She had yet to call them horses. Were they?
"I"ll have to summon them from outside, of course." It was one of the things Xabene had explained to him after their arrival here. Spells worked within or without the tree"s tiny world, but only if the sorcerer was in the same region. A spell cast in the tree would not make it to the Dragonrealm. At the same time, someone utilizing magic in the Dragonrealm could not send their spell into the tree. It made for a wonderful sense of security as far as Wellen was concerned.
"I"ll join you," he replied. While keeping the enchantress in sight was a pleasant task in one way, Wellen was aware that his future might depend on being wary when it came to Xabene. She might decide at some point that he had overextended his usefulness. .. and then what would happen?
"Of course."
Where gaining entrance to the tree had required physical effort from the enchantress, leaving proved to be not so c.u.mbersome. As the two walked to the hidden doorway, it slowly split open. Bedlam noted that it opened only enough to allow one person through at a time. He wondered whether this was the way it worked or if Xabene had caused it to part only so far.
It was early morning, just after sunrise. Even before he stepped back out into the Dragonrealm, Wellen knew that. It surprised him, for he had come to a.s.sume that his slumber had lasted far longer. So much the better. While night might have its uses, he preferred movement during the day. Too many things stalked this land after dark. At least in the daylight he would have a chance to see what was coming for him. Wellen had never been good at stealth.
"This will only take a moment." She turned from him and faced north. He took a step away from the shielding tree and breathed in the sweet morning air.
The inside of Wellen"s head fairly screamed.
"Xabene!"
Too late did he realize what the world within the vast tree had done to him. His own powers had become muted in there because the danger was outside and he was inside. Now the warnings ripped through his mind, as if stored up and waiting for the first chance to tell him the truth.
There came a rustling noise in the woods beyond. Something large moved with great speed toward the duo. It trampled through the underbush. Wellen glanced at the enchantress and saw that she was still caught up in the summoning. He turned his gaze from her to his hands, as if staring at them would somehow unleash the power he supposedly contained. Bedlam felt no different, however, and almost immediately gave up the attempt as hopeless. As the unseen threat neared, the desperate scholar quickly searched the surrounding ground and located a broken tree limb. His head ached with the urgency of the situation. Wellen wanted to laugh at how sad his defenses would be. Anything that caused such dire warnings to ring in his head had to be monstrous. The stick would probably annoy rather than harm it or them.
"Xabene!" he hissed, trying one last time to awaken her. "What?"
Her sudden, calm voice threw his guard completely off. He was about to turn to her when two ma.s.sive shapes crushed through the foliage and raced toward the enchantress and him.
Wellen raised the branch then dropped it when he saw what had joined them. He knew his face was red.
Two horses. A black and a spotted one. The mounts that the sorceress had been summoning. They were the danger? It hardly seemed possible.
The animals trotted to within a few yards of the duo but refused to come nearer when Xabene called to them. She noticed the branch in Wellen"s hand. "You won"t need that. Throw it far away so that they see you don"t mean them any harm."
"I-" The sensation would not leave, yet how could these horses be a threat? Wellen reluctantly threw the stick far to his right, then revealed his open palms to the animals. He felt foolish, but the enchantress nodded her approval.
"Do not underestimate them, Wellen Bedlam. These are very intelligent creatures."
He knew of legends revolving around a demon horse whom Lord Drazeree, or rather Dru Zeree, had befriended, but neither of these could be the demon.
So why was his head still pounding? "Xabene . there"s something wrong here."
"Nonsense." Her tone might have been a bit sharp; Wellen could not be certain. He had not explained his peculiar ability to sense possible danger, mostly because he still did not understand it himself. It had also been his one reliable weapon . . . until now, perhaps. "The Dragon King is nowhere near and I sense nothing else."
Were her abilities superior to his? The novice warlock was willing to believe that. Xabene was a sorceress of no little ability. To think that his skills could in any way be more finely tuned than hers was presumptuous to say the least.
The spotted horse trotted up and tried to smell him. Wellen backed away before the nose touched him, not knowing why he did but glad regardless. Both animals disturbed him despite their innocent appearances.
"I think your horse has been chosen for you," Xabene commented wryly. "If you have no objections, then mount up so that we may be gone from here."
