Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04

by Richard A. Knaak

  "Let me help you," came a quiet but, somehow, commanding voice. A single, delicate hand, female, reached out and touched one of the tentacles.

  The appendage unwound and snapped back into the wall with such haste that it took part of Wellen's sleeve with it. Again the graceful hand, attached to a slim arm clad in white gossamer, reached out and touched a tentacle.

  Whatever was happening, the beast had decided it had happened once too often. Wellen fell back as the tentacles were frantically withdrawn. He coughed as air rushed into his lungs. There was no doubt in his mind that he had scars around his throat and wrists. Still trying to draw breath and also watching to make certain that the wall stalker did not attempt to renew its attack, he said, "My . . . my thanks!"

  "I would always help one of my children."

  He raised his head and twisted around to see who had saved him.

  She was taller than him and nearly as tall as Shade. Her well-formed figure was outlined in white, making her appear to be some snow goddess, and her hair, long and flowing, was silver-blue. A streak of very solid silver also ran through her hair.

  His next statement died as he studied her more closely. The hall behind her was visible through her.

  She smiled, almost a bit sadly, and somehow the smile made up for the fact that she was one of the undead. This was not Yalso. This was not one of the necromancers' toys. Here was one who could not, would not, hurt him.

  "Tell him I always cared about what happened to him," she whispered. Then, in slightly lighter tones she added, "There are still a few facets of crystal in your eyes."

  "Wait!" He knew without knowing how, that she was leaving. "What—"

  The white wraith pointed backward at the hall behind her. "She lies that way. You won't be impeded anymore. I can see to that before I go."

  She was growing less distinct, looking more and more like a bit of smoke in the wind than a woman.

  He hesitated, then asked, "Did I . . . did I summon you?" "I will never belong to the children of the drake," was her dwindling response.

  Wellen shook then, feeling as if he had both found and lost something. He rose, thinking that the spirit had looked familiar, almost like . . . like the phantasm that had haunted Shade? Lady Sharissa?

  Did she call me one of her children? The scholar found that hard to believe. If true, the bloodline had grown diluted over time. Many families, including his own, had laid claim to being descended either from the Lord Drazeree's . . . Dru Zeree's . . . daughter or from the children his elven bride had borne him. He had liked to think there was some truth, had even subconsciously used it as a reason for his obsession, but to actually be . . .

  As astonished as he was, Wellen recalled what his true task was and rose. If he was a descendent of the legendary lord, it behooved him to prove himself more than he had so far.

  Wellen followed the path both his mind and the wraith's words told him was the true one. He was relieved to discover that she had not lied about one thing; nothing larger than a hand-sized, dead-white spider crossed his path and it had retreated quickly. All the time, the castle was silent. What had happened to Shade and the Lords of the Dead was an enigma. Wellen had expected the castle to rock from the intensity of their battle. He had anticipated explosions, thunder, and the screams of massive monsters brought into the fray by both sides. The silence, however, reminded him too much of the invasion of the Green Dragon's domain. The scholar was unfamiliar with sorcerous duels, but he assumed that they involved some noise.

  Turning a corner, he found a wooden door. There was no question in his mind that this was his destination. This was where Xabene, or a part of her, was kept. He had no idea what he would find behind the door. A wraith, like the one in the hall? Conjectures were useless; it was easy enough to find out.

  As Bedlam reached for the handle, the citadel shook.

  A roar like a thousand storms raging all around nearly deafened him. Wellen put his hands to his ears and fell to one knee as the floor began to ripple beneath his feet. Pieces of stone dropped from the ceiling as shock wave after shock wave rocked the castle. It was as if all the effects of battle had been saved up for this one movement. Perhaps Shade had confined the battle somehow so that Wellen could find Xabene without too much trouble. If so, it boded ill that the hooded warlock's intentions had failed.

