The riders were being forced to spread their line because of the trees. An arrow burst the eye of one drake, causing the draconian horror to halt in its charge and seek in vain to remove the cause of its pain. The rider struggled for control.
We have a chance! Faunon thought as he readied himself for the first attacker.
He heard the beating of wings above him and knew they did not belong to the Sheekas.
The aerial patrol had known their position all the time. “We have been tricked!” With a sinking feeling, Faunon watched the drakes descend even as those on the ground continued to surge forward. Of the dozen who had burst through the trees, two were dead. Nine riders still lived, but four of them were on foot. Perhaps if his men broke for the thicker foliage, they might be able to regroup and make a better stand there—
“Faunon! Watch your back!”
The voice was Rayke’s. Faunon rolled to one side and heard a whoosh! as one of the flying drakes soared upward again, its wicked claws thankfully empty.
Another elf was not so lucky. One of the archers, paying too much attention to the armored figures darting in and out of the trees, did not notice the diving horror until he was plucked from the ground. The hapless victim had only time for a short scream before the drake took his head in its massive maw and bit down.
Faunon turned away, wanting then to heave the contents of his stomach out. He fought the nauseating feeling, but only because he knew others might suffer while he was giving in to his lesser emotions. Better to turn those emotions to energy.
Watching the sky for any other threats, he moved into the trees to his right. The battle on the ground had been joined, with three of the attackers taking on their elfin counterparts in hand-to-hand. Riders on drakes rushed back and forth, chasing after elusive prey. Faunon’s men knew what he also knew but could not acknowledge. They would die here. Outnumbered and outflanked, they would perish, but not before taking out as many of the newcomers as possible. That was what the elfin leader planned, also.
The drake riders above had forgotten him in the chaos, his one attacker perhaps thinking his mount had slashed the elf to death even though it had not succeeded in grasping him. Whatever the case, Faunon was going to use his anonymity to his best advantage. If he could get behind the armored foes, he could come up on them one at a time and take them down until someone finally noticed him. It was not the most admirable way to fight, but Faunon had always been a pragmatist.
A drake came bounding toward his hiding place, but its rider was nowhere to be seen. Faunon held his sword ready, hoping he would not have to waste himself on the leviathan. Providing it did not kill him, the noise would certainly alert the enemy.
Fortunately, the wind was Faunon’s ally and the creature itself seemed more interested in flight than battle. Faunon saw why: one of its eyes was closed and bloody, and it was bleeding profusely from a neck wound. Part of the elfin blade that had performed what would be, in a matter of minutes, the killing stroke, still remained lodged in the wound. That meant its owner was probably dead. He hoped the unknown elf had at least killed the monster’s master.
He followed the bleeding drake’s path until it was safely away, started to turn his attention back to the task at hand, and then returned his gaze quickly to where the beast had vanished.
Barely visible among the trees was a trio of riders clad akin to the attacking force. These, however, sat and watched with a confidence that marked them as the leaders. One, as massive as any bear the elf had ever come across, even wore a crimson cloak. He and the others seemed to be watching the pitched battle with mild interest, nothing more.
Faunon decided to change his choice of targets.
The sounds of battle were beginning to die behind him as he made his way to the threesome. That meant the others were either dead or captured. Faunon was ashamed with himself for leaving them, even if it had been to try to inflict worse damage on their adversaries. Still, there was little he could have done once the airdrakes had joined the battle, and now he had a clear opportunity to deprive the invaders of hopefully one or more leaders. It was possible that these riders meant little in the hierarchy of their people, but it would make some of their kind a bit more wary of simply going out and slaughtering elves if they knew that they, too, were at risk.
“Get out of there!” someone barked.
Faunon jerked to a halt, thinking he had been discovered. A second later, a warrior on foot appeared, the sword in his left hand being used to prod the wounded drake ahead of him. They were moving in the same general direction as the elf. He held his breath and waited. Neither seemed particularly inclined to attentiveness, which was his only hope. It did lessen his chances of success, however. He wondered if there were more warriors lurking in the woods around him and if he could avoid them long enough to at least take one of the patrol leaders down.
The drake had stopped and was sniffing the air. The armored figure poked at it with his weapon. “Move or you’ll rot right here! Dragon’s blood, you’re a stupid one!”
A chill ran down Faunon’s spine as the drake turned and began to sniff the air in the elf’s direction.
The wind had started to change.
Unmindful of its cursing warden, the wounded animal started back. The elf readied his sword and, as an afterthought, tried to prepare a spell. While his higher senses were acute, his practical abilities were less than most of his kind.
It was why he could only shield himself with sorcery during a battle. Some, like Rayke, could do battle on both the magical and physical planes, and at the same time.
Slowing, the drake sniffed again. It was only a few yards away now. The armored guide joined it and tapped the beast’s side with the sword one more time. “Turn around!”
The drake swayed, its injuries draining more and more of its energy, but it would not turn. It hissed at the trees shielding Faunon from the sight of the warrior.
“Is there…” The armored figure grew silent, then studied the area that so interested the drake. Faunon knew his luck had run out.
