Realms of the Dragons vol.1
( Anthologies - 9 )
Коллектив Авторов
Anthology
Realms of the Dragons vol.1
Contents
Soulbound — Paul S. Kemp
First Flight — Edward Bolme
Gorlist's Dragon — Elaine Cunningham
The Keeper of Secrets — Ed Greenwood
The Topaz Dragon — Jess Lebow
Wickless in the Nether — R. A. Salvatore
Serpestrillvyth — Richard Baker
Waylaid — Thomas M. Reid
Standard Delving Procedure — Lisa Smedman
An Icy Heart — Voronica Whitney-Robinson
Penitential Rites — Keith Francis Strohm
How sharper than a serpent' tooth — Dave Gross
Beer with a fat dragon — Don Bassingthwaite
The prisoner of hulburg — Richard Lee Byers
SOULBOUND
Paul S. Kemp
The Year of False Hopes (-646 DR)
Avnon Des the Seer, First Demarch of the Conclave of the Hall of Shadows, awakened from his vision. Something was amiss. He opened his eyes to the darkness of his meditation cell and listened.
Silence. Unusual silence.
The air felt changed. The shadows in the cell appeared more substantive, almost viscous. Pressure made his ears ache, made his head feel thick.
He rose from his prayer mat, pensive, uncertain, and walked to the narrow wooden door of the cell. He lifted the cold metal latch and pushed the door open.
Darkness in the apse beyond, broken only by two wan candles burning atop the square block of an altar. All appeared in order, yet….
The main double doors to the temple stood open and dark. It was midday, yet he could see no light beyond the doors. He could hear no sounds from the city streets outside.
What was happening?
Barely daring to breathe, and with a sense of foreboding heavy enough to bow his shoulders, he moved toward the temple's doors. Some of his fellow demarchs emerged from their meditation cells, others from the doors behind the altar that led into the sanctum.
All shared the same confused look; all muttered the same confused questions.
Like wraiths, they walked toward the doors. They seemed content to let Avnon lead, and he reached them first. He looked out and could not control a gasp.
There was no city beyond the doors, no streets, no carts, no horses, only plains of tall, black grass waving in a soft breeze.
His heart thumped in his chest. His brethren came up behind him, around him, and their gasps echoed his own.
His legs felt leaden, but he walked through the doors and onto the black-veined marble porch immediately beyond them. He was having trouble finding breath; it was as though the air was too thick to inhale.
All around him was dark, shadows, and gloom.
In his mind, a voice-his voice-kept repeating, "I did not foresee this. I did not foresee this…"
He looked up into the sky and saw no sun, no stars, no twin moons, only black splotches of clouds backlit by some sourceless, sickening ochre light.
"Kesson Rel has stolen the sky," he breathed.
Kesson Rel, the first Chosen of the Shadow God, stood in ankle-deep water and waited for the dragon to show itself. Protective magic sheathed his body, warding him from both physical attack and the dragon's life-draining black breath. Another dweomer allowed him to speak to and understand the dragon in any language the creature might use.
The perpetual dimness of the Shadow Deep did not limit his vision. The swamp stretched in all directions as far as he could see. Flies and bloodsucking insects thronged the air; huge bats wheeled in the sky above. Steaming pools stood here and there, leaking the stink of organic decay. Stands of droopy leafed trees sat forlornly at the edge of the pools.
And roofing it all was the black, starless sky of the Shadow Deep.
Kesson enjoyed the gloom of the place. The Deep felt like home to him. He knew it would eventually drink the life from most mortals. His former fellow demarchs of the Hall of Shadows soon would learn that lesson. They still did not realize fully what he had done, what he planned.
Perhaps Avnon Des foresaw his end? The thought brought a smile to Kesson's face. He-
The insects vanished in a blink. The sounds of the swamp fell silent. Stillness reigned.
The shadow dragon, Furlinastis, was approaching.
Kesson scanned the sky, looking for the tell-tale cloud of darkness that cloaked the dragon. He saw nothing but the thin, black clouds, backlit by the dim, ochre light of the plane.