  The stone floor tilted, nearly sending the hapless rescuer crashing into the opposite wall. He tried to grab the handle again, but it stayed just out of reach. Wellen managed to stand in one place, but then his boots started to sink into the stone floor. Not wanting to sink through to whatever lay below, or worse, find himself trapped in the very stone itself, the determined explorer struggled his way back to the more solid walls and pulled himself up by what little fingerhold he could find. The floor still had some solidity, too. With effort, he found himself making progress toward Xabene's chamber again.

  A flurry of tentacles in his face made him throw himself to one side. A wall stalker sprouted full-grown next to his chest, but it had no interest in him. Wellen watched as the monster frantically wiggled its multitude of appendages in a useless attempt to stay attached to the wall. With what must have been a despairing hiss, the creature lost total control and plummeted to the floor.

  It did not fall through as he expected. Instead, the wall stalker struggled as a drowning man might. One or two tentacles of the beehive creature shot in his direction, but not far enough. The thing rolled about in the liquid floor. It seemed to be trying to swim its way to the opposing wall. Unfortunately, the wall stalker was not built for that. All it succeeded in doing was miring itself further.

  As abruptly as it had liquified, the stone floor reverted to normal . . . much to the distress of the necromancers' pet.

  Wellen swore as he turned away from the stomach-wrenching sight. As simple as it had been for the wall stalker to shift through stone, there was evidently some conscious effort needed. Caught unaware as it struggled, the monstrosity was crushed in the sudden reversion. A shower of entrails and fluids narrowly missed Bedlam. A wave of sulfur made his nose burn and his eyes water, but fortunately, it was only a momentary thing.

  Testing the stone, Wellen dared put his full weight on the floor again. Tremors still shook the castle. Although there were no windows here, he did not doubt that if there had been he would have seen a panoramic display of colored explosions lighting the generally dismal landscape. Light seemed a key element in dealing with the Lords of the Dead. They and most of their abominations had an aversion to it. Only a few servants, mostly humans like Xabene and reluctant creatures like the Necri, the latter of whom probably preferred the night, were likely to be of any use during the daytime.

  He touched the door. To his surprise, it swung open easily. Almost too easily, he thought, but then it was doubtful that the necromancers had contemplated someone actually invading their citadel. Either that or once they had made use of Xabene, she had become unimportant to them.

  "Xabene?" His voice echoed.

  He stepped into the chamber, not understanding. Xabene had to be here. It felt correct. Shade had said he would be able to follow the trail; the wraith of Lady Sharissa had pointed the way. This was the place.

  It's not her true body I'm looking for, Wellen reminded himself. It's her spirit.

  Follow the trail . . . he had followed it to the room, but could it be followed farther?

  Slowly, he wound his way into the middle of the room. There did seem to be more to the path. It was as if he was at his destination but not.

  As he circled the center, still tracking the trail, the scholar saw a form shimmer into and out of existence.

  A woman on a platform.

  He continued to circle the center, finding somehow that the trail overlapped itself again and again but did not come to a definite conclusion. What sort of mad sorcery is at work here?

  Wellen glimpsed the image again. It was Xabene. She seemed a little more solid now, although the image itself lasted litt
le longer than it had the first glimpse. The enchantress was stretched out much the way she had been in the Dragonrealm, yet now she was more ephemeral, more like a dream.

  This is not her true body. Would he be able to touch her, much less wake her? Wellen tried calling out to her again, hoping that his voice would do what his hands might not. "Xabene! Awaken!"

  She remained as she was, but the image of her grew more constant, albeit still ghostly. Bedlam circled like a vulture, both marvelling and despairing at the way the path seemed destined to go on forever. Still, each revolution appeared to bring him closer to his goal. Closer, but never actually there.

  "Xabene!" The chamber quivered as another tremor shook the castle. A piece of ceiling stone crashed to the floor just to the right of the scholar. Neither the sudden crash nor the tremor so much as caused the sleeping enchantress to shift.

  She must wake! he thought, before the entire citadel comes crashing down on us! Or just him, he corrected. It might be that Xabene was beyond the physical danger. "Xabene!"