“Lord Reegan! There’s one of them he—” The warning was cut off as the elf burst from his hiding place and jumped his discoverer. Raising his sword, the warrior tried to defend himself, but, not apparently expecting the reflexes of an elf, moved too slowly. Faunon pushed the blade aside and thrust at the place where the helm and the breastplate met. Unlike Rayke’s successful strike at the Draka, the elfin leader was unable to put the point of his weapon through his opponent’s throat. The blade cut a crimson trail across the one side of the warrior’s neck.
“Kill!” the armored figure shouted, his breath coming in gasps. He backed away, hands clutching at the wound and his helm, which had been shoved upward and was obscuring his vision.
Faunon had no time to finish him, for the drake, though dying, was still a deadly foe. It snapped at him, trying to avoid its handler as it shifted for better position. The elf jumped away, trying to keep close to the wounded warrior, who had, to the former’s surprise, fallen to his knees.
Somewhere, he knew, the three riders were converging on him, but he dared not take his eyes from his present predicament. The drake clawed at him, but weakness made it come up just short. Faunon tried to impale its one good eye, but the drake, perhaps having learned from the loss of the other eye, shied.
No longer needing to fear discovery, the elf unleashed a spell. It was a haphazard one, his first having been lost at some point in the battle, but he thought it might give him the precious seconds he needed.
A voice, coming from an invisible source behind the drake, commanded, “Back! Away from him! Now!”
The reptilian menace halted and sniffed the air. It was puzzled and uncertain.
“Back, I said!” The voice was that of the warrior whom Faunon had wounded. The warrior himself lay sprawled on the ground, blood over half his armor. Confused, the drake hissed at the world in general and remained where it was. Its limited mind could not comprehend that the tiny
creature before it was playing it for a fool. The mimic spell that Faunon had cast was one he had used on occasion in the past to success. He carefully raised his sword, ready to try one last strike should the drake disobey the voice, as it had before, and charge the elf.
Panting, the wounded beast started to turn. Faunon began to slip back into the woods, hoping he still had a moment or two before the others came for him.
He screamed as a mind-numbing pain shot through his right side. Looking down, he saw an arrow protruding from his thigh.
“Well?” asked a gruff, disappointed voice. “Why don’t you finish it off?”
“The drake or the elf?” countered another. There was a convivial tone to this one’s voice, as if he might be as willing to offer Faunon a drink as he might be to kill him.
“What do we need the elf for?”
“Father will want him. You know he said he wanted a captive.”
Faunon’s entire body throbbed. He heard the sound of drakes trotting and looked up at his captors. It was, of course, the trio that he had been trying for before the wounded beast had given him away. The massive figure with the crimson cape was looking at a thinner warrior to his right who carried in one hand a bow. Behind both of them came the third. He evidently had a lesser place in the hierarchy, for his posture was that of one who is among his betters only by sufferance. All three still wore their helms. With all that had happened, Faunon still did not know what they looked like.
“We have that other one,” rumbled the bear.
“He will be dead before long, Reegan. I only wounded this one so he could not run. He should satisfy Father.”
The one called Reegan turned to the third member of their party and pointed at the limp, armored form by the weary drake. “See to him.”
Faunon was beginning to feel neglected. Had they forgotten he still had a sword? He held it before him, daring the one who had dismounted to come closer.
The calm rider shook his head. “Put that down. It will not do you any good.”
“Come to me and see!”
“I think… damn!” Reaching up, the armored figure took hold of his drag-oncrested helm and removed it. Faunon saw a pale visage that, if it struggled, might be called handsome in a poorly lit chamber. He studied the ears. Unlike an elf’s, they were rounded.
The eyes were the most disturbing feature. They were crystalline. He had never heard of such a thing. Beautiful but cold. Round where the elfin orbs were almond-shaped.
Could they be…
“Bothering you again, Lochivan?” the ursine rider asked. For the first time, Faunon noticed how that one’s helm had been designed so as to allow the heavy beard to flow free.
Lochivan was scratching at his neck. “I must be allergic to something here! It’s been worse since we crossed!”
The third rider, who had been inspecting the warrior sprawled in the grass, called out, “He’s dead. Blade severed the artery in his neck.”
“A good strike,” Reegan complimented. “Let me see your weapon.”
“You don’t think—” A force that nearly tore his fingers off yanked the long, narrow sword from his grasp. It went spiraling through the air, at last landing perfectly in the left hand of the massive warrior. Reegan turned and nodded to his companion, as if proud of what he had just accomplished.
“I told you. The power has returned to us. I don’t know how or why, but it has.” Lochivan had ceased his scratching. A vivid red mark covered his neck. He smiled slightly at the wounded elf, who was starting to sink to the ground from a combination of exhaustion, pain, and simple frustration. “Reegan is very fond of weapons,” he explained companionably. “More so than most Tezerenee.”
“Is that what you are… Tezerenee?” It was not a name familiar to Faunon, yet it filled him with relief. Their bearing, their arrogance, had reminded him of something else, some fearsome demon from stories that his mother had told him.
