possible, even more frantically than earlier.
Nimth greeted the sorcerer’s eyes. He took a deep breath, waiting for it to change to the Void or some other place, but Nimth still beckoned after nearly a minute had passed.
He was to go to Nimth… and they had faith in him. Faith to do what?
“Is that… is that Nimth?”
“Yes.” Dru looked at Xiri. “They want me to go there. I think they want me to bring the Vraad to this world.”
The concept still did not sit well with the elf, though both knew she no longer hated Dru. He, however, was only one Vraad. Dru himself had told her how terrible his kind could be.
“They’ll change when they’ve been here for a time. They have to. The land won’t accept them any other way.”
“What about me?”
He had not thought of that. “They can probably send you to your own people. You can prepare them for our coming.” The Vraad smiled in a cynical way. “Providing they aren’t as bloodthirsty as you, we should be able to live together.”
“I am not going back to my people, not yet.” Xiri looked up into his eyes with a determination worthy of any of his own race. “I think it would be better if I came with you back to Nimth.”
“You don’t want to do that. Not when there must be so many bitter Vraad. Not now.”
“Yes.” She took hold of his hand. He could not have peeled her hand from his even if he had wanted to do so. “Now. With you. I want to see this through to the end.”
Dru looked up and met the sightless gaze of one of the ancients. Even without eyes of any sort, he could feel the creature absorbing every movement, every facial expression. The golems saw more than many who had perfect vision.
“We’re stepping through now,” he told it.
To his surprise, the blank visage dipped in what might have been a nod. The way before them cleared. The Gate waited expectantly, pulsating, it seemed, to the sorcerer’s rapid heartbeat.
Tightening his own grip on Xiri’s hand, he led her into the portal and onto the soil of treacherous Nimth.
XVII
The Tezerenee had planned to strike first, attacking their foes while they slept. Those sent by Barakas to explore the mountains had returned prematurely, bearing a tale of discovery. An aerie existed, a vast cavern from which they had seen the bird people enter and depart.
Lord Barakas had slowly formed a fist when all was said and done, saying, “We will crush them while they still prepare! I want the drakes ready for flight!”
The clan of the dragon had only six representatives of their totem, not counting the eight small wyverns they had come across by sheer accident. The wyverns made good hunting creatures and pets-the first one mindbroken by the trainers had been given to the patriarch as a symbol of luck-but they were ineffective fighters for a foe such as this. Of the six drakes, only four were mindbroken and one of those had struggled too much during the spell, addling its brain. Mindbreaking, the method by which the Tezerenee could quickly and efficiently control and train their beasts, was more of an all or nothing method here in the Dragonrealm. Precision was impossible, and after the damage caused on the one dragon, the trainers had ceased their work, hoping to find a better way.
It was not a well-armed armada that would have flown off to do battle, but they were Tezerenee and that was all that had mattered.
Barakas knew, from examination of the corpse, that the avians were diurnal like his own people. Most would be caught napping. Time after time, the Tezerenee had played their games of war, preparing, through mock combat, for daring strikes such as this. Even though there were probably at least twice as many of the birds as there were the drangonhelmed warriors, the advantage would be on the side of the clan.
“We are might. We are power. The name Tezerenee is power!” Barakas had said. It was a ritual saying, one the clan had heard often in the past, but spoken with the fervor that only the patriarch could summon, it was truth.
It was unfortunate, then, after all that had been planned, that the avians attacked while the Tezerenee were still organizing themselves.
The new keep was little more than a dark, morbid box around which a pathetic, half-grown wall stood. As with the drakes, it was all the clan sorcery could provide under present circumstances. There was only one room, a communal hall. Most of the Tezerenee were presently occupied with matters outside. Esad, chosen for the dubious honor of being one of the three dragon riders, was working with his mount, letting the large green beast familiarize itself with his scent. He and the other riders had the task of taking out whatever sentries the avians had posted. They were also supposed to prevent too many of the birds from gaining a flying advantage. Esad had his doubts about his ability to perform his task, but his fear of his father prevented him from doing anything about it.
He looked up and barely saw the winged silhouette in the thin sliver of the pale moon.
“Dragon’s blood!” The Tezerenee abandoned his mount and went rushing to the keep. He kept silent, hoping that he could spread the word through contact and give the clan some slight advantage of surprise yet. Esad knew that if he died before he was able to alert someone, the blame for the deaths that followed would fall to him.
An armored figure, female, nearly collided with him. He grabbed her by the shoulders and whispered, “The birds attack any moment! Spread the word, but do it quietly!”
She nodded her understanding and started to move away.
A bolt of blue lightning caught her in midstep… and left only a thin trail of smoke to mark her passing.
The time for silence, Esad realized in horror, was over.
“Defend yourselves! We are attacked from above!”
The air was swarming with black shapes that fluttered into and out of the dim light of the two moons.
They had let him watch. Watch as they began what would, it seemed, be the end of the Vraad race. He was treated well, since it was his knowledge of the tactics of the Tezerenee that the avians had used and might still need, yet he was still a prisoner, not the ally they pretended he was. Bereft of his powers and watched over by fierce companions, it was a wonder the avians even made the pretense of calling him an ally.
Despite all that, Rendel was quite satisfied, though he knew better than to show it. It was not the destruction of his kind that pleased the sorcerer, but rather that his own plans still moved on unimpeded. The cavern was virtually empty of its inhabitants, Rendel’s practiced words-images? — impressing upon the aerie’s overlord that nearly every able fighter was needed. It was a lie not that far from truth. Even with the advantages of first strike and dominance in the night sky, the birds would take hard losses. The Tezerenee would not die without a fight… and would not even die, if things went as planned.
After all, he preferred human subjects to feathered monsters like his captors.
The young who had been deemed too untrained to fight and those responsible for their care had retreated to lower caverns on the off chance that some danger might threaten the aerie. That fear had been planted, albeit surreptitiously, by the Vraad during his communications with what he still liked to term the council of elders for lack of a more defined description. To the avians, it seemed a reasonable precaution. As with now, he had barely been unable to suppress his pleasure. Rendel had succeeded in assuring that he would be left with only a few guards to watch over him.
In fact, there were three. A few others were scattered about the mountain and the mouth of the cavern, but the arrogant creatures actually believed that they had tricked their captive. Glancing at those standing around him, Rendel marveled that this race had become the dominant one in the Dragonrealm. Two were tall, muscular warriors, one of whom the Tezerenee believed was the leader of the patrol that had taken him prisoner. His remaining watchdog was the balding elder who had spoken out during the offer of alliance. The overlord was not here, having chosen to lead the attack, something that would have earned Barakas’s respect, but received only silent amusement from Rendel. It had never made sense to him to dangle such a prize as a leader before an enemy. Let the lessers take the damage. There were always more of them.
