Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (38 page)

Although it took all his will, D’Rance neither jumped at the sudden sound nor did he turn in the direction it had originated from. The northerner already knew that there was no one to see. If Plool had been visible, the sentries would have been able to see him from this distance, if only as a strange shadow demanding investigation.

“The sentries are dealt with, yes?”

“Will be bothering you not; you will not be bothered.”

The blue man grimaced. If the Aramites thought
his
manner of speech was strange, they should listen to this clownish figure.

Standing straighter, Kanaan D’Rance walked toward the two silent guards. Even with the mist, his identity should have become apparent to them, yet they did not move to bar his way. At the very least, they should have been calling out, asking what business he had here alone.

It was only when he stood face-to-face with one of them that he saw that the man looked somehow different. His eyes had a glassy, blank look and his skin was smooth and bright pink, almost as if it had been carved from wood and painted over.

The
mouth
. . . was it actually cut like—

The sentry suddenly bent over in a comic bow, one arm flopping loosely, and said in a familiar singsong voice, “Enter, O seeker of knowledge!”

D’Rance nearly choked. He stepped back from the horrific monstrosity. The guard straightened again. D’Rance could almost imagine strings holding the dead figure up and making it move.

The lower jaw of the macabre puppet slid down and Plool’s chuckle filled the tunnel.

He cannot enter the chamber! Remember that, yes!
A bit more shaken than he would have cared to admit, the would-be sorcerer walked toward the entrance. To the opposite side, the second guard slowly turned his head so that he was staring at the newcomer. D’Rance shivered as the man’s head continued to turn beyond normal limitations. The sentry’s countenance was a monstrous copy of the first man.

What of the guards inside? Had they heard nothing? Had Plool somehow dealt with them, too? How?

There was only one way to find out, of course. He stepped into the chamber.

Gods!
What sort of creature had he aligned himself with? The blue man surveyed the carnage with growing horror. He had braced himself for the worst once he had seen what had become of the two guards outside, but it was Plool’s playfulness that daunted him. The two sentries had been twisted into marionettes, puppets. Here, where the madcap monster could not physically go, Plool had chosen a different but still effective manner of mayhem.

As with the sentries outside, each soldier appeared to be standing ready. They would stand ready forever, or until someone had the nerve to remove them, for from head to toe they had been
pierced
by long, thin needlelike projectiles of metal. So great had been the velocity of the deadly needles that the guards must have barely had time to realize what was happening, for several still held their weapons. Glazed eyes stared ahead, eyes that might have barely acknowledged the flying death before it struck. Strangely enough, there was hardly any blood, which only served to make the scene that much more frightening for it gave the tableau an unreal quality. Recalling what little damage Orril D’Marr’s scepter had done to this place, D’Rance swore under his breath. Plool’s lances had penetrated armor and rock with little effort.

Plool himself might not be able to enter, but his power reached easily enough. D’Rance steadied his nerves. He would have to be on guard.

“Admiration later,” whispered the peculiar voice from behind him. The blue man could feel those terrible, lopsided eyes on his backside.

“You should not have done this, yes? By damaging the walls, you may have ruined everything!”

“It will function; function it will. To your task.”

Avoiding the accusing eyes around him, the blue man made his way to the Quel’s great toy. Here was where he had the malformed spellcaster at a disadvantage, the blue man reminded himself again. Plool might be able to kill a dozen or so men with a single strike, but he dared not use his sorcery on the magical construct. Without the understanding of how it worked, Plool was more likely to destroy it. This was a thing requiring careful, physical manipulation of the patterns and crystals.

Thinking of crystals, D’Rance glanced quickly around the array. The Aramite talisman was still there, ready to be used as his key to unlocking the secrets of sorcery. He had been mildly worried that the Pack Leader might have decided to take it with him when he retired, but D’Farany had apparently assumed it was secure here. Kanaan D’Rance smiled at such egotistical naiveté.

As he bent over the platform, the blue man shifted so as to obscure one side of the array from his companion’s sight. There were some adjustments to be made that he did not want Plool to know of. They would be of value when the time of betrayal came.

It took several minutes to organize the crystals to the pattern he wanted. So far, he had not had to summon much power to aid him in the binding of the new array, only enough to make the pattern stable. Still, even as little as he called made the chamber take on a reddish gleam. The blue man could feel the forces stirring above and around him, growing stronger with each passing second. Soon, he would have to move to the next stage . . . which meant including Plool in the spell.

How much of a fool had he been to go along with this insane scheme? A truly great fool, but it was often the fools, he knew, that became the masters.

D’Rance straightened. “I am ready, yes?”

“Do it, then,” came the voice from the corridor. “All was explained to you.”

The fog itself would be the key. Lord D’Farany had bound the deadly fog to the Quel creation. He did not know the specifics of how the Aramite commander had done that fantastic deed, but that did not matter. All he needed was to seize control of the magical cloud, spread its might to this chamber, which had somehow been neglected by the fog, and use it to open the way. He would have his power and the monster would have his path home.

The would-be mage touched the shimmering keeper talisman. In the process of combining the two sorceries, he would also make certain that Plool would not steal all that power from him. The blue man had seen D’Farany use the talisman enough to know that redirecting all those forces away from where his mishapen companion expected them to go would be simplicity itself. D’Rance smiled, his uncertainty giving way to confidence as he saw how everything was under
his
direction.

His fingers gently played across the array of crystals. Every movement that Lord D’Farany had performed was etched into his mind. Now, all that careful observation was going to profit him.

I will be the greatest mage to ever live, yes!
What other mage had ever held in his figurative grasp two distinct and deadly variations of sorcery? What other spellcaster could lay claim to such power?

He traced the last pattern.

A bluish glow surrounded the Quel artifact, burning away the reddish light and bathing the entire room in its own magnificent color.
Yes, very appropriate!

