Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (122 page)

A tremendous wind sucked in Azran’s ghost. The dead sorcerer howled as he fought in vain to escape it. He tightened his hold on Cabe’s soul—almost taking his son with him—but the wizard managed to keep his position.

And then—just like that—Azran Bedlam disappeared into the box. The lid shut tight and the crack flared golden as Cabe’s creation sealed itself.

“It’s exactly the way to treat you,” Cabe muttered to the magical container. He had fashioned it after artifacts left behind by the Vraad, one of which had been used in the past to trap Darkhorse.

He had not expected Azran to fall so readily, but had no complaints that it had turned out that way. Still, the box would not hold even his father’s spirit for very long and so Cabe had to hurry. He had no idea what had happened to Darkhorse and while he feared for the eternal, Cabe knew that he had to go after the one who mattered most to him . . . Valea.

Silently asking Darkhorse’s forgiveness even though he knew that the shadow steed would have urged him to the same course, the wizard eyed the box. It vanished immediately, cast out by Cabe to some random part of the necromancers’ realm. He did not want to risk carrying Azran’s sinister spirit with him, the dead sorcerer’s will so strong it might influence Cabe’s mind even when trapped.

As he looked up from his task, the wizard stared. The haze had thinned again with Azran’s defeat and in the distance stood the only structure he had so far seen. That it was a castle only verified what he already knew. The Lords of the Dead were not far—which meant that neither was Valea.

Cabe started walking again.

VIII

DARKHORSE FELT YUREEL
invade his essence. The fear that had existed for a thousand mortal lives swelled. He had thought himself rid of such horrors when he and the others had trapped his twin, and Yureel, rather than be cast out forever into the Void, had destroyed himself. Darkhorse had never told his friends how much of a relief that had truly been for him.

Now it appeared he would yet be devoured . . .

But how could this be? As Darkhorse had proclaimed, Yureel had no soul, not in the sense that it was utilized by mortals. The pair were creatures of pure energy, pure magic. They no more had souls than did rocks.

The Lords of the Dead had, therefore, not taken the same thing from Yureel that they had from others. The only way by which Yureel could be here was if the necromancers had recovered some fragment of his essence that had not been destroyed . . .

And that knowledge fueled Darkhorse’s resolve. Whole, Yureel might have been too much for him. but if much of what battled the stallion was a construct of the Lords, then the opposite was true.

He steeled himself and fought Yureel’s invasion to a standstill. As the two struggled, Darkhorse secretly probed, seeking the key to the truth.

There! In the midst of the blob that was his foe, he found the only true bit of Yureel. It pulsated like a sinister black heart, malevolence radiating from it.

“Aaargh!” Even as he located the true Yureel, it attacked, literally devouring part of him. The loss was minuscule, but served as a vicious reminder of what could happen.

A brilliant sunburst surrounded Darkhorse as he defended himself. It burned away the false bits of his twin, forcing what was left to quickly withdraw into itself. Darkhorse, however, did not relent. He next burned away the haze surrounding them, shedding light for perhaps the first time on this one part of the necromancers’ dire realm.

Yureel suddenly exploded.

Caught by surprise, Darkhorse lost control of his spell. As it faded, he was inundated by a downpour of what had once been his adversary. Black splotches struck him everywhere, burning him even when the eternal sought to make himself incorporeal.

But at last, Darkhorse shook off the last desperate attack. The blotches moved swiftly around the landscape, gradually gathering together. Restoring himself to his full stallion form, Darkhorse leapt from spot to spot, stomping on each blotch and eradicating it. The bits of Yureel began scurrying here and there in an attempt to confuse him, but the shadow steed hunted them down wherever he saw them.

Then he sensed what appeared to be the remaining part of his twin. The inky form, blacker yet than all the others, sought to seep into the cold earth, but Darkhorse’s hoof crashed down before it, cutting off escape. With almost pitiful movements, Yureel attempted to race under his foe.

With a harsh laugh, Darkhorse created another limb right above where he knew the splotch would go.

The hoof came down, stamping out the last of Yureel. Blue lightning briefly crackled as the last bit burned away.