A sound behind him, a whisper of movement. He whirled, the beginnings of a spell on his lips.
Too late.
The dragon leaped toward him, filling his field of vision with a cloud of shadows, scales, and claws. He had only a moment to marvel at the ability of the creature, as large as a temple, to move in near silence.
The dragon's hind claws hit him with the force of a trebuchet shot, wrapped him in their dark grip, and drove him flat on his back underwater. If his magic had not warded him, all of his ribs would have been shattered under the wyrm's crushing weight. "Even with the magic, the beast's claws managed to score his skin, to squeeze the breath from his lungs. If he didn't act quickly, he would be drowned.
Looking up through the lens of the dark water, he could make out no details. The mammoth form of the dragon looked like a wall of black.
"I smell the protective magic on you, human," the dragon said, and its whispery voice was audible even through the shallow water. "Let us see if it can fill your lungs."
The dragon ground him farther into the mud, farther under the water.
Kesson fought down the instinctive rise of panic that threatened to overwhelm him and gathered his thoughts. As always, he had prepared in his mind several spells that he could activate without words, without components, with only his will.
While his body strained for breath, he triggered with his mind a spell that would move him from one location to another in a blink. When the spell took effect, he vanished from underneath the dragon and reappeared, wet, muddy, and out of breath, in the shadows of a copse of trees perhaps a stone's throw behind the reptile. With an exercise of will, he pulled the shadows more closely to him, cloaking himself in a darkness that not even the dragon's sight could penetrate.
Despite himself, Kesson found the dragon, a creature of myth on Kesson's home world, awe-inspiring to behold. Black and purple scales, some as large as tower shields, rippled with the movement of the vast muscles and sinews beneath them. Claws as long as swords sank deep into the mud. The dragon's wingspan could shade a castle.
And all around the huge body shadows danced, leaking from the creature like steam. Even to Kesson, himself a creature of shadow, the dragon's outline appeared blurred. At the margins, the dragon appeared to meld with the darkness of the plane.
Despite the dragon's majesty, Kesson knew that he was the more powerful servant of the shadows.
Still sheltered by the trees, he began to whisper the words to the first of two compulsions.
The dragon must have sensed that he was no longer under its claw. The great creature whirled a circle, seeking him out, its great head waving hack on forth on the serpentine neck, dark eyes blazing.
"You are near, human," said Furlinastis in his susurrus voice. "The stink of your invader temple is upon you."
Kesson almost smiled. The Shadowlord's temple was not an invader of the Shadow Deep but an exile. Kesson had moved the temple and all its aspirants there after its ruling conclave had branded him a heretic for drinking from the Chalice. Perhaps later, he would move
all of Elgrin Fau into the Shadow Deep, just to watch the City of Silver die in the darkness.
The dragon chuffed the air, searching, searching. Water lapped around its huge feet.
Kesson stepped forth from the obscuring shadows. The dragon's eyes fixed on him and the pupils dilated. The creature reared back its head, no doubt about to exhale a cloud of its life-draining black breath.
"Remain still," Kesson said, and held up his hand.
Power went forth from his palm, the might of his will made manifest and augmented by the power of his spell. It met the will of the dragon, bound it, dominated it-but only barely. It would not last long.
The wyrm stood as still as a statue before Kesson, bound to obey his command. Wisps of shadowstuff leaked from the holes of the reptile's nostrils. The creature's respiration was as loud as a forge bellows.
Kesson waded into the water and stepped nearer the dragon until he stood within reach of its jaws. He felt the dragon continuing to struggle against his spell. Left alone, the dragon would in time escape the magical bondage. But Kesson would not be leaving the dragon alone.
"I will not harm you, beast," Kesson said. "But you will be made to do as I and my god require."
Hearing those words, the dragon strained still harder against the spell-to no avail.
Kesson smiled, stretched forth a hand and laid it on the dragon's scales. The shadows leaking from Kesson's pores mingled with those surrounding Furlinastis.
