Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II

by Richard A. Knaak

  To one side, the ensorcelled guard suddenly moaned and shook his head. Her other spell had failed now. Erini stared at Quorin, who was reaching into his uniform for something that hung around his neck. It proved to be a medallion the diameter of a walnut.

  Melicard groaned, though whether from pain or what he saw was debatable. “A Seeker medallion, Erini. One he received from me. It mutes a spellcaster’s abilities. Makes them… helpless.”

  “Helpless. Yes.” The counselor snapped his fingers. Two of the sentries from the hallway joined him. One he ordered to assist the man who had just woken up. He looked at the second, then nodded toward Erini.

  Beaten and worn, Melicard still tried to save Erini. He rushed past her and tried to tackle the oncoming soldier with his one good arm. Quorin’s servant, however, was a massive ox and he threw the one-armed king against the far wall. Melicard slipped to the floor, still conscious but stunned.

  As the man turned toward Erini, she saw Quorin watching her from behind him, his cat’s smile wide across his face and a thin, jagged blade now waiting in one hand. Waiting for her.

  XVII

  WHILE THE NIGHT had brought chaos to Talak, it had brought something even more ominous to the Dagora Forest. Just beyond the protected grounds of the Bedlams’ domain, a tree curled and twisted, becoming a gnarled thing that soon cracked and died. From its withering roots, a black blot seemed to spread to the plant life around it, creating a dead, barren patch of earth several yards wide.

  Within the boundaries of the Manor, a separate but hauntingly similar incident passed. This one would have been less noticeable, save its victim was one of the birds that nested in the trees. The fate the lone tree had suffered had been kinder. What was left of the bird was barely recognizable.

  In the darkened room of a young lad, a golden-haired boy who dreamt of amazing feats of magic he would some day perform, the night seemed to have eyes. Eyes and shape. A shape that slowly detached itself from the rest of the darkness and loomed over the sleeping child, noting even without light the tiny streak of silver in the youngster’s hair.

  Shade smiled almost fatherly. Blood will tell, my young one! Great power courses through your parents’ veins! Great power that has pooled together and formed you!

  There was a young girl, too, but she was too young, unpredictable. If this vessel proved insufficient, he would wait a few years and take the second. By then, she would be ready.

  He touched the boy’s forehead. A name came to his lips and he mouthed it in silence. Aurim. The Golden Treasure. The warlock frowned. He could feel the love the parents had for this child—both children—and it was beginning to disturb him in ways that were alien to him. He had taken subjects for his spells before. It was not as if they were Vraad. They were just… others.

  His face resembles Cabe’s, though his nose is his mother’s. The uneasiness began spreading through him. Why was he not already gone? The task was a simple one! Take the child and depart. The defensive spells surrounding the Manor were laughingly simple to one with millennia and the powers of Vraad sorcery on his side.

  Take the boy! he demanded of himself.

  “Shade.”

  The hooded warlock looked up. Another figure stood on the other side of the bed, hands clenched and eyes narrowed. He wore a dark blue robe and much of his hair was silver.

  “Cabe.”

  “My son, Shade. He’s not for you to do with as you please. Get out of here now while I can still remain civil with you.”

  Moving almost like the shadow he resembled, Shade looked closely at the youngster. “He has striking golden hair… how is that possible?”

  Cabe tried to contain himself. This was Shade. This man had been his friend. He had also tried to kill the younger warlock. Which stood before Cabe now? “We named him Aurim because, being our first, he seemed so precious. When he was old enough to understand what his name meant, he decided he should have golden hair. The next day… it simply was.”

  “A lad of great potential.”

  “If he lives to adulthood.” The edge had returned to Cabe Bedlam’s voice. “Which he won’t if you take him.”

  “He might. He might not. I have need of him, though.”

  “You’ve no right to him.” It was becoming harder for Cabe to maintain his composure. “You’ve no right to anything!”

  The other warlock wrapped himself in his cloak. “I am Shade. I am Vraad. My existence is my right. My continued existence is my demand.”