He looked the horse over. "There are no reins. No saddle, either."
"And there will be none. These animals will not accept them. You may trust that they will not lose us, though. I have ridden both of them countless times."
Still not a.s.sured but unable to argue, since it had been his choice to enact this plan, Wellen reached over the spotted one"s backside in order to get a good enough grip to help himself up.
His fingers barely grazed the animal"s skin. Wellen withdrew them as if the horse had tried to bite him.
Xabene, already atop her mount, looked down at the confused figure. "What is it now?"
"There"s . . . " How could he describe what had happened when he hardly knew what had happened himself? When his fingers had touched the flesh of the spotted horse, they had not felt the warmth of life, but a coldness that he could only a.s.sociate with the long dead.
Brief images of the dream flashed through his mind. Xabene. The figure she had been speaking to. A figure that brought up thoughts of ancient tombs and corpses long putrifying.
"Are you having second thoughts?" the enchantress asked coyly, her interruption banishing the dream images to his subconscious again.
"No." Gritting his teeth, Wellen searched his clothes, then recalled that these were not his originals. Knowing that he looked more like a plaintive child than a grown, educated researcher, the scholar asked, "Do you have a pair of gloves?"
"Look in the belt pouch just under your left ann."
"I looked there already."
"I know."
Removing the gloves from the pouch a moment later, he reflected upon how spellcasters seemed to have an annoying habit of playing games with those unable to reciprocate in like fashion. While having had little personal experience with sorcerers, a planned maneuver on his part, Wellen had heard more than one tale. Whether a master mage or a permanent novice, sorcerers were all the same. They enjoyed toying with their lessers.
It in no way helped to constantly recall that he was, by the loosest of definitions, a spellcaster himself.
The gloves on, he tentatively mounted the horse. It was an extremely calm creature, but that failed to sooth his distrust. The sensation of danger, or perhaps it was just possible threat, continued to plague him.
"Are you ready?"
He was not, but it was too late to back down. With a mask of bravado in place, he simply responded, "Lead on."
Xabene gently touched one side of her mount"s neck and whispered in an ear. The animal started off on a slow trot, which, despite her interesting, almost lounging manner of sitting, did not dislodge the alluring black-clad woman. She and her horse were almost one, an effect amplified by the way her clothing melded with the color of the steed.
Wellen"s own beast followed. He was certain that its first movements would send him sliding off, but the horse"s body countered his every shift. After a few moments, Wellen grew a little more comfortable about his chances of staying on. He still did not trust the horse, however. Even with the gloves and pants, the sickly feel of the horse"s cold flesh belied its outward appearance. If not for Xabene"s words and his own inability to put his finger on exactly what was amiss, he would have leaped to the ground and followed the sorceress on foot instead.
It would be no more mad than this journey I"ve chosen to take.
He settled in and tried not to think about the animal beneath. It was not as it he had nothing else to consider. There was still the matter of his upcoming confrontation with the gnome, providing the latter even deigned to meet him. What would he do if the end result of his quest turned out to be either sunstroke or finding himself a tidbit for one of the Dragon King"s minions?
For that matter, what would he do if the gnome did appear? Now there, the explorer thought, was a truly disturbing aspect!
From where they huddled in the treetops, trying their best to avoid the unforgivable light, the seven remaining Necri, including the one who had originally accompanied Xabene, watched as the enchantress and the other mortal rode off. The one Necri in particular noted the man"s discomfort with the beasts the Lords of the Dead had secretly provided. The batlike horror could not blame the human for his distaste; the two mounts had been dead far too long. Their meat was tasteless and dry. Only the glamour cast upon them made the horses seem so lifelike.
The Necri who had served alongside Xabene pondered the sorceress"s plot. On the surface, it seemed reasonable, but her other plans had failed in the end. On her head and its would lay the most blame. The others . . . the masters might choose to include them in the punishment . . . but more likely was the possibility that they would be made to watch the slow, painful elimination of the two who had failed greatest, despite more than one chance to redeem themselves.
It would be the female"s fault, then, if it perished so ign.o.bly. No battle. No blood. Not the way a Necri desired to ends it existence.