"It will not be a difficult task," he promised, and ran his fingertips over a scale. It felt cool and smooth beneath his skin, like an amethyst. "You spoke of the invader temple, so I know you know of it. Look at me," he commanded.
Slowly, with palpable reluctance, the power of the spell bent Furlinastis's head down until the dragon's dark eyes fixed upon Kesson. Kesson could see the anger smoldering there, the hate. He thought he had never' before seen a creature so hateful of servitude as the dragon. He wondered if all of dragonkind was similarly prideful.
"Once, I served in that temple," Kesson said. "But then the Shadow God made me his Chosen and allowed me to drink from his Chalice. He subsequently blessed me by transforming my flesh-" he held up his hands to show the dragon the dusky flesh, the sheathe of shadows that encapsulated him-" my spirit, and showing me this world. Rather than a blessing, the Conclave of Demarchs saw my transformation as a mark of transgression. They named me heretic." He licked his lips and controlled his anger. "But I name them fools. As punishment for their foolishness, I used the power bestowed on me to take the temple and all of its occupants from my world to this place, where they will die in the dark for their ignorance. You will kill them."
To that, the dragon could say nothing.
"You wish to speak?" Kesson asked. "Speak then."
His words loosened the binding of the spell enough to free the dragon's tongue.
"Kill them yourself, human," hissed the dragon, and the force of its breath pasted Kesson's cloak to his body. "I am not-"
"Silence," Kesson commanded, and the dragon stopped speaking in mid-sentence.
"I would do so if I could, Furlinastis." He shook his head and smiled at the absurdity. "But I have oathed to never directly take the life of a fellow priest-as have they oathed with regard to me. And those oaths were sealed with the most powerful binding spells known to my people: soul spells. Such spells are unbreakable and impossible to bypass, unless the two souls be willing." He saw the dragon desired again to say something. "Speak."
Furlinastis said, "Your words are nonsense. Your spells but paltry magic that fortune favored this time. And when I am free-"
"Silence," commanded Kesson again, and again Furlinastis fell silent. "You will never be free, dragon. The enchantment that now binds you is but a temporary measure. It is with a soul spell that I will bind you to me… forever."
Again the dragon strained against the spell, managing in his anger to lift a claw a hand's breadth out of the water. Kesson admired the dragon's strength, but knew it would not be enough.
He began to cast the soul spell, a type of magic unique to his world, a binding fed by the strength of his own spirit. His fingers, leaking shadows, traced an intricate path through the fetid air. His lips spoke the words of power known only to the priests of his people. When he pronounced the last of the words, he felt his soul bifurcate, felt the magic of the spell siphon some small portion of his essence and shunt it to the dragon. There, it diffused into the wyrm's own soul, like a dram of ink dropped into a pail of water, and bound the creature to whatever Kesson might command.
The effort cost Kesson a small part of himself, weakening him enough that he might not have been able to defeat the dragon again had they done battle just then.
"Henceforth, in all things you will obey me," he said, and knew that his voice was pounding like a maul into the creature's brain. "Your first duty is this: every twenty-four hours, you will come to me here and I will give you the name of a priest in the temple. After receiving that name, you will fly thence, take up the named priest, harming no others, and bring him before me."
Kesson imagined how it would feel to look upon his traitorous brothers, one by one, as they died. He wanted them to understand before the end how little they understood the will of their god.
"At my command you will devour the named priest, or perhaps eviscerate him. This you will do until all of the priests within the temple are dead."
Ordering another to kill did not violate his oath. He would see them die, though he could not do it by his own hand. Kesson knew that forty-four priests of the Shadow God resided within the temple: thirty six aspirants and initiates, and the eight members of the conclave. He would begin with the aspirants. "Vennit Dar," he said.
The slaughter began with Vennit Dar and continued once every twenty-four hours thereafter for… How long had it been now? Furlinastis wondered. Too long.