  A hand rose. It blazed with green flames that danced about the fingertips. “You’ve lived long enough, Shade. He deserves his chance—and I won’t let you take him.”

  Shade chuckled. “No longer the uncertain novice, are you? Is ten years enough? The skill is easy enough, but the reaction time is always the questionable part. Do you know your limits? I have none.”

  “You have more than you think. You still thought the Seekers controlled us until I materialized here. I made it seem so. I thought you might come back, Shade. I prayed you wouldn’t, so that I wouldn’t have to fight you. I’ll see you dead a thousand times before I let you take my son.”

  “And I shall return a thousand and one times.” The cowled visage lifted enough so that the glow from Cabe’s hand allowed him to see Shade’s true features for the first time. Cabe’s mouth dropped open. “Or I will just take him now.”

  Tendrils burst from the cloaked figure of the one warlock and enshrouded sleeping Aurim. They started to withdraw into Shade’s form until the hooded spellcaster checked himself.

  “This is not your son.”

  “No, he and the other children are safely hidden—even from you. I’ve learned. I thought you might come back, so I laid a few snares. You chose the false Aurim, though I don’t care to think why. It almost fooled you long enough. In fact, it may have.”

  A clear liquid showered down on Shade from nowhere. As it touched him, it solidified, becoming harder than marble. The torrent continued, forming a shell about its victim. Shade struggled, but seemed unable to move more than his fingers. Oddly, nothing but the warlock was covered by it.

  “I never thought I would thank Azran Bedlam for an idea,” Gwen said as she materialized out of the darkness behind Shade. “I never thought I would want to condemn anyone to this sort of hell—until you came back here for our child.”

  The shower ceased. As Gwen had once been imprisoned in a shell of amber by Cabe’s mad father, so had she sought to snare Shade. Only Azran’s fabled demon sword, the Nameless, had succeeded in breaking that prison, and only with an unconscious boost from Cabe.

  “It’s over,” she continued, speaking to her husband. “It wor—”

  The amber prison exploded, sending deadly fragments spilling across the room in every direction. A fair number flew with unerring accuracy toward the Bedlams. Only their automatic defensive spells saved them at all. Razor-sharp pieces tore into the walls, ceiling, and floor. Minor objects in the room were punctured or shattered. Cabe and his wife were battered into unconsciousness, though bruises were all they suffered. Not one jagged fragment had flown their directions.

  When the last particles of the devastating assault had drifted floorward, Shade shook himself free of any remaining fragments and eyed the two spellcasters. Oddly, he was not angry, but rather, impressed.

  “I am myself once again and there is no equal to me, Bedlams,” he whispered. Shade turned to the false Aurim, undamaged by the assault. With a glance, he disposed of it in another realm where the surprise within would not threaten him. Two very deadly traps. Together, they might have succeeded.

  “I am Vraad, Cabe. That was your undoing.” He took a deep breath. “But you have earned the right to your children. I think there may be another who will serve instead—that is, if his memories serve me right.”

  He looked down at each of them and concentrated briefly. The walls groaned as if weakening, but he paid that only the least bit of attention, assuming the damage was due to his last assault. A
new spell placed on each of them would assure that they would sleep a full day, maybe even two. More than enough time to deal with the other situations.

  Taking one last—almost fond—glance at Cabe, Shade departed the Manor.

  ***

  HOW COULD THERE be so many? Darkhorse wondered grimly. How did so many still survive?

  The legions of the Silver Dragon were the stuff of epic. Not since the combined forces of Bronze and Iron had attempted to overthrow the emperor had there been a dragon host as great as this. Not all of them were of clan Silver, either. The two clans that had rebelled now had a new master. Remnants of both now rode, ran, or flew along with those of the Dragon King. There were even a few drakes of clan Gold, though they were the fewest of all. Darkhorse suspected that there had been other survivors, but not for very long. The would-be emperor had taken over their caverns, stolen their birthplace. Many drakes were too proud to stand for such things. Most of those that rode with him now were likely the dregs, perhaps even treacherous fools like Toma the renegade.

