Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (84 page)

Unfortunately, for this realm, everything was as it was meant to be. There were no variations that would have signaled the necessary aberration that Cabe was hunting.

He tried the next level beyond. Now, the night was green and everything, including himself, was pierced by a thousand tiny blue lines. The fact that all else was normal by human standards did nothing to keep him from becoming disconcerted by the strands. He was almost grateful to see that there was no evidence of the masking sorcery on this level.

His third attempt gave the warlock the ability to see the world as a land of glittering spheres. Each time something moved, be it by its own choice or simply the touch of the wind, the tiny spheres went flying hither and yonder. The landscape also glittered, making it appear that the trees, rocks, and all the rest had been formed out of volcanic glass. It was one of the most exotic and most beautiful of the magical planes, and Cabe made a note to himself to view it again when things calmed down.

There among the beauty he finally found the black trail. To his eyes, it appeared as a jagged scattering of black glass. In some places there lay only a single piece, but still there was enough to follow. Cabe reached out with his power, which in this level was represented by a gleaming blue stream, and linked himself to the trail.

It was childishly easy to follow it through a series of hops. Each time he materialized, the warlock expected to find some difficulty, some barrier, but there was none. Cabe began to fear some trap, but if there was one, it was so subtle that it escaped his careful monitoring.

On the twelfth hop, he came across the hooded figures. The suddenly still warlock did not know exactly where he was, although the region reminded him of somewhere near the ruins of Mito Pica, but
location
hardly mattered now. What did matter was that he had no doubt whatsoever he had found the ones he sought.

As he saw the world, the dismounted riders were mounds of black steel among the glass trees. The images disconcerted him until he shifted his vision back to night sight. Even then, however, the silent figures were ominous shapes. They wore cloaks identical to those of the assassins, huge things that only now and then revealed the race to which their wearers belonged.

They were men
and
drakes. Three of the former and two of the latter, all seated around a fire that was little more than embers and so gave some heat but hardly any betraying illumination. It was a surprising but not unbelievable sight, and whether it confirmed his suspicions, Cabe could not say.

Shielded by a pair of tall oaks, the silent mage surveyed the group. One of the humans seemed to be in charge. He muttered something to one of the drakes. In the drake’s hands was a small box that, at first, the warlock’s gaze passed over. Only when he belatedly sensed the strangeness of it did he probe the object. To his surprise, it resisted his best attempts to unveil its contents, but what he learned about the container made him shiver.

It was Vraad . . . or at the very least, based on Vraadish sorcery. It was by far not the first artifact he had been confronted with over the years. In the short time that the alien magic had thrived in this world, millennia before, it had certainly left its mark, the warlock thought. A
black
mark, in his opinion.

Suddenly, he had a horrible feeling he knew what the box contained.

“We wait, then,” grunted the leader. “I can have a little more patience.”

Wait?
For who? For the assassins? That seemed peculiar, considering that the two had clearly been intended to die regardless of their success or failure. Was the leader then waiting for reinforcements, or was someone else planning to join them?

A quick but cautious search of the surrounding region revealed no other intruders. The warlock came to a decision; he would have to strike now lest he lose this one chance. Cabe had no doubt that he had found what he was searching for, and so in his eyes waiting only threatened to lessen his opportunity to take the foul container without a greater struggle.

He knew that there was magic about the riders, but could read nothing more. They might have enchanted daggers or be untrained but lethal mages. It might even be their cloaks alone, which he had already discerned had some spell interwoven in them.

Magic or not, it was time to act. Reaching out, the warlock sent tendrils of power toward each of the figures. With any luck, the battle would be over before any of the five noticed what was happening. A simple sleep spell, one that should be effective regardless of the sorcery he sensed. Surprise was ofttimes a more useful tool in magical combat than all the power of an archmage. Surprise mixed with caution, that is. There were many instantaneous spells that he could have unleashed, but Cabe wanted to take no chances. It was
his
way. If this failed, then he would be more direct, more instinctive in his attack.