Darkhorse looked around quickly. He neither saw nor detected any other traces. Still, if anything had managed to slip by, it surely amounted to nothing. Unless the Lords of the Dead deigned to be generous and give Yureel a second opportunity—which was highly doubtful considering the latter’s abysmal failure—then any bit of Darkhorse’s twin still remaining was doomed to forever be only a glimmer crawling uselessly over the empty land.

Satisfied, the shadow steed considered his next move. Whatever else happened, Cabe would head toward the castle in order to find Valea. That was what Darkhorse expected of him. The children of his friend were almost as dear to the eternal as they were to Cabe and Gwen. Darkhorse would have willingly sacrificed himself for any of the humans’ sakes.

So the castle was his next destination . . . yet, where
was
it?

Probing the haze, he discovered not the lair of the necromancers, but rather a more welcome thing. A very familiar, comfortable presence.

Cabe?

Darkhorse?
returned the wizard.
Where?

The stallion strengthened the link between them.
I know where you are
, he told Cabe.
Wait and I shall be with you . . .

Picturing the human in his mind, Darkhorse concentrated.

The next moment, he stood right before the wizard.

“Praise be that you’re all right!” Cabe said, smiling in relief.

“Their trap was clever, but not clever enough!”

“You, too? Darkhorse, Azran’s ghost confronted me.”

“Indeed?” The shadow steed recalled all too well Azran Bedlam and shivered. “And I was faced by a Yureel still intent upon devouring me.”

The wizard frowned. “Yureel? But how could he be here?”

“The Lords no doubt salvaged some small bit of him after our last struggle. I sent that final piece of refuse to oblivion.”

Cabe could scarce believe it. “Azran
and
Yureel . . .”

“Yes, we were both quite fortunate!”

“A bit too fortunate,” muttered the human, not explaining. “It doesn’t matter. You and I are together and the castle’s just ahead.”

Gazing up, Darkhorse saw the grim sanctum. “Indeed! We shouldn’t let our hosts await us any longer, then, friend Cabe!”

“No, we shouldn’t.” The wizard mounted. His tone matched well their surroundings. “And if I find they’ve harmed her in any way, not a thousand Azrans and Yureels combined will keep me from making them
pay.
”

The eternal snorted ferociously, echoing his companion’s sentiments, then the two started off toward the castle . . .

EPHRAIM MATERIALIZED IN
the midst of the pattern, taking his rightful place. The five who had not gone with Zorane and the others looked to him for their next move.

“The Bedlam and the eternal?”

“The wizard readily sealed his father in a box much like our old ‘catchers.’ The eternal proved that his twin was now but a shadow of him,” reported one sorcerer, his jaw bone completely missing and his ribs showing through his rusted armor.

“They failed miserably,” mocked another in similar condition.

Ephraim nodded. “Then everything goes as I predicted.” To the others—and even himself—his lips curled back in a triumphant smile. The sight would have been no less macabre than the eternal, fleshless grin he actually wore. “Now it is time for the female.”

IX

THEY WOULD BE
coming soon. Whether the ghoul called Ephraim or one of the other nightmarish Lords, Valea could not say. Likely Ephraim, as he seemed the most animated of them. Whichever the case, though, the enchantress intended to be ready.

“Gerrod . . . you said to Ephraim that he ever had more than one intention whenever he did something, is that right?”

“What you see on the surface is never all there is, not where he is concerned. He looks to all details, never wastes what may be of value.”

Valea nodded. Everything about Ephraim’s plan seemed to focus on the removal of Shade as a threat, but what after? The Lords of the Dead had always desired to expand their dread might beyond their realm, to make the land of the living theirs as well. Yet, surely they expected resistance, especially from her own family, unless—

Unless the Bedlams were
removed
as an obstacle first.

It all began to fall into place. This was more than a final confrontation between the warlock and the Lords. They had expected all along that one or both of her parents would follow her trail, most likely her father. Darkhorse, his constant comrade, would also come. The two most powerful forces of magic in all the Dragonrealm in one place. Between them, they were certainly more of a threat to the necromancers than even Shade. The Lords would have to destroy them if they hoped to conquer the living world.