  Though he could see them, Darkhorse knew that the night still gave him protection from the oncoming army. He had come here, rather than return immediately to Talak, because he had feared this very thing. His fears had proved far more than even he had supposed. The host here would have given a fully armed and ready Talak trouble—unless King Melicard had a trick or two up his sleeve. Perhaps that was one reason why he had agreed to summoning a demon; it was possible that he had suspected this invasion was coming.

  Darkhorse laughed quietly. Even a demon would think twice about taking on a legion of fiends such as this!

  A drake army was not an army in the traditional sense. The host included several castes and species from the lowest minor drake—huge reptiles almost as intelligent as horses and often used for the same purpose—to the elite of the ruling drake class, the humanoid warlords who drove their beastlike cousins and their lower-caste brethren before them. There were dragons in the air and on the ground. Some carried riders, others did not. Each one was as deadly as a score of more trained men; yet, they had been defeated in the past. There were weaknesses that men had learned to exploit, Talak most of all. That was why the Dragon King had worked to separate the forces of his human foe. He wanted an easy victory to prove his worth as emperor. Darkhorse knew he also wanted it because, of all his brethren, this drake lord was the most craven.

  Yet, even this bully has the muscle to flex, the shadow steed thought with bitter humor. Alone, Darkhorse could harass the drakes and cause great damage, but he would eventually fall. Despite his cowardly ways, the Silver Dragon was quite possibly his equal or better in power; it was difficult to say. Surrounded by his own followers, each with their own measure of power, he would be nigh on invincible compared to Darkhorse.

  Talak had to be alerted to the menace. If they had weapons to combat this host, so much the better. The Bedlams would lend their hand, also. This was not a battle to be won by a lone warrior, but only with the effort of many, himself included.

  I shall see you before long, Dragon King. This I swear.

  Summoning a portal, Darkhorse departed for Talak. He hoped and prayed that what he found there would be an improvement over this dismaying sight. He had his doubts, though.

  MAY THE GODS who grant me my luck be cursed with the same ill sort!

  As he stepped out into Talak, into the great hall near the front entrance of the royal palace, he sensed the wrongness of the place. Blood had been spilled here! Much of it and only recently!

  Things were beginning to move too swiftly for him. A dragon host that would, by his estimate, be here just after dawn. A royal palace under attack—yet the city seemed its normal self! Was he mistaken about the bloodshed? Drayfitt could give him no answers, especially to the question that still plagued him from the back of his mind.

  Where is Shade while the world turns mad? Is he orchestrating all of this?

  He dared not linger on thoughts of Shade now. Like it or not, his first duty was to Talak and warning it of the threat moving toward its gate. Darkhorse concentrated his will on seeking the Princess Erini. As a sorceress—and an untrained one—she would unconsciously radiate a powerful presence. Training or pure luck would teach her to mask that presence. Death would completely eliminate the problem. For the moment, however, her ignorance was to Darkhorse’s advantage.

  Find her he did, in a place buried beneath the palace much the same way his prison had been, though not as deep. She was the only distinctive presence. There were others, perhaps as many as a dozen, but something interfered with his senses, making them appear as less than individuals. He did not have to think long to realize that she was probably a prisoner. There were fear and hatred; they were so strong they nearly radiated auras all their own.

  If the Princess Erini was in danger, he could not hesitate. Summoning up a portal, Darkhorse reared and, laughing mockingly, leaped through it.

  “Well! If there is to be a party, then surely Darkhorse is welcome, yes?”

  His sudden, overwhelming appearance, coupled with his brash, confusing speech, stunned the humans in the chamber—a prison cell, he saw. There were several people in the room, as he had thought, and among them were two others he had wanted to find. The first was Melicard, mighty Melicard, looking more like something left behind by a playful and only slightly peckish dragon. He stood—with the aid of one captor—against the wall nearest the door.

  The second and somewhat more irate of the two—and only he would be irate in the face of a creature as devastating as Darkhorse—was Counselor Mal Quorin. He had a long, ugly blade in his hand and had apparently been toying with the princess. There were no marks on her, but the look on her face indicated that, had she been able to, the advisor would have been dead a hundred times over. That verified what Darkhorse had already suspected. Quorin was the source of whatever was dampening his senses and the princess’s abilities.

