“They did control this domain at one time.”
“Quel, then.”
Both elves grew more relaxed. If this was indeed a Quel-made tunnel, they had little to fear from its builders. The only Quel still active were those existing in the region of the southwestern peninsula… if they had not suffered the same disaster as the birds had. For all Faunon knew, the Quel had finally passed the way of the previous masters of this world.
Again, he wondered who the new masters of the realm would be. Why could it not be the elves? Why did his people sit back and let others rule?
He knew he must have said something out loud, for Rayke turned to him and asked, “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“We are going to be out of sight of the entrance in a moment if we keep heading down and to the left like we are doing.”
Faunon saw that it was true. He was tempted to turn back, but decided that they might as well go a little farther. A tiny feeling nagged at his mind, as if he were just sensing the fringe of something. When the elf tried to concentrate on it, however, it almost seemed to pull away to a place just beyond his ability to reach.
The tunnel, he decided, though the explanation did not suit him. It is all this earth around us. Tunnels were for dwarves, assuming any still existed, not elves. Elves enjoyed sunshine, trees, and—
“Water!” Rayke snarled, turning the word into an epithet. He had good reason to do so, Faunon thought as he, too, gazed at the sight before them.
The passage dipped farther down… but the rest of it was submerged beneath a vast pool of water as inky as a moonless, starless night. It almost looked as if someone had purposely filled the tunnel up at this point.
“That ends it, Faunon.” The other elf started to turn.
“Wait.” Faunon was all for departing as well, but he wanted to get a closer look at the pool. With the crystal before him, he stalked over to the edge and knelt. His face and form were reflected back at him, ghoulish parodies of the original. Even this close, he could see nothing beneath the surface. Faunon was tempted to drop the glow-crystal into the pool and watch its descent, but the unreasonable fear that he would disturb something best left not disturbed made him pause.
“You will not see anything! I can tell that from here. Why do you not just—”
Sleek, leathery hands rose from the pool and clawed at Faunon’s throat.
“Get back!” Rayke rushed forward, his blade extended toward the water.
Faunon lost his grip on the glow-crystal and it plummeted through the water, momentarily illuminating the world beneath. He saw, for an instant, his attacker, a broad-jawed, amphibious creature built along the lines of an elf. It had round, almost froglike eyes and webbed hands and feet. Without thinking, he thrust with his sword at the water dweller and had some slight satisfaction when the blade bit into one of the creature’s arms.
A second blade passed by Faunon’s right. The point of Rayke’s sword skewered the monstrosity through the neck. It let out a bubbling gasp and shuddered. By now, the crystal was far below. Faunon’s attacker became little more than a stirring in the black depths of the pool. Occasionally, the ever-receding speck that was the gem was briefly covered by some part of the thrashing creature’s limbs.
At last, the surface of the pool grew still. The body of the would-be attacker did not float to the top, yet another odd thing. The glow-crystal had sunk out of sight, revealing the incredible depth of the tunnel.
“Quel tunnel, definitely,” Faunon said, rubbing his neck and thinking about the claws that had almost torn his throat. “But that was a Draka. They serve the birds.”
Rayke cleaned the tip of his blade off. “Draka are not generally so blood-thirsty… and they are usually cowards more often than not. That one wanted to tear you apart.”
Again, Faunon felt as if something was nearby. He knew better than to try to concentrate on identifying it. Better to leave now, before it grew too interested in them. The other elf apparently did not feel whatever it was he did, so perhaps, Faunon hoped, it was just a touch of paranoia or exhaustion.
“Can we go now?”
He nodded to Rayke and stood. A quick wipe cleaned his own blade well enough for now; he would do a more thorough job on it when they were away from here.
“Where to next?” his companion asked as they abandoned the submerged passage.
“South.”
“South?” Rayke looked at him wide-eyed.
“That is the direction you want to go, is it not?”
“South. Yes, but I thought you…”
Faunon took the one last glance back at the pool just before their trek took them around the curve and blocked his view. He thought he saw bubbling at the surface, but he had no desire to go back and investigate further.
“I changed my mind. I think I would like to go home.”
The other elf did not press further, which, to Faunon, was a good thing indeed. It meant he would not have to try to explain a growing fear that had no basis other than a simple, nagging sensation in the back of his mind… a sensation that he somehow sensed was, like the fearsome stallion, only a precursor for things to come.
VI
AS MUCH AS she disliked having to tear herself away from Darkhorse, there finally came a point when Sharissa had to return to some of her other duties. She had come to realize that the very night after her unsatisfying visit to Gerrod when, returning to her domicile, the sorceress found petitioners. Their grievances were petty, as far as she could recall, but it had been her idea to take on some of her father’s lesser roles in order that he might deal with more important projects. In time, Sharissa hoped to convince him that it would be good if he took on subordinates. Unlike his counterparts, Dru tried to do everything for fear that, if he did not, the balance of power would shift too far to one side. It had almost been impossible to make him give her this much. Not that she had not had enough to do without taking some of his work in addition to her own roles.
Like father like daughter? she thought wryly.
