Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  An interesting and devastating surprise awaits you all on the morrow, Darkhorse thought, wondering what the loss would mean to the crusade. If Shade was indeed working with the Silver Dragon, a killing as potentially demoralizing as this might send the entire military expedition back to Talak, the last place the drakes would want them, if the eternal had read the situation correctly.

  Fairly certain he was not about to enter into a trap but unwilling to put his complete faith in such a belief, the shadow steed trotted quietly down toward the encampment. A portal would have been quicker and probably made discovery less likely, but materializing in an area that his adversary had just departed from was something he did not want to take a chance with this time. Besides, with Drayfitt dead, he faced only human soldiers, men whose weapons were nothing to him.

  The tent was not quite on the edge of the camp and Darkhorse slowed as he entered the region. Whole at last, it proved little trouble for him to make a guard’s eyes avert or cause a passing soldier to turn in another direction. A young recruit peeling an apple suddenly dropped his knife and, while he searched the dark ground for it, failed to notice the ebony form that flitted silently past. The shadow steed reminded himself what he had been through already so that the ease with which he now succeeded in his tasks did not create deadly overconfidence. It was at times like that when disaster struck—and Shade was a master of disaster.

  Around the tent, the grounds were noticeably deserted. Though a sorcerer was generally invaluable in terms of combat, most of the soldiers, up to and including their officers, preferred, whenever possible, to keep a safe distance from those such as Drayfitt. One never knew what might crawl out of a spellcaster’s confines.

  Hmmph! Ice-blue eyes blinked as Darkhorse stared disbelievingly at the display only Shade could have wrought. The hypocrisy of his longtime friend/foe astounded him. I grow less and less enchanted with the true you the more time that passes, dear Shade!

  There was no doubt that the warlock had honestly meant this as an honor of sorts, else he would not have taken the care with both the body and the bier that he had wrought. Darkhorse doubted that there had been much remorse; it hardly seemed the way of the new—that is, the old and original—Shade. Still, the stallion wondered how even his adversary could have not seen what he had created. Not a monument, but a mockery.

  Drayfitt lay peacefully—the first time the shadow steed could recall seeing him so—with his arms crossed and his worn robes replaced by a fascinating, multicolored garment that the sorcerer would have never worn in life. A false smile graced his lips, obviously the warlock’s doing, as Drayfitt had, in the shadow steed’s limited experience, never been a man to smile freely. This was not the elderly sorcerer but some cruel parody.

  The funeral bier was worse. As had been his people’s way, Shade had created what might have been called a typical Vraad monument to opulence. Gilded and decorated freely with what were likely actual gemstones, it seemed more like an attraction in a city bazaar than the resting place of the unfortunate spellcaster. The base, in fact, was composed of four, intricately carved figurines designed to seem to be holding the bier level and representing the drake, human, Quel, and Seeker races. Darkhorse pondered briefly the potential significance of the four, but could think of nothing that related to his present situation. Desiring a closer look, he probed the immediate area again.

  A thin tendril of life flickered within Drayfitt’s body.

  Untrusting, Darkhorse probed again. It was there! Only a trace and barely even that. He knew he could not save the aged mortal, but there was a chance, then, that Drayfitt might be able to tell him something about Shade’s plans. Anything.

  The essence of his probe altered. Where in the past few days he had twice been forced to part with a portion of his very being, Darkhorse now willingly gave of himself, a handful of water to a man dying of thirst. It was a slow, careful process. Too much and he might finish what Shade had started; too little, and he might not revive the sorcerer in time.

  The cracked, gaunt face twisted suddenly as life fought back. Drayfitt coughed and choked, his fingers reaching out to claw at the air, perhaps in an unconscious attempt to further gather life to his thin shell.

  Darkhorse silently cursed those who had given the original Shade his own life.

  Eyelids fluttered open, but the eyes within did not see. The shadow steed moved closer, hoping that, even if the dying mortal could not see, then he could at least hear.