  All this the ebony stallion took in during the first glance around him. He took a step forward now, his attention focused specifically on Quorin, who, with more courage than many, immediately moved closer to his prey. The knife touched the princess’s throat.

  “She dies if you even flinch, demon! She dies if you so much as blink my direction!”

  Unimpressed by their master’s defiant rhetoric, several of the guards deserted for safer climates. Only the ones in the cell, who probably knew they could not run away in time or were insane fanatics like the counselor, remained.

  Darkhorse laughed in the face of Quorin’s threat. “You are a true servant of your master! As much a fool as he!” An ice-blue eye narrowed at the traitor. “Think on what sort of mercy you will receive from me if you do kill her!”

  “I can draw her agony out, demon! I will!” The counselor’s eyes widened. Averting his gaze suddenly, he shouted to his men. “Don’t stare into his eyes! He’ll try to snare you like he did that bag-o’-bones charlatan!”

  There was some nervous shifting. The man holding Melicard finally broke down and tore through the doorway, but not before shoving his charge to the floor. Melicard did not rise.

  Cursing, Quorin stepped back a little, directing the others to do the same. Not once did his blade leave Erini’s throat. She, in turn, continued to watch him with an obsessive loathing that disturbed even Darkhorse.

  “Your men abandon you, Master Quorin! Their deep faith is so touching to observe!” The advisor was a very dangerous adversary. Even with his plots crumbling, he refused to give in to his fears. As long as he held the knife and prevented both himself and his men from falling to Darkhorse’s gaze, there was little the eternal could do without causing harm to the princess. Anything he tried might still give Quorin enough time to cut her throat.

  The key to this situation was whatever Quorin utilized to keep Erini’s abilities in check and the shadow steed’s senses a bit muted. It was likely a Seeker artifact—there were always too many of the blasted things around!—but Darkhorse knew of no way
he could remove it from the chamber without Quorin reacting first.

  It was Melicard who finally decided it. Melicard, ignored by all but Erini, considered helpless by even her. Beaten and minus one arm, he had lain as still as a corpse after being tossed to the floor. Quorin, of course, had had other, weightier matters on his mind. He did not, therefore, hear or see the king rise quietly from the floor, his one good eye fixed on the counselor’s back. The advisor’s remaining men, also more concerned about the foreboding steed pawing at the floor before them, paid him no mind, either. As for Erini, her view was obstructed by Quorin until the last moment. Even then, to her credit, she gave no sign, not even stiffening.

  Darkhorse saw all and acted accordingly. Whether Melicard succeeded or failed, if there was an opening, the shadow steed would seize it.

  The king stretched out his one good arm, tottered. Darkhorse quickly filled the silence that had been extending far too long already.

  “What do you hope for now, human? To stand ready until the Dragon King himself stalks into this room?”

  “If need be,” Mal Quorin grated. “I doubt I’ll have to wait that long. My only problem is to get rid of you somehow, and I think—”

  Reaching forward, Melicard grabbed his treacherous aide by the collar and pulled him back. Quorin’s hand went up, the blade briefly nicking Erini’s chin, but no more. One of the remaining soldiers grabbed the two, who were falling down in one tangled pile of arms and legs.

  Darkhorse struck. The man holding Erini, panicking, tried to shield himself with her. Against a physical attack, he would have succeeded. Darkhorse had other tools at his command, though. He hit the floor with his right front hoof, creating a wicked split in the stonework and the earth below. The crack that formed shot unerringly beneath the legs of both the princess and her captor. The soldier looked down in horror as an eye stared back at him from within the crevasse. In his shock, he loosened his grip on his prisoner. Erini suddenly went flying from his hands, pulled free by the power of Darkhorse. She landed softly by the eternal’s side. As her feet touched the floor, the guard’s left it, or rather, it left him. The floor where he stood collapsed into the crevasse, the guard with it. His screams had barely died before the floor had sealed itself back up, looking remarkably untouched.