It had already noted the hesitation with which the enchantress had acted now and then where the man was concerned. The winged horror still recalled the betrayal, when she had taken him while the Necri had been fighting the feathered ones. That had not been part of the plan. Xabene had not spoken of that, even with it.
The Necri glanced back at its anxiously awaiting fellows, than turned its blank eyes back to the receding figures. It hissed in frustration, ever mindful that its existence now depended upon a human female.
The toothy maw opened and closed. The claws that had torn stronger foes to b.l.o.o.d.y gobbets flexed. If she failed, then before it perished it would do its best to see that the sorceress died first. Slowly, too.
After all, a good death was one that could be savored for a time. Even if that time would be short-lived.
While the Necri watched Wellen and the enchantress, another watched them both from a short distance behind. Even though no tree or hill provided adequate cover, the batlike horror neither noticed him or the telltale stench of his odd sorcery.
This will do just fine, Shade decided. They head to the citadel. I could not have planned it better myself!
Chapter Nine.
The Lords of the Dead gathered in a world where light was but a dim memory. They were eleven and always had been ever since they had discovered the path to G.o.dhood. There were vague outlines to each, hints of what they once had been, but anyone who sought to ferret out details of their features would find that little remained but the memories. They were not much more than emaciated figures, some worse than others but all of them reminiscent of the long dead.
Such was the price of their rule. They only knew that they had carved for themselves an empire of sorts, one that stretched beyond the boundaries of this plane into the world of the Dragonrealm. They were the final judges. When those in the Dragonrealm died, it was only to become va.s.sals for them. Someday, their subjects would also include the living and then their empire would be complete.
So they had always liked to believe.
Their kingdom was decay. Things long dead slowly rotted or were eaten by scavengers, yet never entirely disappeared. Lakes and rivers of dark, moldering green were the only color in the landscape, save for clouds of sulfur that rose above volcanic vents. UnG.o.dly creatures scuttled about, seeking food and trying to escape being food.
The sky was a black cloud that rolled and turned, ever threatening a storm. No moon or stars existed here. The only light came from the vents and it was just barely enough to let the scavengers sight their next meals.
In the citadel, the Lords of the Dead took their places. A huge pentagram marked the floor of the room. Ten of the shrouded forms moved toward points and corners of the pattern, while the eleventh waited for them to take their places. As nominal leader, his place would be at the center, where the array of power would be the strongest.
To his eyes, they had not changed at all over the millennia. None of the Lords of the Dead saw themselves or their compatriots as other than the armored, dragonhelmed sorcerers of long ago. It was a measure of their power, not to mention their madness, that they had never seen their kingdom as it truly was. To them, they had rebuilt the magnificent world of their kind. In truth, there was a close resemblance between this place and that ancient world, for their birthplace, forever barred to them, had also become a twisted reflection of its inhabitants. It was why they had come here in the first place, to escape the destruction their people had caused.
When the others had moved into position, the leader joined them. He stepped into the very center of the pentagram, then turned around in one complete circle so as to acknowledge the presence of each and every one.
"The pattern is complete," he intoned. His voice was nearly emotionless, though he did not realize it. "The power flows. Who will be first to speak?"
A shorter specter shifted just enough to warrant the attention of the others. His voice was almost identical in timbre to the leader. "The servant Xabene rides with the outsider."
"Where did they find horses?"
"The animals were ours, ensorcelled to seem living."
The spokesman nodded slowly. "Then, they are on their way to the gnome"s accursed sanctum."
"Yes." The shorter figure lowered his shadowed head, a sign that he was finished speaking.
Another, this one akin in size and shape to the master speaker, moved forward one step. "The Necri are upset. Many were lost in battling the Sheeka. They slaughtered the bird folk, but they felt that the servant Xabene had wasted them, not informing them of her own plan until afterward."
The leader turned, setting in motion a wave of sulfur that wafted throughout the featureless, dank room. Moss on the walls withered, but the other lords did not notice. They had long pa.s.sed beyond the normal senses of men. "Her actions have been questionable of late."
"The outsider"s doing?"
"Perhaps." The ruling lord waited for his counterpart to withdraw, but the other was not yet finished.
"There is . . . one more thing."