  “Friend Drayfitt, it is I, Darkhorse,” he whispered in one ear. “Do you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Drayfitt, I have done my best for you, but your time is short. Talak and your people still depend upon you, as they have for more than a century.”

  The sorcerer’s mouth opened and closed. Darkhorse waited. The human’s mouth opened again and a hiss escaped as Drayfitt sought to speak. Uncertain as to whether he might push too far, Darkhorse gave of himself again.

  “Draaa… aaa…” the failing spellcaster managed to say.

  “You are Drayfitt. That is true.” Inwardly, the stallion wanted to roar. Would this be all his efforts came to? Was there nothing left of the human’s mind?

  “Draaag… King!”

  Dragon King? Which one? The lord of clan Red?

  “Tallll… aaak!” Drayfitt’s left hand sought out his own chest. “Quorin!” It was the clearest, most precisely spoken word so far, an indication of the sorcerer’s hatred for the counselor. Drayfitt clutched at his chest again, as if seeking something that had hung around his neck—or Quorin’s.

  While what he had heard had begun to form an ugly picture in Darkhorse’s mind, none of it concerned the one the phantom steed was hunting. “What of Shade? Tell me of Shade!”

  “Memmm… mrriess. Focus… child?” The eyes turned, seeing perhaps, at least shadows of what was around him. Drayfitt, with forethought that had kept him alive and secure for so long, was trying to economize his words to those that would mean the most. He knew that his life was ebbing away and that even Darkhorse’s gift was failing him.

  “Focus? Child?” What did it mean?

  “Mistake again… again—”

  “Master Drayfitt!” someone shouted from without. Darkhorse turned, then realized that the sorcerer was still saying something. By the time he turned again, Drayfitt had grown silent. His eyes were still open, but the only thing they might be seeing now was the final path that all mortals took at the end of life. His last words had been lost.

  “Drayfitt!” An officer in his middle years barged through the tent flaps. Unlike most humans, who were properly in awe of the eternal, the newcomer took one stunned glance at the immense steed before him, drew a sword, and charged.

  The image was so incredulous that Darkhorse laughed despite all that had happened. Ignoring the laughter, the soldier cut expertly at the stallion’s legs. A true horse would have been too slow and would have fallen to its knees, its front legs useless. Darkhorse, though, nimbly stepped aside. Pulled off balance by the force of his own swing, the officer left his side open. Darkhorse seized the opportunity, sending the man flying with the gentlest of taps with his front hooves.

  “Now,” he roared, ignoring the other humans who rushed through the entrance, “if you will be so kind as to listen instead of trying to kill everything in sight, I will—”

  “You’ll do nothing, demon!” A man clad in armor decorated intricately enough to designate him as the commander of the expedition pushed aside the rest and strode toward the shadow steed. He carried no sword, but something in his right hand emanated so much stored energy that Darkhorse grew uneasy. There had been, throughout the millennia, objects created by one race or another with more than enough killing power to destroy a hundred Darkhorses.

  “Listen to me, you fools! Talak—”

  “—will not suffer your masters’ reign of tyranny ever again!” The commander held up a small black cube.

  “My masters? I am no thrall of the Drag—”<
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  Darkhorse got no further. The tent interior melted into a surreal, fog-shrouded picture. Darkhorse shook his head, trying to focus on reality. Through the haze, he could still hear the voice of the human.

  “Think our king did not imagine your drake masters would try to summon such as you? This talisman is proof against your kind!”

  The shadow steed tried to argue, but his words were muted by whatever trap he had been caught in.

  “Would that I could command you to tear your masters apart, but such is not within the power of this object! I can only command it to perform its original function—and send you back to whatever hellhole spawned such as you! Begone now!”

  “Foooolssss!” was all Darkhorse had time to cry.

  “UTTER, ABYSMAL FOOLS!”

  “Once there was a tiny dot,” a voice floating in the nothingness commented blandly. “A tiny hole in reality, he was.”

