Wellen's shoulder. "Come."

  As simple as that, they stood on a rocky hillside. Wellen started to look around, then gasped and covered his eyes when the glittering brilliance almost blinded him.

  "The peninsula . . . can be quite bright when the sun is sinking," Shade informed him. The warlock pressed something into the scholar's hand. "Put this on. It goes. .. over your eyes."

  Wellen cautiously looked down at the object. It was a pair of transparent lenses attached to some sort of frame. A notch in the center seemed to indicate it should rest on his nose. After a few tries, he got the artifact to fit, if not comfortably.

  He looked up. . . and was dazzled.

  Even with the protective lenses on, the landscape still sparkled. He had seen crystalline deposits before and so he knew what was causing the magnificent glitter, but the sheer immensity of this place . . .

  "It's . . . it's . . . "

  Beside him, Shade nodded. "It is. That is why he and they have chosen this place."

  Wellen was suddenly wary again. “’He'? 'They'?"

  The cloth-enshrouded figure pulled his voluminous cloak tighter. "The first you have no need to be concerned about. He never interferes. He has no interest. As for the latter . . . they are here now."

  And the earth at Bedlam's feet erupted.

  They burrowed free of the rocky soil, two monstrosities that overwhelmed both men in size. Their clawed hands were good for both digging and grasping. They had dusky brown shells that covered most of their bodies, and their heads were long and ended in a peculiar, tapering mouth. Even with the lenses on, he could see that they, like their land, glittered.

  One of the creatures hooted. It was a long, baleful sound that made Wellen's heart flutter. At the same time, however, the scholar in him was fascinated by these incredible creatures. Interest and reason, the latter reminding him that he had no chance of escape anyway, kept him riveted where he was.

  "He is with me," the warlock informed the beast who had sounded.

  The second horror also hooted, albeit at a higher pitch. Though the sounds meant nothing to WeIlen, other than that both creatures appeared disturbed, the ancient spellcaster evidently understood them perfectly.

  "Not yet. You have not completed your end of the bargain. Have you found it? Is there one?"

  The two armored figures eyed one another, seeming to confer. . . and then one dared to reach out and try to snare Wellen.

  Its speed was so unbelievable for so bulky a beast that the scholar, on his own, would have moved much too slowly. Even as the huge, taloned hand closed on his shirt, however, he found himself standing several feet behind Shade, who now was positioned directly be
tween his mortal companion and the earth dwellers.

  Shade reached out and touched the would-be attacker with only the tip of his gloved index finger.

  It squealed and began folding into itself. The other one, sensing that they had overstepped their bounds, backed away and sounded a similar squeal. The warlock paid the second no mind, but watched the first. Wellen, daring to step closer, could not help but watch also.

  Like the armadillo it so closely resembled, the monster folded itself into its shell. Yet, the change did not stop there. Rolled tight into a ball, the hapless monstrosity squealed what was obviously a frantic plea to forgive its transgression. Shade simply folded his arms. As the other watched, the rolled-up form stiffened, grew more indistinct. Wellen noted that the monster looked more and more almost like a . . . like a rock.

  That was what it was. The image was no longer indistinct. Where once the mighty beast had been was now a large, quite real, boulder.

  A short, dry chuckle escaped the warlock. "Not much of a change in personality when you think of it."

  The survivor fell to its knees.

  "Get up," the spectral figure commanded. Wellen saw a different Shade now. The warlock had multiple personalities, likely developed from his eternity of near isolation.

  The armored monster obeyed.

  "You have to watch the Quel," Shade informed his companion offhandedly. "They have vile tempers." To the sole remaining Quel, he said, "Your companion will return to normal in two days, long enough for him to contemplate the foolishness of his actions. We have a bargain. Just because you have been unable to fulfill it so far is no reason to demand things from me! If you no longer wish to deal with me, you can always deal with him!"

  The plaintive hoot the kneeling Quel emitted left no question as to the beast's opinion on the last suggestion. Whoever it was that Shade spoke of, the Quel feared almost as much and hated more.

  "I thought not. I shall return next year then, as agreed. Perhaps your successors will be more fortunate."

  The finality in Shade's tone was signal enough to the lone Quel that its presence was no longer required. It cast one disturbed glance at its ensorcelled companion, then dug its claw into the hard earth below.

  With a speed and skill that would have been the envy of many animals, the creature burrowed into the ground. In only a few breaths it had vanished below the surface. In only a few more, there was barely even a sign that it had ever been there. Only a small mound of unsettled dirt. The Quel evidently filled in its tunnel behind it as it burrowed. Wellen wondered about its lung capacity.

  "Nothing," Shade whispered to himself, "but the pieces will slowly gather." He did not bother to clarify for his companion. "Perhaps in another century the preparations for this spell will be ready . . . "

  Wellen, carefully silent, shivered then, but not because of anything the warlock had said or done. The shivering came on its own and, while it existed for only a brief time, its reappearance made him stiffen, for the sensation was akin to those he had felt just prior to his experiences with both the Seeker and the dragon. He shifted his position as he tried to calm down.

  The warlock, sensing something was amiss, whirled around. "I had almost forgotten." He began to revert to the dark, dreaming persona that Wellen had met first. "It is time to talk again . . .

  "Time to speak of lives and how they change . . . or perhaps how they are changed literally," Shade added, now sitting once more upon the throne in the cavern.

  Spitting out a very unscholarly epithet, Wellen tried to orient himself again. He only barely heard the shadowy figure's words. The constant shifting from one location to another was wreaking mental havoc on him. He did not know if he simply hated the teleporting or the fact that he always found himself so helpless. Dragons and spellcasters; what chance did he have? Despite the 'drake clans above, Wellen hoped that he and Shade would remain in this location for awhile; at least until he ceased feeling like a leaf caught in a whirlwind.