The petitioners were dealt with accordingly, but Sharissa soon rediscovered her other projects. One of the few Vraad who worked with her brought up the subject of the system of subterranean chambers existing beneath the city. In some places, the surface level was proving treacherous, for time had weakened the earth here and there and one person had already died when the floor beneath him gave way and he fell to his death. At some point, Sharissa had started organizing a mapping campaign that would seek out the weak areas. It now became evident that those involved had no idea what they were doing when she was not there to supervise them. How, she wondered, had her kind ever survived the crossover? Sometimes the sorceress was amazed that they could even feed themselves.
Darkhorse was gone when she looked for him. The next day, she found he had returned to Sirvak Dragoth, but not before shocking several inhabitants by racing about the city perimeter in the dead of night.
“You can’t do that,” Sharissa scolded, pacing the length of the chamber where she did her research. It was part of an oval building that had once contained a library, although all the books had crumbled with time. The young Zeree was starting to fill the shelves with notebooks of her own, however, and, with the aid of others, hoped to one day gather a collection as vast as the multitude of mantels indicated the collection of the founders had been. She had once feared that Darkhorse would not be able to maneuver himself through the narrow, winding halls, but Sharissa had forgotten that he only resembled a horse. Watching him shift and shape himself accordingly had been a novel if stomach-wrenching experience. “Do you want to undermine what we’ve accomplished? If you go scaring folk needlessly, they’ll fear you all the more! Have you any idea of the image you project?”
The massive, pitch-black steed laughed. His chilling orbs were all aglitter as he voiced his amusement. “A fearsome one, indeed! One fellow dropped to his knees and pledged his loyalty to friend Dru… and all I did was wink at him as I passed!
Nothing more!”
“Do you want them to fear my father?”
He sobered. “It is not Dru that they fear; it is me!”
“And you represent him.”
“I—” The sight of so menacing a creature suddenly struck still by understanding almost made the sorceress forget her annoyance with him. The feeling did not last long, however.
“You have much to learn about the pettiness and suspicious nature of the Vraad, Darkhorse.”
He was slow in replying, but what he said surprised her at that moment, though, in retrospect, she would realize that she had seen it coming. “I do not care for the ways of the Vraad very much. They are not like Dru or you. They curse me behind my back, thinking I have ears as weak and foolish as theirs, and call me monster! They do not try to understand me, while I have willingly struggled to comprehend all things around me! Nothing I do lessens their fear and distrust! I have acted in all ways I can think of, yet they care no more for me than when I first appeared in the square!”
Darkhorse did something then that Sharissa had never seen him do. He turned his head to the left and blinked. In all the time the sorceress had spent with him, she had never seen the ebony stallion blink. That, however, was nothing compared with what occurred immediately after, for a brilliant glow materialized before the eternal, a glow that expanded in rapid order.
A portal! Darkhorse had not made use of this skill since his stunning arrival, and so it had taken Sharissa a moment to comprehend what it was the eternal was doing. His every movement reminiscent of a frustrated child—the young Zeree recalled herself—Darkhorse gave her no time to react. He was through the magical gateway and away within seconds. She had barely time to call his name before the portal shrank into nothing, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the chamber without a notion as to where he had gone or what he planned to do.
“Serkadion Manee!” Sharissa wanted to throw something against one of the walls, but forced herself to stay where she was until the desire died. Why was nothing easy? Why did everyone have to fight her, no matter how minuscule the reason?
Sharissa waited, but after several minutes passed and the shadow steed did not reappear, she knew it was futile to sit and worry any longer. Darkhorse was predictable in some ways. He would return to the square and then to Sirvak Dragoth. Either that or spend a few hours running wild through the woods and plains—hopefully without spooking anyone else. He had done this once before. Of one thing she was certain: the eternal would not abandon the city, not while his companion of old remained there. He had no one else to turn to and, unless she had misread him, which was possible but not likely, the dweller from the Void desperately craved friendship. It was as if Darkhorse had tasted a fruit long forbidden to him. Had he not, after all, searched world after world for her father after the guardians of the city had exiled him from this place?
Realizing that Darkhorse would return only when Darkhorse chose to, Sharissa returned to her work. There was always so much to do, so much to organize. Ever the first to admit she was very much a reflection of her elder, the sorceress knew that, before long, she would become so engrossed in what she was doing that the day—and, she hoped, the shadow steed’s tantrum—would pass without her even realizing it.
First on her agenda was the mapping situation, something long overdue and growing even more so each week. That led her to a reconstruction phase recommended by one of the Vraad who assisted her. It had something to do with an expected need to increase food production through farming, she recalled.…
“LADY SHARISSA?”
She looked up, blinked several times in rapid succession when it occurred to her that it was getting dark in her chamber, and then frowned when the unsightly figure standing near the hall entrance moved closer. He carried an oil lamp that served more to add an appearance of ghoulishness to his features than it did to illuminate the room. That he had gotten this far meant he had bribed one of her aides. She would have to speak to them in the morning.
“Bethken, isn’t it?”