  Her eyes opened wide and stared skyward. He was overjoyed until he realized that nothing else was happening. Xabene merely lay on the platform, arms crossed, and watched the ceiling. She made no move to acknowledge him nor did she appear to notice the destruction going on around her.

  "Xabene, I won't leave without you!"

  The enchantress turned her eyes toward him. Though her mouth did not move, he had the impression that she spoke his name.

  Madness or not, he seized the straw. Wellen held out his hand. "I have come to take you back with me."

  She stretched out a hand toward his. It was not insubstantial, as he had assumed it would be, but very light. Slowly, her ghostlike form rose from the eerie platform and joined him. Xabene said nothing else, but the enchantress did smile.

  Now what? Shade had not told him what to do after this. Wellen had assumed that he would recognize the way back when the time came, but nothing struck a chord.

  Shade! What do I do?

  In the chamber of the pentagram, the twelve still stood. The eleven Lords of the Dead and Shade. None of them had moved so much as a foot or even a finger in all the time, yet the signs of their savage battle were everywhere. The ceiling was gone, opening the chamber to the pitch-black sky that was occasionally lit by fire. Portions of the castle lay strewn about both the room and the landscape. Things glowed or melted or died, depending on the spell that had been cast.

  Near the center, whirlwinds failing to dislodge his hood, stood Shade. He stared ahead at the one called Ephraim, but his mind, like theirs, was all over the landscape.

  One part of his mind heard Wellen's anxious thoughts. Slowly smiling, an act which instantly pushed the Lords of the Dead to renewed efforts, the warlock responded.

  Xabene's spirit, her ka as Shade had called it, turned toward one of the far walls with such abruptness that Wellen expected to see a horde of tentacled stalkers come crawling through. That was not the case. Instead, his unworldly companion began trying to pull him toward the wall. Uncertain but not knowing anything better to try, he allowed her to lead him, careful never to lose his hold. The enchantress's hand was so light it was almost possible to forget one was holding it. That could prove dangerous. If he and the ka were separated, Xabene might never wake.

  He might never return.

  She continued ahead, even when it was evident that the wall was not going to move for her. Bedlam started to warn her, then closed his mouth as first her fingers and then her arm disappeared through the stone. Within seconds, the enchantress had vanished, save for the hand the scholar still held.

  "Xabene!" She might be able to walk through walls, but Wellen could hardly be expected to follow—

  His own hand sank into the stone without even the slightest tingle.

  Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, the novice warlock allowed himself to be led through. He did not open his eyes until he was certain that enough time had passed.

  Wellen almost regretted reopening his eyes. They had left the castle interior and the spirit was now pulling him along with even greater force, almost as if she were nearing an important destination.

  It would not have been so bad if the two of them had not been more than twenty feet above the ground.

  He knew that Xabene did not have to fear falling, but he wondered what held him up. Certainly not his own skills. Could it be that Shade was aiding him again?

  They flew swiftly over the landscape. Wellen dared to look back. For the past few moments, the citadel had been deathly quiet, but he doubted that the battle was over. If Shade had won, he would have joined them. If the warlock had fallen victim to the Lords of the Dead, the two mere mortals would hardly have been allowed to escape.

  Something began to take form ahead of them. It resembled Shade's ball of light, but much, much larger. Xabene's spirit focused on it.

  Behind them, there was a slow, building growl of thunder. It did not end after a few seconds, but continued to grow in intensity. Wellen did not have to be told that the final showdown was coming. When his wraithlike companion picked up her pace, he did not argue.

  They were nearly upon the fiery sphere. It was wide enough to admit a score of riders traveling side-by-side and taller than the gnome's citadel. The heat made Wellen sweat, but he would have been willing to face the burning might of the sun, if only to escape this place.

  He assumed this was escape.

  With a final effort, Xabene dragged the two of them into the inferno.

  "—back here, warlock!"