  As if purposely choosing a moment when Wellen was most open to attack, the sensation of impending danger struck him again. This time, it lasted longer than a few seconds. Like the last occurrence, however, it eventually did pass, again leaving no reason for its existence. Was it merely because he was a captive of the warlock? Was it possible that he was just imagining the sensation?

  That will make two madmen, the bitter warrior silently cursed.

  Shade, half lost in his thoughts, barely even noticed his "guest." He looked skyward, staring through the cavern ceiling to some place beyond, both in time and space. "Do you know, monster, what it is like . . . to live so long . . . but to live in constant fear for. . . your very self?"

  The scholar thought he had a fair idea of the latter portion of the question, but it would hardly have been to his benefit to mention who was presently the cause of that fear.

  "Dru Zeree . . . " The dreaming warlock gestured. A vague apparition began to take form before him. "He always seemed to see so much, yet he could not see what was happening."

  The apparition swelled and coalesced, gradually taking on a more distinct appearance. It was a man, one who swayed back and forth like a leaf in the wind. Wellen squinted, noting the height, the beard, and the streak of silver. Was this Dru Zeree? Was this truly what the legendary Lord Drazeree had looked like, or was it a stylized phantasm, an image borne of ancient but colored memories?

  "Master Zeree . . . " Shade whispered. He met the gaze of the misty figure. "What did you finally become?"

  Weller) could have told him, but he knew that Shade would never believe the legends. The warlock would refuse to believe that his companion of old had lived a long, fruitful life and that there were those, like the scholar himself, who had some claim that they might be his descendents. Shade would hardly care anyway; to him Dru Zeree had become a monster like all the rest.

  Bedlam wondered if Shade had ever looked in the mirror to see what he had become.

  Another form began to materialize on the warlock's other side. Shade barely paid any attention to it at first, caught up as he was in some one-sided conversation with the ghostly Dni Zeree, but when he did, he fairly buried himself in the depths of his cavernous cloak. His voice was barely a whisper, but Wellen, watching the new specter take shape, already knew who now haunted the spellcaster.

  "Sharissa . . ." The warlock whispered.

  The depths of his insanity were ever surprising the explorer. It was clear from Shade's reaction that even though he was responsible for conjuring up these apparitions of the far past, he did not entirely control them, at least, not on a conscious level. He had, in fact, succeeded only too well in haunting himself.

  What price immortality?

  She was tall, albeit not so much as the other conjured ghost, and slim. A magnificent robe of white covered her very female form and silver-blue hair cascaded down her back. She was beautiful, so very beautiful, this possible distant relation of Wellen's, that the scholar knew she must not be real. He was seeing her, and Dru Zeree, as the hooded spellcaster wanted to recall them, not as they had been. Still, there had to be some truth to their appearances. They were too distinct to be entirely fashioned from Shade's madness.

  Rising, the warlock joined the shades of his past. As he moved and talked, they floated about him, taking in his words and responding in silent mouthings that the ancient spellcaster evidently heard.

  "I did care for you, Sharissa," he told the female image, "though I knew you would never be mine."

  Her smile brought sunshine. She said something that made Shade laugh, much to Wellen's astonishment. The laugh was young in direct contradiction to his deathly countenance and his previous, darker moods. "Yes, I think I knew that. I just did not want to admit it."

  Fascinated, Wellen stepped closer. Now might have been the perfect time to seek escape, but he found he could not pull himself away from the fantastic tableau before him. That this scene confirmed the madness of his captor was not so important as what it revealed about
the history of Wellen's kind.

  Though it was not likely pretending to him, Shade took the insubstantial hand of the Sharissa image and pretended to pull her nearer. "I hated most of all to think of you changed. I thought you would be a physical horror, like my brethren . . . like my father. Now I see, though, that you of all of them could not suffer such a fate." The image put a hand to his cheek. He moved as if truly being caressed. "I see that you could only have become a goddess!"

  Is this what near-immortality does to one? Wellen found himself saddened despite his own predicament. Is there a point where your existence becomes only a never-ending look back at your failures, your losses?

  The Sharissa image wavered around the edges. The explorer glanced at the unmoving figure of Dru Zeree. It, like the other, was just beginning to grow indistinct. Shade was slowly returning to the present, Wellen assumed. Soon, he would recall his 'guest' and the questioning would begin again.

  Then he looked closely at the warlock and discovered that he also had grown vague around the edges.

  Wellen blinked and tried once more. If anything, Shade had become even more murky. What becomes of him?

  Somewhat belatedly, the sensation of possible danger returned.

  On the dais, Shade was still caught up in his conversation with the two phantasms. Wellen found he could no longer hear the warlock. In fact, he could not hear anything. The scholar turned uncertainly and scanned the cavern chamber, his fears almost immediately justified.

  It was not just the warlock who was fading, but rather the entire cavern.

  Or was it Wellen himself?

  "Shade!" he called frantically, hoping to stir the dreaming spellcaster. To his growing horror, the shout emerged as no more than a whisper, one that even he found barely audible. Wellen started forward, but despite movement, he drew no closer to the dais.

  The domain of Shade dwindled without pause. Bedlam finally stopped running. The effort was futile and he was only expending his own energy. Yet, he could not just give up. There was no telling what had become of him. It was even possible that the dream-struck sorcerer himself has been responsible for the scholar's predicament, though Wellen was of the opinion that the source was from somewhere beyond.