The dragon had no qualms about the slaughter of the priests. He simply found it intolerable that the human, Kesson Rel, had bound him with a spell-a soul spell-such that Furlinastis would die to obey any command uttered by the theurge.
Soul magic. Furlinastis had never before heard the term, and hoped never to hear it again. He needed, desperately needed, to free himself of the magic. Like others of his kind, Furlinastis was a force of nature, a thunderstorm in the flesh. And storms could not be bent to another's will, not even that of a theurge.
But he had no inkling of how he might free himself of the spell.
He roared in anger, sending a blast of his life-draining breath streaking into the starless sky. Seething, he beat his wings and soared through the gloom of his home plane. As always, a cloud of shadows enswathed him. A name filled his mind, vibrated in his soul, forced him onward: Nelm Disvan.
Nelm would be the next to die.
Avnon paced the Hall of Shadows. The velvet mask he wore-the symbol of his faith-made him feel as though he was being suffocated, but he resisted the urge to pull it from his face. He knew the urge came from more than merely finding it difficult to breathe. It came from a crisis of faith. The Shadow God appeared to have abandoned them in favor of Kesson Rel, the heretic who had defiled the Chalice.
No, Avnon thought; shaking his head. His visions had shown no such divine displeasure, and he and all of the other priests-aspirants, initiates, and members of the conclave alike-still could call upon the Shadow God for spells. Their god had not abandoned them.
Not now, he thought, not ever.
Kesson Rel had dared drink from the Chalice. As punishment, the Shadow God had marked him an apostate by transforming his flesh. But the god's purpose was inscrutable to Avnon. Perhaps the god wanted to test the temple priests by seemingto favor Kesson for a season. Perhaps he wanted to determine which of them was the stronger: Avnon and the orthodoxy, or Kesson Rel the heretic.
Of course, Avnon already knew the answer. None of the temple's priests could stand against the theurge. Kesson had been the First among them, and after his blasphemy, Avnon had s
tepped into the theurge's sandals only with reluctance. Avnon was but a simple priest. Kesson commanded both arcane and divine magic, with a skill and power unmatched by any. Even collectively, the entire conclave could not defeat the theurge. Nor could they defeat the dragon that Kesson had recruited to do his bidding. The huge reptile came "daily" to collect the tithe of flesh that Kesson took as recompense for his excommunication. Avnon had no doubt that each priest so taken died horribly, and that Kesson Rel gloated over the kills.
Why did the Shadow God permit it? Avnon wondered. He had no answer. His faith was failing. Would they all die there, on the barren plains of a dim, shadowy hell? So it appeared.
The conclave had attempted to open a portal back to their own world, but it appeared that Kesson Rel had anchored them to the Plane of Shadow when he moved the temple there. The conclave also had discussed fleeing the temple, spreading out and taking their chances on the gloomy plains. But none had been able to get farther than two hundred paces in any direction before bumping up against an invisible force that forbade further travel. The theurge had bound them fully and completely to that single world, to that single temple, on a clump of dark ground as wide as a long crossbow shot. They were penned animals awaiting their turn at the slaughter. The theurge meant to see them all dead, Avnon knew, and he wanted them to die with terror and faithlessness in their hearts.
At first Avnon and his fellow demarchs had tried to resist the dragon's assault with force of arms and spells. But their incantations and weapons bounced harmlessly off the creature's scales. The dragon had taken care not to kill anyone, but the priests had been and remained powerless to stop the creature. Terror went before it in a wave so powerful that even the most senior of the priests cowered at the dragon's approach.
Each day, the unstoppable reptile left the temple with a single priest grasped in its claws, and over time the demarchs had learned helplessness. Their faith was not failing; it had already failed. Avnon saw it in their eyes. If it had not been ingrained in them by their oaths, Avnon thought his fellow priests might have taken their own lives rather than endure the agony of watching death inevitably approach. But watch they did, and each awaited the daily return of the reptile and its dire pronouncement. They had not attempted to understand the dragon's speech. They understood enough. The reptile spoke the name of Kesson Rel, and the name of the doomed.
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