Then, the dim blue illumination touched an array of small, glittering objects before him.
They stood upon a pedestal, each in its own little slot. Vials no bigger than his index finger. There were ten vials in all, each sealed tight with wax. What was within he could not say, only that it shifted as he tried to see it, almost as if it did not want to be seen. His scholarly side seized control. Wellen crouched near the pedestal and surveyed the scene from eye level. The slots had been designed to securely hold the containers. No simple jostle of the pedestal would shake them loose. For that matter, the stand itself had been created from the same stonelike substance that formed the pentagon itself. The pedestal literally grew from the floor, which made it doubtful that anything short of a dragon would actually be able to disturb it in the first place.
"But what is it?" he muttered.
There came an almost undeniable urge to reach forward and touch the nearest vial. The urge was desperate, needy, and not of his own doing. It was the same sensation as the voice. Whoever or whatever had chosen to speak through his mind desired him to touch one of the vials. It pleaded through sheer emotion for him to do so. He started to comply, but as he eyed the odd array, the arrangement of the containers registered.
He was staring at a pentagram. The pattern was almost identical to that utilized by the Lords of the Dead. This was not just a display, but part of a complex spell of which the sealed vials were likely of the utmost importance. There was one at each point of the pentagram. The only difference was that instead of an eleventh container, a clear gemstone filled the center. It was not an overly brilliant stone, which was why he had not paid that much attention to it, but he saw now that someone had cut the stone to certain specifications. If things followed as they had with the necromancers, then the centerpiece was a focus of sorts.
What was in the vials, that they were used in this spell? What sort of power had the gnome captured in each? What was he doing with it?
The urge to reach for the nearest vessel struck him again, but he shook it off. Touching the magical construct of a creature like Serkadion Manee could easily prove very, very fatal. He had his life to consider. His and Xabene's. She was still trapped here somewhere, perhaps the captive of the immortal.
Trapped . . . A chill wind enshrouded him. Indignation amidst despair rocked his senses. Pleading struck him again while he fought off the other emotions.
There's more than one! the scholar thought. More than one . . . soul? . . . trapped . . . trapped? Wellen dared lean close enough to minutely study the foremost flask.
A soul? No, not a soul. A mind.
Ten of them.
"Lord Drazeree protect me!" he uttered, falling back on the inaccurate version he had grow up with. This was what Shade had hinted at! This was what the twisted gnome did with those he invited in! He doesn't like to waste anything. He said so himself!
How did he progress? Did he take their memories, as he had taken Wellen's, and then used their bodies for whatever purpose the gnome needed them for? No, the bodies had to be the last thing, else the minds would have been damaged, possibly destroyed.
The possibilities became too grotesque. Bedlam forced the thoughts to the back of his mind, but they continued to make their presence felt. He concentrated on the vials. Within was something not quite white, not quite liquid, that tried to hide from his sight. Each vial held similar contents.
With a deep breath, Wellen took hold of the closest. Pleadingsobbingshatterchildrenfatherhelphusband
Wellen gasped and tore his hand away from the vessel.
"Too much!" he shouted at the mind he had touched. "I can't take that all in!" The memories and the message had kept mixing. It was probably as confusing and difficult for the trapped thing within as it was for the scholar.
Shatter, he recalled. It said 'shatter'. A plea to destroy the vial? That would kill it---
He shook his head. Not kill it. In truth, the ten were already dead; they had just not been allowed to rest. How long since they had been forced into this tortured nonexistence? The minds must burn out eventually, but they went through agony in the meantime. Bedlam had felt that. Not just from the one he had touched, but from all of them.
There were many questions the dark-haired explorer desired answers to, but to delay in what had to be done would only be adding to the cruelty that Serkadion Manee had instigated.
The vials would not come free of the pedestal; Wellen had learned that during his brief physical contact with the vessel. He would need something to smash them with, but his choices were sorely limited. Anything that could have been used as a weapon had been removed. While he did not want the immortal's victims to suffer further, Wellen did not relish using his bare hands.