He encountered no barriers, no protective spells. That made sense. Unless one was very skilled, protective spells tended to be noticeable. This was not a party that wished to be noticed, as the pitiful fire had already indicated.

Slowly, each tendril took its place. Cabe found himself sweating. He wanted to hurry the spell through, but was aware how such impatience had a tendency to backfire. There might still be some sorcerous shield in place that he had not noticed.

Still the hooded figures seemed unaware of what he was doing. The ease with which his plan progressed worried Cabe. Despite his vast power, he always expected the worst to happen. If he was wrong this time, so much the better, but until then . . .

Before he realized it, his spell was finally ready. When he chose to, each tendril would strike the head of the figure before it, unleashing the unstoppable command to sleep. He had drawn enough power into the making of the spell to down five times the number of riders before him. That, unless he had miscalculated horribly, would be sufficient to overcome each.

So why are you waiting?
Having no good answer to the silent question, Cabe Bedlam unleashed his spell.

Two of the men and one of the drakes collapsed.

The human leader and the drake who held the box rose. Their hoods kept their faces all but obscured, but Cabe could read consternation in the dragon man’s movements. The human, however, was furious.

An armored hand shot forward as the leader pointed directly at the warlock’s hiding place.
“There! He’s there!”

Shifting his prize to one hand, the drake pointed a taloned finger.

One of the oaks burst, sending tiny spears of wood flying. The warlock folded himself into a ball as the deadly shower enveloped him, his robe making a seemingly insufficient shield against the storm of tiny but lethal spears.

“Give me the box!” growled the leader as the fearsome rain poured down. He pulled out a short sword. “Go and make certain that he’s finished!”

The drake thrust the container into the human’s hand and stalked toward the curled figure, his speed increasing the nearer he came. When he finally stood over Cabe, the drake raised one hand high in preparation of a new spell. The hand glowed with pent up power.

Cabe materialized behind the leader just as the huddled form exploded at the dragon man’s touch.

The drake went flying backward, stunned. The warlock’s simulacrum had not been created to kill; Cabe desired prisoners, not corpses.

He reached out for the leader even as the explosion rocked the immediate vicinity, yet somehow the hooded man sensed him coming. With astonishing dexterity, the leader swung the blade behind him, almost severing the warlock’s hand from his arm. Cabe barely pulled back in time, yet still he managed to release his spell.

The outline of the hooded figure flared white, but the man was otherwise unchanged.

“Yes . . . I
am
protected against your little tricks, magic man, but are
you
protected against
mine
?”

Still clutching the box in his other hand, the armored leader advanced on Cabe. This close, the warlock’s enhanced vision allowed him a better view of the armor beneath the robe. It was dented and worn, but there was no mistaking the familiar ebony armor. His foe was, or rather had been, a wolf raider.

Their empire was all but a memory, but that did not mean that the Aramites, the wolf raiders, were also. They still held pockets of the neighboring continent and their ships now prowled the seas as true pirates. Even in the Dragonrealm, half the world away, there were remnants. This one might even have been part of the large force that had attempted to build a new powerbase on this continent. Those wolf raiders had been defeated, but more than a few had no doubt escaped the cataclysm that had befallen the army in the southwesternmost region of the Dragonrealm. Reports of survivors being captured in various places all over the continent had been verified. It was, therefore, not so surprising after all to find one here. Somehow the Aramites seemed to have a hand in almost every plot that touched the lives of Cabe and those he cared for.

However this one had come to be here, Cabe knew that he could not let him escape. The warlock backed away as the raider advanced, but that was not something he could continue for very long. In fact, he did not have to. The surprise of discovering what his adversary was had finally faded and now Cabe was prepared to finish the task at hand. The Aramite could not be allowed to escape with the box.