  The shadow steed kicked uselessly at the empty space around him. He knew where he was—how could anyone fail to recognize a place as barren as the Void?

  Whatever hellhole spawned me? This is not quite the hellhole that spawned me, but nearly enough, curse all meddling mortals! I should stay here and let them suffer their fates!

  “The tiny dot grew over—time doesn’t work, does it? I shall have to find something else later, when I have the”—the owner of the soft-spoken voice giggled insanely—“time!”

  Darkhorse focused on the direction the voice seemed to be coming from. “Still composing your tales?”

  “I compose epics; you wear tails.” Another giggle.

  “I’ve no time for your witticisms, gremlin.”

  “My name is Yereel, if you do not mind, and even if you do!” A tiny figure, like a child’s doll, coalesced before him. It had no distinct features and was as black as Darkhorse. “And here, as you so well know, there is no time all the time! Have I said ‘welcome home,’ by the way?”

  The shadow steed looked around him, noting, as he always did, the densely packed regions of empty space. Nothing crowded against nothing, which jostled even more nothing. Some of the nothing was forced to climb on top of the rest of the nothing just so there was room for all. It was astonishing that so much nothing could fit into so little space.

  I begin to sound as bad as this one, Darkhorse thought wryly. To his puppetlike companion, he replied, “A welcome is hardly on my list of desires; I plan to leave here in a moment! You know, too, the mortal who saw you cried out ‘You’re real!’ Hardly a masterful way of choosing a name!”

  The puppet did a headstand in the emptiness. “And you chose your name so cleverly! You haven’t commented on the start of my latest epic, dear one! I was thinking of calling it something nonsensical, like, Darkhorse, the Hole That Would Be Whole!” The tiny figure giggled again, then struck an upside-down orator’s pose. “The hole, as it grew, matured into pretensions and delusions of grandeur….”

  Darkhorse had had enough. He physically turned himself from the other. “Goodbye, Yereel.”

  “Let me come!” The black figure shifted form, becoming a miniature version of the shadow steed. It trotted through space to a point within eye-level. “Take me back! You know what it’s like when we’ve touched the reality! I can’t stand this emptiness!”

  Darkhorse sighed. “I understand—more than you could ever imagine—but I cannot and would not even if I could! You were ousted and exiled here by those with greater power than me—and I cannot blame them!”

  “It was all so glorious, I couldn’t help myself!”

  “Mortals die, Yereel,” the stallion reminded his tiny twin. “You didn’t care how many, either.”

  “I was living! I had purpose!”

  Moving around his counterpart, Darkhorse began to drift away. He knew that Yereel could not follow him. Even the vast reaches of the Void were forbidden to him. The puppetlike creature could only travel in a small circle again and again. “I journeyed to reality. I learned about life and death. Your failure was your own, Yereel.”

  “I should never have formed you!” the other cried testily.

  Darkhorse did not look back. “Perhaps, that would have been better.”

  As he moved faster and faster through the Void, the stallion heard the dwindling voice of Yereel.

  “Then the hole, now a vast and mighty sea of false dreams and misconceptions….”

  IN THE VOID, a trek could take no time or all time, including any interval in between. Had Darkhorse been the demon that others proclaimed him—or even one who had played at being a demon, like Yereel—it might have been different. He would have been condemned to stay here until some other spellcaster summoned him back. His self-exile had been such a one-way spell, though, in that instance, it was his cooperation that had given it the strength. Darkhorse, however, had a tie to the world of the Dragonrealm that was now at least as strong as his tie to the place that had spawned him. It should have been simple to pierce the barrier between here and there. Should have been, but was not.

  He could sense the path, but it seemed endless. For a moment, he wondered if this were some trick of his counterpart, but Yereel’s powers were limited to his tiny piece of emptiness. Nothing could change that. No, whatever interfered now, was the work of some other influence.