He looked down, trying to think, and noticed his boots. They were of the sturdy kind, designed for the tremendous trek originally intended. Comfortable, but with sturdy enough soles and a bit of heel that, admittedly, had been added in vanity to give him a little more height than nature had provided.
Stepping back, Wellen measured the pedestal. If he raised his leg high enough . . .
Balancing himself, Wellen kicked with as much force as he could muster.
The vial shattered, pieces flying everywhere.
Something like a whisp of smoke shot forth from the remains of the vessel. A trilling sound assailed the explorer's ears as the smoky form whirled about his head once. Wellen caught a glimpse of a face, or at least thought he had, belonging to a woman. That was all he could see. The smoke curled around itself then and, without further fanfare, dissipated.
He became awash in a sea of emotion. Pleading and hope from those still trapped. The ease with which he had liberated the first still somewhat surprised Bedlam, but it was possible that Serkadion Manee had never considered an intruder down here. Wellen suspected that the reason he was here in the first place was due to the very beings he was now aiding. The Dragon King's presence likely had something to do with their sudden freedom to act in their own behalf.
Shifting his stance, Wellen brought his boot up again. This time, he aimed so that more than one vial would be in the path of his heel. The sooner this was finished the better.
Three more containers shattered under the impact of his second strike. A harmony arose as three tiny forms intertwined with one another and then, like the first, circled his head once. He saw no ghostly visages this time, but he felt their overwhelming gratitude, their relief at being freed from their torment.
As the three faded, the scholar studied the remaining ones. The anticipation they exuded permeated him, making Wellen all that more desirous to put an end to the travesty. He considered his arm. The vials were actually fairly fragile, perhaps a necessity for the spell. While his hands were unprotected, his arm was covered in cloth. One good sweep of his arm could do what would have required his heel two or three attempts to complete.
He stepped around to the other side of the pedestal, measured, and pulled his arm back.
His head shrieked a dire warning.
Wellen fell to the floor and rolled away from the pedestal, the blue light, as was its manner, shifting to compensate. The scholar came to a crouching position. The pedestal was only a dim outline at the edge of the ball's illumination. He could see no threat to warrant the alarm.
"What . . . have . . . you . . . done?" came a voice from somewhere behind the vials.
The despair he felt was not just that emitted by the minds in the vials. His own more than matched theirs.
"Do you know what you've done?" What was most frightening about the voice was its detached quality, almost as if the questioner had gone beyond anger to something far colder and far deadlier.
An inferno lit up the region, momentarily blinding Wellen. When he was able to see again, a tiny part of the scholar's mind noted that beyond himself, the pedestal, and the newcomer, there seemed to be nothing but emptiness.
Emptiness and Serkadion Manee.
"Six left," the wizened gnome co
mmented, looking down at the broken pentagram. "But not at all in a viable configuration. That means that control is gone."
Perhaps it was Wellen's imagination, but he thought he felt an aura of satisfaction emanating from the remaining victims. "He shall treat you no better than I, my little friends," the gnome snarled. His attention turned to the human. "And you have finally made a place for yourself in the Dragonrealm." Manee indicated the now empty slots.
Wellen knew his only hope was to stall. It was the only thing left to him, a momentary halt to the inevitable. Unless a miracle occurred, nothing would prevent Manee from adding him to his vile collection.
He wondered if Xabene had already been added. Was one of the minds hers?
"I'd like to ask a question if I may?"
Something much like the strange square memory device materialized in the gnome's wrinkled hand. "I have no time for questions or rebellious creations! Each moment allows that infernal lizard to further set back my precious work! The chessmen do not respond now and the corridors are beginning to buckle. . . and you have made the situation intolerable! Without a properly coordinated system to maintain the balance, this entire structure cannot exist! The libraries will fold in on themselves as they try to take up limited space . . . and they will not be concerned with the presence of any of us!"
"Stealing my mind will hardly give you the added control you need."