“I’ve not worked for so long to have you destroy everything!” snarled the wolf raider. Suddenly his sword’s reach was longer than it should have been. Although the blade missed the sorcerer by a good arm’s length, still there was suddenly a slash in Cabe’s robe. The raider’s sword had some limited magical ability. What
other
tricks did the man have hidden beneath his robe?

Enough was enough. If he could not affect his adversary directly, then Cabe was prepared to work
around
him.

The leader swung again, this time leaving not only a small rip in the sleeve of the warlock’s garment but also a thin, red line across Cabe’s lower arm that stung almost enough to make the warlock forget what he was doing.

However, as the Aramite pulled back his weapon for another vicious cut, a tree branch suddenly got in the way of his sword arm. Cursing, the hooded attacker pulled his arm around, but his swing was ruined. He sidestepped the tree, but then another branch caught him in the face.

“Dogs of war! What is—” The rest became unintelligible as yet another branch shifted, despite the direction of the wind, and struck him soundly in the unprotected throat.

Upturned roots caused his advance to falter. As he stumbled, the raider almost dropped the box, but at the last moment, he managed to retain his grip. That was his only success, however, for now he could not manage to lower his sword arm. Worse yet, the blade itself was now tangled in a mesh of smaller, intertwined branches above the raider’s head.

Cabe allowed himself a slight smile at the sight of his handiwork. His adversary had blundered directly into it. In fact, it had almost been too easy. The warlock had never truly been in danger. It was an odd sensation, so easily defeating the threat. Cabe kept expecting some last-second trick by either the trapped leader or some henchman still in hiding, but inside he knew that no trick would be coming. Each passing second left the raider more and more hopelessly entangled. Already he could no longer move.

One time I garner a quick and easy victory and I can’t be satisfied with that!
He tried to shake the doubts away, but failed. Sighing, Cabe decided to simply ignore them. The doubts could not take away the fact that he had won.

Walking over to the imprisoned leader, Cabe reached out and pried the box from his helpless hand. “Thank you.”

His prisoner said nothing.

Cabe looked close, utilizing his enhanced vision to study the one before him. He did not recognize the man, but he had the look of an officer. Aramite officers were, to his bitter recollection, deceitful monsters with sadistic streaks. One of them had killed the Gryphon’s firstborn. That one was dead, but Cabe knew that the lionbird would find this one of almost as much interest.

“Tell me about this box, wolf raider.” He held the offensive artifact up close to the Aramite’s scowling face.

There was a peculiar look in what Cabe could see of that ugly visage. With a rough, humorless laugh, the leader replied, “You’ll have to find out about it on your own, spellmonger. It’ll be my last gift to you and yours.”

It was too late by the time the warlock reacted.

With a gasp, the imprisoned raider began to shake. His entire form convulsed, so much so that he almost shook free of the binding branches. That was not the man’s intention, though. Cabe tried to counter whatever spell was upon the raider, but the same defensive measure that had prevented him from directly attacking blocked these spells as well. What it did not block, however, was the thing killing his prisoner, which to Cabe meant that the source lay somewhere
within
the Aramite’s body.

“Drazeree!” muttered the warlock, calling upon a legendary and possibly blood-related hero/god of the age of the Vraad. What Cabe witnessed now was worthy of the foul Vraad and possibly would have revolted even a few of them.

The guards had spoken of the assassins literally crumbling to ash. He could only assume that this was the same spell, for it seemed unlikely that anyone would devise two such similar horrors.

The Aramite grew ashen-faced. His clothing, with the exception of the cloak and the armor, appeared to crackle and break. The raider laughed, but the laugh quickly became a gurgle as first the man’s teeth and tongue, then his entire
jaw
, fell away.

Without warning, the decomposing figure slipped free of the branches and slumped to the ground. A terrible mound of gray flakes formed around his diminishing body. Now, there emerged no sound from Cabe’s hapless prisoner. The appalled spellcaster doubted that the man was still alive. The graying skin crumbled off of the raider’s face, followed without pause by the skull and hair.