He bowed, somehow keeping the lamp balanced at the same time. “It is, yes, lady. I know it grows late, great lady, but I wondered if I might—”
Trying to hide her disgust, Sharissa waved the robed figure forward. Bethken had once been a stout man—by choice—but fifteen years had taken their toll on his girth. For some reason, though, his skin had never taken a fancy to his new slimness and had, therefore, merely gathered in layer after layer of loose flesh about his person. Bethken looked very much like an old waterskin just emptied. As for his loyalties, he had none. Like many Vraad, he was technically under her father’s banner, but that was mostly because the others had never had anything of sufficient value to sway him. No doubt, he had come in the hopes of gaining something of value from her. “What is it you want?”
“First, allow me to offer you light.” He put the oil lamp down on one of Sharissa’s note sheets, staining it in the process with oil.
The sorceress wanted to scream, but she knew that was bad form. For many Vraad, Bethken’s way was as close as they could come to being congenial. It was not supposed to matter to Sharissa that what he seemed more like was a serpent sizing up a tasty field mouse.
In an effort to avoid further damage to her work, either from stains or, worse yet, a flash fire, she took the lamp, placed it on a stand nearby, and said, “My thanks to you, Bethken, but I can provide my own light.”
The petitioner stumbled back as the chamber became brilliantly lit by a soft, glowing spot near the ceiling.
“Gods!” The other Vraad looked up, an envious expression blossoming as he admired her handiwork. “If only I could…”
“You came to see me for a reason?” She did not care for the way his eyes grew covetous when he turned his attention back to her. He could see her much better in this light, true, but it was not merely lust for her that she read. Bethken was one of those to whom a loss of power was like stealing the food from his mouth. He hungered for it, and the wonders it could give him. In Sharissa he saw much of what he hungered for.
“It is always glorious to see such skill in these dark times, lady.” The man fairly fawned upon her. Any success he might have had, however, was countered by the constant shifting of his loose skin as he talked and moved. “Would that we could return to the days of our greatness.”
“I doubt even you would want to return to Nimth now.”
“Hardly!” He looked shocked, as if she were mad to even make mention of such a thing.
“Good.” Sharissa nodded. “Now, what is it you want? I have many things to do.”
“The demon; he is not about?”
“Darkhorse is no demon, Bethken, and, as far as your question… do you see him here?”
His laughter was forced. “Forgive me, Lady Sharissa. I meant him no insult. It’s just that it would be better if he were not here; he might grow heated at some of what I wish to convey to you.”
If you ever succeed in conveying it, the sorceress thought wryly. “Go on, please.”
Bethken bowed again, sending his folds of skin into renewed jiggling. “You know that Silesti’s faction has been vocal concerning their fear of the dem—your companion?”
“Of course.”
“I have heard that Silesti thinks to go beyond mere words, that he desires to remove the creature.”
He was obviously hoping for some sort of dramatic reaction, but Sharissa had no intention of satisfying him. She had heard the rumor already and knew it to be false. Silesti had admitted to Dru that the thought had crossed his mind, but he had decided that it would be a breach of faith to Sharissa’s father, whom he respected and, though neither man would admit it, even liked. Silesti trusted Dru, and the elder Zeree trusted the somber, black-suited figure.
“Your news is hardly news to me.”
The man looked crestfallen. It was interesting how so many people came to her with what they imagined was important information. Like Bethken, they wanted compensation, of co
urse. To be owed a favor by any of the members of the triumvirate or even someone close to them was a coup indeed.
“He seeks to call a meeting of the triumvirate, at which point he will—” the unsightly man babbled.
“Strike. He’ll kill my father and the Lord Tezerenee and chain Darkhorse.” As if chains could hold an entity such as the shadow steed.
“I thought—”
“You do have my thanks for trying, Bethken. I’m sorry that you went to the trouble of coming all the way here for this. I hope you don’t have far to walk.”
Her less-than-subtle hint that he had overstayed his welcome mortified the wrinkled figure. He hemmed and hawed for a moment, then bowed once more.
“Perhaps another time, Lady Sharissa. It was no trouble, and I have the satisfaction of retaining a memory of your beauty. That is reward enough. Good night!”
Bethken remained bent over as he backed out of the chamber. It was not until he had vanished from sight that Sharissa recalled his oil lamp. She started to call after him, then decided that he knew by this time that he had forgotten it. Certainly walking about in the dark should have informed him of the fact. If Bethken returned for the lamp, Sharissa would give it back to the horrid man and turn him out again. If he did not, she would have someone return it in the morning.
Her research soon enveloped her in a cocoon of forgetfulness. More than once she had followed in her father’s footsteps, sometimes finding the morning sun creeping across the table where she worked. Each time that happened, Sharissa swore she would not do it again.
She finished writing notes about another of her pet projects, a study of the effects on the various individuals who made up the population of the city. Of late, many Vraad had grown more weathered in appearance. She could not bring herself to think of them as old, because then she would have to think of her father dying at some point. Still, it was highly probable that, in abandoning Nimth, the Vraad had lost part of what made them near immortal. Something in the sorcery of Nimth that was missing in this world… unless this was some trick of the lands themselves.
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II Page 73