Hesitation. The coven leader arched a brow he no longer had at the sudden show of uncertainty. "That is?"
"He has taken an interest in the outsider and the gnome. It may be that he too desires the book."
No one had to ask who it was the one spoke of. He had been the bane in their existence for longer than they cared to recall, ever since they had sought to steal the power that he had brought with him from the birthworld. Unfortunately, his link made him stronger than they and he had refused to see the inevitable and die. Century after century he had kept himself alive by one means or another.
Now he was after the gnome"s secrets. That meant that he was growing desperate, but it also meant that their own plans were in jeopardy, for it anyone understood them, it was he who now called himself Shade.
Shade. The name was a mockery. The Lords of the Dead preferred the use of his true name, when they could recall it, for it served to remind them that he was, after all, no more than their errant relation.
"There is no choice," the ruling speaker intoned. "We cannot allow the dragon tome to belong to anyone but ourselves. Even if it means confronting . . . our cousin." He found that this time he could not recall the name. There were many things he especially had forgotten over time. With effort, the name would come, but like so many other such moments, it made more sense to utilize that effort for their plots than for recalling little-needed things like the past.
One whose memory in regard to Shade was a bit stronger than the others, supplied the name that the others could not recall. "Gerrod. His name is Geffod, Ephraim."
Ephraim, who realized with a start that he had forgotten his own name as well, moved from the center, breaking the pattern. The others saw determination etched into his features, but only because they shared the same delusion when it came to one another. "Then we will know what to call him when we summon him later . . . from the lists of the dead."
The gnome"s citadel did not loom over them, but regardless, its presence unnerved them both. It was not as big as Wellen had thought, but the fact that it stood here was impressive enough. From what he had learned, the citadel was as solid a landmark as the mountains Shade had dragged him to . . . was it only a day or two earlier?
"Do what you must and hurry," Xabene demanded, her eyes darting this way and that. He knew she expected to see a dragon or some other threat come swooping down from the sky or springing up from the earth. In truth, the scholar was somewhat surprised at his change of luck. The determination to reach this place had dwindled the nearer they had come. It was almost as if geas had been put on him, one that had now served its purpose.
His head throbbed with undefined warnings of danger, but Wellen was beginning to understand a little about how the ability worked. There were things with the potential to threaten him and things which were a danger to his existence. The horses, a mystery yet unsolved, were one of the former. Shade he considered one of the latter.
Xabene was an enigma. Bedlam knew she should have been one or the other, yet she was still one of the few things that apparently did not mean him harm. That was contradictory to everything he knew or thought he knew about her.
He dismounted and walked toward the blank, ominous structure. After a moment"s hesitation, the enchantress followed suit. Wellen had expected that. Xabene wanted to get in more then he did. In fact, had it been up to him, he would have turned around now and ridden back as if a thousand hungry dragons were nipping at his heels.
Too late now. He glanced at the wall that rose before him. Not a leviathan, but still more than three times, probably more than four times, his height. Careful to avoid touching it, the curious explorer leaned close enough to inspect the substance from which the edifice had been built. It looked like stone, possibly marble, but there were differences. He started to walk along the side, trying to find a place where blocks had been joined together, but more and more it seemed that the gnome"s citadel had either been carved from some single ma.s.sive rock or that it had been formed and baked into shape, like a clay pot. Neither theory was very plausible. There had to be another explanation. Lost in curiosity, he continued along the wall.
"Where are you going?"
Wellen glanced back. "I have to look it over. How do you think he breathes in there? There"s no opening that I can see. Are there vents or windows on the top?"
"No." She folded her arms in aggravation. "Is this necessary? I though you had some plan to make the gnome listen to you."
"Plan?" Wellen turned the corner. After a moment, he heard the soft steps of Xabene behind him. "Until this morning, I hadn"t even thought about coming here. I was going to ask you to help me get back to the coast so I could see if the Heron"s Wing was still anch.o.r.ed there." He began to walk faster. "It was not until this morning that I felt I had to come here. I don"t even know what I expected from him."
"Do you mean I-" Xabene snapped, her words cut off so abruptly that the scholar turned to see if something was the matter.
"What was that you were saying?"
"Nothing."