  Wellen Bedlam looked up at the startled countenance of Benton Lore, who actually dropped his sword as he stared at the battered and torn figure lying in a heap on the rug next to Xabene's bed. The officer retrieved his weapon and, still stunned, stared into Wellen's face.

  "Master Bedlam!"

  The worn scholar tried to say something, but only a low croak escaped his now parched lips. He felt as if all fluid had been drained from his body.

  "Get him water!"

  One of Lore's men brought a mug. Wellen accepted the water and gulped it down. A sense of reality finally returned to him. "We're back!"

  "You barely left! First the two of you vanish, then a second later, you return! What happened to you?"

  He was not certain he had heard the officer's words correctly. "Only a few seconds?"

  "No more."

  "I do not—" The stench of the dead Necri attacked his sense of smell. What was left of the monsters had not been removed, something that Lore would have definitely had done at first opportunity. Memories tame tumbling back to him. With an effort he would not have thought left in him, Bedlam whirled around and pulled himself up. "Xabene!"

  His heart sank. The pale enchantress lay as she had before. "What did you expect?" Commander Lore asked in open curiosity.

  Wellen wanted to tell him about all that had occurred and how hours, not seconds, had passed, but he could not take his eyes from the still figure. For all she had to answer for, he did not want to lose her. When he had been younger, the scholar had smiled in mild amusement at stories of people who were drawn together almost from the first they had met, despite their differences. Now, Wellen was not smiling, for with him it was true.

  He put a hand on her arm.

  Xabene stirred.

  The soldiers tensed, as if expecting some new trap, but Lore signalled them to relax. "What have you done, Master Bedlam?" "Nothing!"

  She opened her eyes wide, quickly scanning the chamber as if unable to believe where she was. Then the enchantress focused on Wellen. To his surprise, Xabene turned away.

  "I'm sorry . . . it was so tempting at first."

  "What was?"

  Xabene turned back. Her expression was hard, cynical, but her eyes were moist. "What do you think? They offered me all that power back . . . and more . . . "

  "And did you accept their offer?" Benton Lore asked. His manner was easy but his falchion was ready. Wellen glared at him, but the soldie
r did not lower the blade.

  "I almost did . . . but then I realized what that would mean." "Yet, you still let them through!"

  "I had no choice by then! They were too strong!" She tried to rise, but it became apparent almost immediately that her strength was far from replenished. "Too strong!"

  "Commander Lore, I will vouch for her!" Wellen understood the officer's concern, but Lore seemed too determined to have someone to punish for the embarrassing intrusion. "She was hardly an honored guest! You also might recall what Shade said . . . not too long ago . . . about how she would have died before very long if the part of her the Lords of the Dead had stolen had not been returned."

  Lore was by no means convinced, but he quieted nonetheless. "And where is Master Shade? Will he be returning shortly, too?"

  "He isn't here?" Xabene looked around, as if expecting the shadowy warlock to materialize in some corner. "But he was the one who showed me the way back!"

  "He stayed behind." The rolling thunder echoed in Bedlam's mind. "He was still fighting the necromancers. Shade must have wanted us out of the way."

  "But I thought that she was the only path open to you," Benton Lore commented, forgetting his distrust of Xabene for a time. "If she is awake and well now, then that path is closed to him."

  Taking the enchantress by the arms, Wellen asked, "Can you open the path again? Can you?"

  "No!" She looked away, not wanting to see his disappointment. "They've severed the link! I'm cut off from them forever! I'll never be . . . " Xabene's voice faced away as she contemplated her future.

  The thunder seemed to roll even louder in his head. He closed his eyes and tried to will it away. "Then, Shade's trapped in their domain."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The rest of the night passed without any sign of Shade's return. Wellen was surprised at the depth of emotion he felt for the peculiar, often tragic, warlock. Shade had saved him more than once and the last time for no reason at all. His only comfort lay in the fact that the Lords of the Dead had been conspicuously absent, too. They had not attempted a second invasion. Wellen could only hope that if the warlock had perished, he had at least taken the necromancers with him.