Serkadion Manee glanced at the vials. "I can create another viable configuration, one that will work until I've gathered enough replacements. The female, for one. Perhaps the drake, too. I've never tried one of his kind." Despite his talk of time limits, the sorcerer became caught up in his own suggestions. "I had to rely on elves and dwarfs and the like. They lasted longer, but were too scarce. When humans appeared, they looked to be perfect, but they only last two or three centuries." He scratched his chin. "What would be perfect is an immortal, but the drakes live centuries. They will do perhaps as a good substitute."
"How do you propose to get the Dragon King to accept such a task?" Wellen asked. If his choices consisted of three hundred years of agony or a quicker death in the collapse of the citadel, he would take the latter. He only hoped the destruction was imminent.
"Once I have this realigned, I will have time to consider that." Manee smiled. "A pity we do not have more time to discuss things. You have potential. Unfortunately for you, it is time for me to make use of some of that."
Wellen's legs abruptly gave way, sending him to a kneeling position on the floor. He felt the other minds mourn their lost hope and his lost life.
"Just one thing," Wellen asked, no longer trying to stall but wanting to know. "Where's Xabene? What have you done with her?"
The gnome's smile soured. "I do not have your companion, but do not worry, my young friend; she will be joining you soon. There is no way out of here without my assistance."
"You weren't responsible for the chessmen?"
"Talkative until the end?" Manee stepped around the pedestal. "Yes, I was. . . in the beginning. The drake's presence has muddled things. I lost control and these"—he indicated the vials—"these dared to exert some independence."
Their hatred for their captor could be felt even now. Serkadion Manee shrugged it off. "Their agony cannot be helped, nor will yours. It is essential that my work continue and that the results are available for possible later study. I need this spell to maintain that system. I could use the memory disks, of course, but they do not last. The memories fade." The gnome's smile broadened again. He appeared to be trying to be kind about the situation, as if Wellen had a choice. "Otherwise I certainly would not do this, believe me."
He held up the gray, square device with the metal side toward the straining human. "You will find this a bit more shocking than the other one."
Whether it was his own latent ability come to the forefront in this desperate moment or some carelessness upon the immortal's part, the novice spellcaster felt a weight lift from his entire body. Movement was his again.
Wellen did the only thing that he could think of under the circumstances. He threw himself against the shorter Manee.
The gnome just had time to open his mouth before the two of them met. As they fell, his disk slipped from his hand. Wellen cared not; if Serkadion Manee recovered, the gnome could easily retrieve his dark device. The scholar had to keep his adversary off balance. Only if he succeeded could he even consider the menacing artifact.
Manee struck something solid, jarring both men hard.
The pedestal! Wellen, taking advantage of the fact that the sorcerer had taken the brunt of the collision, lifted the much lighter gnome and threw him over the top of the stand.
There was a crackling noise as the immortal sprawled over the pedestal.
Stumbling back, the explorer watched in relief and awe as the six remaining victims were released. For a breath or two, the smoky creatures cavorted over the stunned figure of their murderer and enslaver. Then, they drifted over to Wellen, enveloped him in a wave of gratitude, and drifted off, fading as they went.
A tremendous groan marked their passage. Wellen felt the floor beneath him shift.
Without the imprisoned minds to coordinate his spell, could Serkadion Manee's libraries be beginning to collapse?
"No!" Rolling off the pedestal, the gnome turned and gazed upward. After a quick study of something that Wellen could not see, Manee glared at the scholar. Wellen found himself again frozen in place. "I hope you enjoyed your moment of magical glory, my young, impetuous friend, because even if you can manage another spell, it will not be as easy to escape from my domain as it was to break free of the holding spell!"
"What are you going to do?" He fully expected the worst. He had possibly caused the destruction of the work of ages. The scholarly side mourned its imminent passing but the practical side reminded him that it had to have been done. Whatever fate awaited him would be better than what the immoral had planned.