  His intended destination had been the Manor, where the shadow steed had planned a quick discussion with Cabe and the Lady Gwen about all that had transpired in the short time since he had left them. Slowly, it occurred to him that the difficulty might not be with him. If there was a threat to Shade besides Darkhorse, then it was Cabe Bedlam. More and more, it seemed to make sense, although Darkhorse had little other than a feeling to go on.

  “Well, if I cannot enter near the grounds of the Manor, then I shall open a path farther away!” He felt foolish that it had taken him that long to think of so simple an answer to his quandary. He recalled the area where he had entered the forest last time, the place where the Seeker had escaped him. This time, he felt the portal form. Pleased with his sudden change of luck, he laughed quietly and, when the shimmering gap fully materialized, he abandoned the Void without further delay. Had it been at all possible, Darkhorse would have wished that he would never have to return to this dismal, empty region again.

  IT WAS STILL dark when he emerged into the Dagora Forest. Another stroke of luck. With time only an imaginary concept in the ageless Void, it sometimes happened that whole days, even weeks, could go by back in the worlds of reality. Darkhorse’s journey had been, relatively speaking, a brief one and so he was fairly positive that this was still the same night that he had left only a short span earlier. Hopefully, he would not be proved incorrect.

  Cautious of a trap, Darkhorse moved silently through the forest. Last time, his senses had been at their weakest. Now, though, they were at their peak, and he chose to make full use of them because of that. Whether those senses would prove equal to the task of locating and outwitting Shade was something that he would only discover at the worst possible moment.

  The boundaries of the protective barrier were almost upon him before familiar landmarks informed him of where he was. The shadow steed backed away, not wanting to risk suffering through Lady Bedlam’s attractive little curses again. He trotted back and forth for some time in an attempt to locate someone who could relay his messages. After a few minutes, however, he gave that idea up. Unlike Darkhorse, the humans—and even the drakes, for the most part—were creatures of the daylight only. With the spell protecting them, most, if not all, were asleep.

  There was something amiss, but whatever it was, was not readily evident. He probed the area surrounding the grounds and found no trace of the presence he had felt earlier while still adrift in the Void. Something confusing attracted his attention and he extended his search. A low, disquieting laugh escaped him. He had found the paradox. A spell had been cast to prevent detection of another spell—but it had, at the same time, made magical detection of the Manor’s protective measure impossible. Under
standing that, Darkhorse adjusted his senses to a different level of comprehension, reaching into an area well beyond human limits, even Cabe’s.

  Well, well, my feathery little fiends!

  The trees around him were aflutter with entranced Seekers. There were more than a score of the avian humanoids, all of whom seemed part of a pattern focused on the region of Cabe’s home.

  The threat was not Shade, then, but the former lords of this realm once again attempting to assert their power on a land that had passed them by so long ago. Darkhorse snorted in derision. He had no idea what the ultimate purpose of this pattern was, but, since it had been created by the Seekers, it could only be trouble.

  Eyes glittering in anticipation, Darkhorse reared high and struck the nearest inhabited tree a harsh blow with his hooves.

  Panic broke out above him as Seekers from the tree he had assaulted and many from those next to it took to the skies. He received confused images of indistinct attackers and realized he was picking up the avians’ mental projections, the Seekers’ method of communication. Some of them thought that the hordes of the Green Dragon had found them and were even now tearing down the trees. Others tried to calm their brethren while still maintaining the pattern. The latter, at least, proved an impossible task. With almost half their number fully awake, the avians lost control, breaking first the spell that had hidden them and, with much more of a struggle, the mysterious pattern that they had formed over the area.

  Darkhorse laughed loudly, in part to keep his adversaries as confused as possible, but also to wake and alert those within the Manor confines.

  “Come, oh lords of glories past! Darkhorse invites you to join him!” He kicked at another tree. The Seekers flew hither and yonder, trying to organize themselves. More images passed through the ebony stallion’s mind, distorted views of himself as some horrendous creature from the netherworlds. There were few creatures that the avians feared; Darkhorse was among them.

  “Come, come! I promise only to bite a few wings, pluck a few feathers, and stomp a few bony, beaked heads!”