Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

“Aaah, so very enlightening!” snorted the stallion. He kicked at the ground, digging huge ruts in the dirt. “And why is it I should go that way?”

An image of a tree in summer, its crown green and full, formed in his mind. Under the protective foliage, was an area of cool shadow. It seemed to be this that the avian desired to emphasize, but Darkhorse was puzzled by it. What did the base of a tree, a shaded area, at that, have to do with-

Shaded? Shade?

The Seeker’s eyes informed him that he had correctly guessed the answer.

“A tree and shadow. How perfectly obvious.” He hated communicating with the bird folk for this very reason. With humans, the images were more direct. Cabe Bedlam would have seen an image of the blur-faced warlock himself. However, Darkhorse’s mind was different from that of any other creature in this world. Using such clues was the only way the Seekers could communicate with him other than pointing. They had no written language, at least not one that anyone understood. The shadow steed was thankful that he had little congress with the creatures. Of course, much of that was due to the fact that the Seekers were, in general, more devious than helpful. If they wished to help him now, it was only because it served their desires, too.

Again the Seeker pointed southwest.

Was he trying to say that Shade was there? That seemed highly improbable. Even Darkhorse had come to the conclusion that the warlock was long dead . . . but then what did it mean?

Not Shade, then, but perhaps the one who had used the memory of the warlock as bait to catch the eternal?

It could be that this was also a trap, but the shadow steed’s curiosity was piqued. Caution warred with that curiosity, with the latter at last triumphing. The eternal started off in the direction in which the avian had pointed. He shielded his thoughts, however, not wanting the Seekers to know just how little he trusted the bird folk. Should they have a snare prepared, they would find him more than ready for it.

The male who had pointed the way flew ahead several yards and alighted onto another branch. When Darkhorse was near, he again pointed.

“Are you to be my guide, then?”

The Seeker nodded, then fluttered off ahead once more.

So the trek continued. Much of the trail was straight, which raised his temptation to rush ahead without the avian. Darkhorse decided against that, however. The Seekers had planned long and hard, he supposed, so the least that he could do was not disappoint them . . . yet.

He could hear the fluttering of many wings above him. A full flock of the bird people were trailing after him. Darkhorse estimated that there could be no more than twenty, including his guide. That seemed a fair combat to him.

Once again, his guide located a new perch. Darkhorse sighed audibly, hoping that the bird man would understand that he was tiring of this chase. The avian again pointed, adding an annoyed squawk to emphasize the importance of the situation . . .

. . . and then the trees were full of warring Seekers.

The eternal stopped and quickly gazed skyward. Through the tangle of trees, he watched in amazement as a second band of the bird folk attacked those who had been shadowing him. Claws raked across chests. Beaks strong enough to crack bone tore flesh. Now and then, a small but potent spell was unleashed and some combatant would wither, burn, or simply fall to its death.

A savage squawk brought his attention back to his guide. Despite the chaos above, the Seeker was insisting that he proceed.

Darkhorse, however, had decided that he would not. Things had become a bit too confusing. Seekers never fought Seekers. It was unheard of. “I think, perhaps, my friend, that I will decline your guidance from here on!”

As he began to turn away, the avian leaped for him. Out of the corner of his eye, Darkhorse saw that the Seeker now held something in one taloned hand. The shadow steed doubted that he wanted it to come any closer than it already was.

The bird man was swift, but still too slow in comparison to his attempted prey. Darkhorse dodged the grasping claws. Under other circumstances, he would have stayed where he was and laughed as the Seeker was trapped within him. Many over the endless centuries had described the eternal as a living hole from which nothing that was pulled in ever again emerged. It was a very accurate description. Drakes, humans, beasts, Seekers . . . how many there had been Darkhorse could not say. He did not care. Those who sought to harm either him or his companions deserved no mercy. They would fall forever into the abyss that was the shadow steed, who was very aptly called a child of the empty, endless Void, the place in which he himself had been spawned.

This Seeker, though, was a danger as long as he was able to wield the mysterious object. Darkhorse knew that no creature would be so foolish as to attack him unless they believed that they could defeat him, and while stupidity was a trait among many races, the Seekers had always struck him as a little more intelligent. That meant that whatever his adversary held, it promised nothing but harm to the shadow steed.

Rising up again, the lone avian eyed him. It was clear that things were not going as the Seeker had originally intended. He glanced skyward, where his companions were clearly losing, then back down at the shadow steed. At last, with a squawk that somehow relayed frustration and anger, the bird man turned and began to fly back in the direction from which he and Darkhorse had come.

His flight was short. The limbs of the nearest trees bent in a manner no wind could have made them bend, suddenly blocking the swift avian’s path. The Seeker, moving with the intention of quick escape, struck the heavy limbs head first. There was a cracking sound that had little to do with the branches themselves.

The limp form tumbled to the mossy ground, where it lay a twisted, still shape.

Darkhorse did not even wait for the Seeker’s body to strike the ground. He started to back away, eyes scouring the visible world and senses formed in the Void searching those worlds beyond. It occurred to him that he could no longer hear the combatants above, surely not a good sign. Still, the eternal was not fearful. It had been too long since he had been faced with a proper challenge.

“Come, come!” he roared, still unable to locate the foe by either set of senses. “You wanted Darkhorse and so you shall have Darkhorse! All the Darkhorse you could ever want!” The eternal roared with mocking laughter.

He felt something pass his way, but the sensation was brief. Darkhorse glanced that way, then turned his head the opposite direction as he felt yet another presence on his other flank.

“Skittering like mice, are you? Perhaps I can shake you from your holes, then!” The shadow steed raised a hoof and brought it down hard on the forest floor.

There was a crash of thunder and the land around him shook as his hoof struck the earth. Birds flew off in panic while Darkhorse laughed, taunting his foes.

Then . . .

It had the stink of Vraadish sorcery, as great a stink as the eternal had ever known. The shadow steed drew in just a little, slightly disconcerted at the intensity of it. Vraadish sorcery was a legacy of another world, battered, maimed Nimth, the place from which the ancestors of humans had come after nearly destroying it with that very power. Yet Nimth was sealed off, the barrier between this world and that one stronger than ever. Darkhorse had been there when the way had been closed.

The eternal sought to back away from the foulness, but found he could not move. Gazing down, Darkhorse stared in astonishment at his hooves, which were several inches deep in what seemed to be molten grass and earth. The land still retained the form of the forest floor, but it moved like quicksilver. Stunned, the ebony stallion still had the wherewithal to attempt to free himself. With effort, he pulled first one hoof free, then another.

A gleaming tentacle snared one of his free limbs. Horrible, shocking pain coursed through his very being. The stallion’s shape grew distorted as his control of it slipped. One leg grew too long. His head drooped as if melting. Ripples ran across his torso. Fighting the agony, Darkhorse regained control, but was unable to restore himself to his proper shape.

Another tentacle snaked around a second limb. This time, he saw what it was. It was not a beast of some sort, but rather a whip, a weapon. Darkhorse followed the length of the horrific weapon back to a slight