In point of fact, however, Serkadion Manee was smiling, albeit this time without any pretense of enjoyment. With grim satisfaction, he replied, "No, things are not quite ready to crumble yet. You have caused, though, an imbalance. Things will begin to shift in an attempt to keep the citadel from collapsing . . . and that will cause yet more chaos. Worse, there is no control over anything." The gnome shook his head in mock pity. "But I am hardly in dire straits. I planned for this eventuality. There is a method, albeit a rather drastic one, by which I can restore control of this place. If I could only remember what it entailed I could . . ."
"You speak of a lack of control? Does that mean you've lost control of the citadel?"
Manee did not answer his question. Staring off into the emptiness, he said, "It has been too long. I can't remember what it was." He reached out to his motionless prisoner. "Come. We have a book to read."
Once more, they suddenly stood in the libraries.
It was not the same corridor, not unless the tomes had changed the color of their bindings. These books were sky blue. Again, Wellen was amazed at the sheer volume of Serkadion Manee's studies.
"This way." Under the gnome's guidance, the scholar followed his captor down the corridor. Manee seemed at ease despite the fact that somewhere the Dragon King was searching for them.
The gnarled sorcerer began running his fingers over the spines of one particular row of books. He muttered something under his breath. Wellen could do nothing but walk and watch.
"Here!" Manee pulled out one of the volumes. He opened it. Like a living creature, the pages began to turn of their own accord. Manee perused them, telling the book to continue when he did not find what he was looking for.
"Ah! Stop!"
The pages flattened out.
A bent finger ran down the length of the left page. Serkadion Manee nodded to himself. "Of course! How silly of me! That's why I created it like that in the first place." He tsked and looked up at his captive. "Time takes its toll even on the most brilliant of minds. It has been so long that I forgo
t and yet what I forgot was so simple in the first place!"
Closing the dragon tome, the gnome sent it floating to its rightful place. He started to speak, then squinted at something behind Wellen. The scholar, of course, expected the worst.
"Odd. The corridor did not end so close. The pentagon must be readjusting itself. I'd hoped the control had not slipped that badly."
Wellen said nothing but his eyes widened as the part of the corridor he was forced to gaze at abruptly ended no more than a few yards behind the gnome. When they had first appeared, it had been as endless as any. Now, a shelf full of books, silver copies, adorned the area.
Noting the look, Serkadion Manee turned. "Nimth's blood! This is more fouled than I imagined!" he snarled at his reluctant companion. "It is only appropriate that since you are responsible for this disarray that you be the sole means by which it is tidied up."
Wellen expected to find himself teleported again, but the gnome did nothing but fold his arms. For several seconds, the human pondered what it was that Mance intended. Then, a prickling sensation coursed through his feet. He wanted to look down, but Manee's spell prevented him from looking anywhere but in the direction the squat mage stood.
"What's happening to me?"
"I regret this, I really do, my overcurious friend. It will be a waste. You probably will not last more than, oh, three or four years, being mortal, but I have no better choice at the moment. A pity you are not immortal, like myself. Then, you'd last forever. The spell for that takes too long to prepare, however. You would need the life span of a Vraad for that and I am afraid the blood has been watered down by too long exposure to this world." The gnome became thoughtful again. "Perhaps I can entice the hooded one into returning. He might be useful once you fade. Yes, I'll have to consider that."
The unnerving sensation had spread upward to Wellen's knees now. He gritted his teeth and asked again, "What are you doing to me? At least tell me!"
"Now that it has progressed so much, I suppose I can. It appears your own power will not save you this time. You are more of a carrier than a mage. I suspect that your children . . . which you will not have, of course . . . would have been exceptional sorcerers." Serkadion Manee reached up and tapped Bedlam on the chest. "As for satisfying your curiosity, it is the least I can do for a fellow scholar. Put quite simply, you are going to become part of my domain. At present, the floor is slowly encroaching upon you. It lives in a sense, have I mentioned that? It has no higher thought, only base instinct, but that might change now. I have never really tested its potential; so much else to do, you know. It is a radical solution and I fear you will not be as efficient as the matrix was, but this will have to do."
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04 Page 31