Or
would
they?
Ephraim never wastes what may be of value.

Surely Cabe Bedlam and Darkhorse would be more valuable if they could be
turned.

She stifled a gasp. If they turned her father and Darkhorse, they could use them to take down her mother, the Lord Gryphon, and Queen Erini—the most powerful mages. The Dragon Kings, already much weakened, would fall one by one. The deathly, still lands of the necromancers’ realm would spread across the continent . . . and perhaps beyond.

But they could never have expected Valea to journey here. Her decision had been but a recent one. Only when the spirit of the elf, Galani, had spoken to her in her dream—

The
spirit
of Galani . . .

Had the entire situation in the Manor been the creation of the Lords? Surely not. The tale had been too real, too true. She had felt Galani’s presence and the elf had, in turn, acknowledged hers.

But perhaps Ephraim had given the matter a nudge. It sounded very much like him.

And at that moment, the chill voice of the necromancer filled her ears. “You shall come with me, daughter of the Bedlam, willingly or not.”

Gerrod gasped, ever seeming so real, so alive, despite his being a ghost.

She looked up into the fleshless, ghoulish visage, steeling herself as she met the Lord’s inhuman, fiery gaze. “What could I do to stop you?”

“Pragmatic. Like death itself, this is a fate you must accept.” To Gerrod, the necromancer said, “He is here.”

The ghost dipped his head. “I know. I’ve felt him.”

“You know when he will be weakest.”

“Yes, Ephraim.”

The necromancer laughed. “Come, Gerrod! You act as if you don’t want to live again!” He suddenly clutched Valea by the back of the neck and thrust her face toward that of hooded specter. “Remember . . .”

Gerrod growled at his tormentor. “Have no fear, Ephraim. I’ll do what I must.”

The other nodded. “Then it is time to finish this.”

Valea’s surroundings instantly changed. Instead of the tiny cell, she and Ephraim now stood in a dark and foreboding chamber upon whose floor had been etched a huge pentagram. Within
its
interior had been inscribed countless runes. The enchantress sensed the immense forces in play the moment she appeared.

“We are ready,” Ephraim announced.

Five figures even more grotesque than he stood at the points of the pentagram. As one, they bowed their helmed skulls in concentration. A moment later, their numbers doubled as other Lords took up secondary places within the main pattern.

Valea tried not to shudder. Around her stood
all
the necromancers, all the Lords of the Dead. Even despite their monstrous conditions, she was aware that the group wielded tremendous power.

“Kadaria. You have the slivers?”

“Here,” said a voice whose femininity startled the enchantress further. So thoroughly decayed were the Lords that she had not even realized that one—no—
two
of them were women. Now she saw that hints of long hair, once possibly silver, hung limply under the edges of the helmet.

The female necromancer tossed forth two tiny spheres of glittering black. They paused in the air just before Ephraim and his captive.

“Bring forth the Bedlam and his pet . . .” the lead spellcaster commanded.

The other ten kept their heads low.

And to Valea’s horror, her
father
and Darkhorse both materialized within the pentagram.

Cabe Bedlam had time only to utter, “What—?” before his eyes suddenly glazed over. Darkhorse reared in fury, but Ephraim touched one of the two spheres and the eternal, too, stilled.

Tearing herself from the Lord’s grip, Valea went to her father. “What’ve you done to him?”

“He and the creature are now ours. They thought they kept their foes from possessing their bodies, but that was not the point to the attacks. Our pawns took what we wanted, small slivers of the wizard’s soul and a bit of the demon’s essence. Enough to garner us control over them . . .”

So she had been correct in that assumption. They
had
wanted the might of her family for their vile plans.

“Through them,” Ephraim continued. “We shall take your mother, your sibling, the lionbird, and the rest. They shall all be made to serve us in bringing the perfection of our rule to the realm of the living.”

“No longer will there be a line between life and death,” added one of the newer arrivals.

“Now, girl,” the lead necromancer uttered, reaching out to Valea. “It is your turn. Shade is coming . . . and you must be made ready.”