“We were born to the Tezerenee, the clan of the dragon,” Lochivan offered. He replaced his helm, and Faunon, studying it, could not help but be drawn by the eyes of the dragon. They matched those of the man who wore the helm. Lochivan indicated Reegan. “My brother and I. These others, they are Tezerenee by adoption; that is why they fight with less skill. All of us, however, are known together as the Vraad.” The warrior cocked his head in what might have been actual curiosity. “Being an elf, I thought you might have heard of us.”
Faunon pressed himself against the tree that was still, at least in theory, supporting him. He stared without hope at the two mounted riders.
“I think we can take that for a positive response,” Lochivan finally said. He glanced at the warrior standing ready by the corpse of his fellow.
“Bind him and drag him back to the citadel.”
VIII
“YOU SEE, DEMON? I keep my promises. You’ve done what I’ve asked and I’ve woken her. I hardly need to have done that, you know.”
Sharissa’s soul swam in a sea of emptiness. The voices were all she had to latch on to, and they had, until now, seemed so very, very far away. Now, however, she found herself moving toward them with ease.
“I see that you like to give freely what is not yours to give, what actually belongs to the one you claim to give it to! That is what I see!”
They were familiar voices and, though she did not care for one of them, they promised light where she could only recall darkness.
“Do not bestir yourself, demon. The bonds that hold you have not weakened in the slightest. I would rather have your willing cooperation than this need for pain.”
Closer. Sharissa knew she had almost found the light.
One of the voices shrieked in unbridled agony. Her flight slowed as she sought some way to give solace to the one in pain. There was nothing Sharissa could do, however. She knew she would have to wait until she was back in the light.
The shriek died down into silence. Then, just as she feared she would become lost again, the first voice spoke. Its tone was smooth and, despite the sympathetic words, mocking. “You force me to do things I would rather not do, demon. You are the one causing yourself pain.”
“Darkhorse?” Sharissa could not yet see, could not even sense her very body, but memory, at least, was returning. At the moment, it seemed the most precious thing she possessed.
“That should be enough to satisfy you. Now, back where you belong.”
“The Void swallow you, Lord Bara—”
“Darkhorse?” Sharissa struggled to open her eyes. Memories of the attack returned. She had been a fool. Something in the spell of the lamp had alerted the Tezerenee to the fact that she had freed herself a second time. It was a simple spell, one well within the ability of many Vraad, and she had not thought of it.
Why the lamp, though? Why cloud her perceptions if they planned to take her?
“Are you feeling ill at all?” Barakas Tezerenee asked from the darkness.
A dim crack of light sliced its way through the endless black void. As the sorceress struggled, it grew into a band of murky shapes and movements. “Darkhorse, where—”
“Shh! Take it slow, Lady Sharissa. You’ve been asleep for over three days. That deep a slumber turns the body numb. It takes time for the blood to regain momentum.”
“Barakas.” She turned the name into a curse. “What have you done to Dark-horse? To me?” Sharissa regained a vague sense of her body. She tried to move her hands, but was unable to tell if there were any positive results.
“You will come to understand, my lady. Before long, you will even stand in the forefront of our destiny.”
“The Faceless Ones take your speechmaking!” she shouted, putting all her renewed energy into her response. To her dismay, she almost found herself sinking back into the darkness because of her anger.
“I warned you to take it slow. You’ll likely have a rampaging headache because of your tirade.”
Sharissa tried to draw upon the lifeforce of the world, only to find a wall with
in herself that would not permit even the least of spells. It was a mental block, as if each time she sought to do something, her concentration slipped just enough to make her attempt fail.
Something wrapping around her throat…
“What did you do to me, Barakas?”
His form—it could only be his form—grew larger, nearly filling her limited field of vision. He could be no more than a yard away, yet the patriarch would still not come into focus. “Merely something to keep you from reacting without thought. This is something that should be talked out after you’ve had an opportunity to see what we’ve accomplished, what we intend.”
“My father won’t stand for this, Barakas! Neither will Silesti! Between the two of them, they have the numbers to overwhelm your pathetic little army.”
Her body was nearly her own again, though, at the moment, that seemed no great victory. Every muscle screamed agony, not surprising since she had not moved in three days. With an effort, the sorceress reached for her throat.
“It won’t come off unless I wish it.”
“You expect me to follow you in anything when you treat me like this? What have you done to Darkhorse? I thought I heard—”
“He will recover. He left me no choice. Perhaps you will be able to convince him of the correct way of things once you’ve had a chance to taste our harvest.”
The huge armored figure was slowly coalescing into something with distinct features. Sharissa, struggling, was able to raise herself enough so that she could rest on her elbows. It allowed her to focus her gaze better on the patriarch’s own crystalline eyes. “You are waxing poetic, Lord Tezerenee, but all the pretty words and familiar speech won’t convince me of anything other than the fact that you are not to be trusted.” She gritted her teeth, knowing how her next words would probably affect him. “You, patriarch, have no concept of honor whatsoever. I’d rather believe that the smile of a drake has nothing to do with its hunger than believe one promise of yours.”
The back of his hand caught her squarely on the right side of her face. Sharissa rolled onto her side, panting and bleeding, but also satisfied with the reaction. She was also thankful the patriarch had not been wearing his gauntlets.
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II Page 76