“Mind yourself!” Plool called. “You should mind!”

The blue man ignored the warning. He
knew
what he was doing! As the glow strengthened, he glanced up at the macabre legion surrounding him. The eyes of the dead guards watched him, he thought.
The greatest moment and all there is to see my victory are a score of blue-tinted ghosts and a monstrous jester from beyond!

Kanaan D’Rance reached down to again touch the Aramite talisman. It would be the receptacle of all that combined might. A receptacle that only he would wield.

A second later he snarled and pulled back
blackened
fingers. There was blood where the skin had cracked the worst.

“This should not be hot,” the northerner muttered, fighting back the pain. Lord D’Farany had touched the talisman time and time again during his experiments and never had there been any visible sign of such terrible heat. The keeper was no god; his fingers should burn as easily as D’Rance’s had. What was wrong?

He spat on his injured fingertips and carefully wiped away the blood. He would cure the wound when the power was bound to him. The pain was not so much that he could not make use of those fingers. A slight adjustment of the Aramite artifact was all that was needed. A simple mistake was all it was.

Kanaan D’Rance reached for the talisman again.

This time, the blue man shrieked.

The hand he pulled free was burnt, torn, and twisted. Still screaming, Kanaan D’Rance fell forward. His arm was a wave that knocked aside crystal after crystal from the delicate arrangement. Blue light darted forth from the device to the walls and back again. The northerner stumbled away from the wreckage, only partially aware of what he had done.

“Plool!” he managed to croak. Through blurred eyes, the blue man sought out the ungodly form of his ally in this venture. Waves of agony coursed through his body. His lower arm was not only burnt, it was also cut to ribbons. The blue man did not wonder how the second had occurred; sorcery was just that way. All he knew was that he needed help quickly and there was only one who could provide that help.

No response. It was as if Plool had fled . . .

There was a sound like a crack of thunder, thunder that was in this very chamber. Even maimed and in agony as he was, D’Rance turned in curiosity.

A
hole
had formed above the battered array of crystals. Within that hole he could see another world, a dark, violent, misty world smelling of decay.

“I have d-done it, yes!” he hissed, the pain fading for a time. “Yesss!”

It was beautiful in its own way. Beautiful and seductive. Kanaan D’Rance stumbled back to the battered crystals, a trail of blood forming behind him, and looked up. A smile spread across his sweat-soaked face. “Y-yesss!”

The smile remained on his face even as he collapsed backward to the floor.

XV

BOUND AND TOSSED
among the captive Quel, the Gryphon felt the terrible change in the air. The fog began to move with more violence, at times becoming a veritable maelstrom. A chill ran down his spine. He stared at his fellow captives who, as one, looked up and then at each other.

The lionbird studied the other prisoners closely. They almost seemed to be anticipating something. The Quel were excited, almost . . . hopeful?

He renewed his efforts to free himself. The collar he wore around his throat prevented him from conceiving any spells, but that did not mean he did not try. Whatever was happening, the Gryphon did not want to be bound and gagged when it reached its climax. What could possibly make them so—

The Gryphon let loose a muffled squawk. There could be only one thing that so interested his fellow prisoners, but . . . could it be true? Was there a chance that the spell had been broken?

Had the wolf raiders, in their arrogant ignorance, woken the
sleepers
?

He struggled even harder. Dawn was fast approaching and the Gryphon had a suspicion that this was to be a day of reckoning.

For everyone.

THEY WOKE
.

There was no preamble, no slow stirring. Eyes simply opened and took in the dark. Stiffened forms slowly shifted, trying to make muscles work after thousands of years of ensorcelled sleep.

None of the sleepers were aware of how much time had passed. They only knew that they were all awake. They only knew that being awake meant it was time to reclaim what had once been theirs.

It was time to reclaim their world.

IN THE TUNNELS
, a weary Cabe came to a halt as the first sensations of change washed over him. The warlock gasped at both the intensity and the source of those emanations. By now, he recognized the touch of Nimth too well. Something had caused a resurgence in the fog, a terrible growth. It was as if Nimth were trying to intrude farther upon the Dragonrealm.

The wolf raiders!
It had to be them. They had control of the sorcerous mist. The Crystal Dragon would not have dared try opening a new doorway to foul Nimth. The Aramites, experimenting, must have done so themselves. Perhaps they had tried to discover the source or perhaps they had hoped to strengthen the fog’s power.

What the reason was did not truly matter. What did was that everyone—every
thing
—might be in danger. This felt almost uncontrolled. The Aramites, even if they had a sorcerer of their own, might not understand what it was they played with.

Cabe could sense in what direction the magical ripples originated from, but he was still hesistant to try to teleport. It was because of that hesitation that he had spent so much valuable time wandering in what he hoped was the right direction. Teleportation had not worked the first time he had tried it in the fog and even if it succeeded now, he might find himself far from his intended destination. Yet there was no way of telling whether it would be possible to trace a path through the tunnels. For all he knew, they might lead him away from the danger.

The last was a tempting thought, but the dour mage knew he could not avoid the threat any more than he had avoided the rest of his mission. The magic was growing wilder by the moment. It could not possibly be under the guidance of anyone with the skill and knowledge needed. Cabe was not certain that even
he
had such knowledge, but there was no one else. The Crystal Dragon had made it emphatically clear that he wanted nothing more to do with the outside world.

“I’ve got to try,” Cabe finally muttered. There seemed to be times between the ripples of newly released power when things almost became normal. If he attempted a spell, then . . .

He cringed as the next wave of sorcerous energy washed over him. So far, nothing had changed. No hands grew out of the walls. No creatures materialized from the ether. It appeared that Nimth did not immediately affect its surroundings, but that bit of good fortune could not last much longer.