Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

shimmering in the air. Even as he watched, the shimmering coalesced into the form of a cloaked figure. The shadow steed’s first startled thought was to imagine that Shade had returned from the dead, but then he realized that this was not the warlock but some human minion, for a quick glance the opposite way showed that an identical figure had materialized there.

There was something familiar about the trap, but it took the struggling Darkhorse a moment to recall what it was. The whips! I know these whips!

They were toys of the Vraad. Darkhorse knew them very well, for it was with whips like these that the ancient sorcerers had guided him. These whips and other foul toys.

Had it been only the eternal and the whips, Darkhorse was certain that he would have been able to triumph easily. The molten soil, however, slowed his counterattack by seizing his limbs again and again. Darkhorse gave up trying to maintain his shape, deciding that he stood a better chance of success by returning to the amorphous form that had been his until the sorcerer Dru Zeree had stumbled into the Void and discovered him.

Like melting wax, the huge stallion’s form sagged and dripped toward the ground. His head became almost indistinguishable from his body as the two began to fuse together. His legs were twisted things with the consistency of molasses. Only the two icy orbs that were his eyes remained as they were.

He was little more than a blob of darkness when it became clear to him that even now the whips and the earth maintained their holds on him. Shock at last became tinged with fear when Darkhorse also discovered that he was now trapped in his present form. He could neither complete the transition to living shadow nor return to his equine form no matter how hard he fought to do so.

As the eternal fought futilely to regain control of himself, a third cloaked figure shimmered into being before him. Darkhorse saw the clawed hands of a drake emerge. His attention then became fixed on a small object cradled in the hands of the hooded dragon man. A box. An old-no, ancient-box with a pattern on the top that the shadow creature could not make out clearly from where he was trapped.

It was not until the drake opened the lid that Darkhorse recalled this particular toy of the Vraad. For all he knew, it was the very same box which the Vraad Barakas Tezerenee had turned on him.

Although he no longer had a mouth, still Darkhorse roared. He struggled as he had not struggled since last he had seen such a box, since last the maw of such a monster had been opened wide so that it could receive him.

His struggling went for naught. He felt the pull and knew that the link between himself and the box had been made. Despite the inevitable, however, the eternal continued to fight. He could not go there again!

The box was stronger. A black stream, the essence of Darkhorse, flew toward and into the devilish container. All the while the shadow creature roared, but there was no longer any hope. Darkhorse continued to flow until all of him had entered the Vraadish device.

The drake shut the lid, silencing his scream.

XI

No trace of Duke Toma was found. The next several days passed without incident, save that specters of the Manor continued to appear in burgeoning numbers. Every member of the Bedlam family experienced at least one, with Cabe taking the brunt of the ghostly assault. Not a day went by that he did not witness two, sometimes three, manifestations. Most he was familiar with, but again there were the new ones. He himself experienced the unsettling sight of watching his image cut into his thumb.

The Toma image reappeared only once. It followed the same pattern as before, then vanished. No one observed the blade Aurim had described in his notes.

The journey to Penacles was mere days away now. The short span of time between the visits to the two human kingdoms had been intentional from the first, but now Cabe wished that he could have another week to prepare himself. Toma’s mysterious invasion still bothered him. Worrying about the renegade drake and his continuing concern over the way Valea was acting around Kyl combined to make the sorcerer too weary even to think about the journey ahead.

Thus it was that when an emissary of Penacles arrived unexpectedly at the borders of the Manor grounds, Cabe Bedlam almost refused him entry. Only when he discovered who that emissary was did he agree to let him pass through the invisible barriers that protected his domain.

They met in the garden, the warlock immediately bowing in the presence of his old friend.

“I am no longer king, Cabe, so please stop that; it’s rather embarrassing.”

“Toos would be glad to turn the throne back over to you, Gryphon.”

“Too true,” the former monarch of Penacles returned. The Gryphon was, in his own way, as fascinating a being as Darkhorse. Manlike in his general form, he otherwise shared much in common with the Seekers, especially his countenance. The Gryphon, who had no other name, resembled the very creature of legend. His visage was that of a predatory bird, in this case a majestic eagle. Yet, the eyes were closer set, falling somewhere between bird and human. The lionbird, as he was nicknamed, also bore the aspects of the feline part of the creature he so resembled. His mane was thick and long and only at the bottom did it taper to feathers, although that sometimes changed depending on his mood. Underneath the cloak and loose clothing he wore, the Gryphon’s form was more animallike than one first suspected. His legs were jointed like those of a cat, and on his back were tiny stubs, vestigial wings. The Gryphon’s hands were more human than those of the Seekers, but his claws were as sharp as a cat’s, at least on his remaining eight fingers.

Cabe eyed the maimed hand out of the corner of his eye. It was a legacy, a magical wound from the war that the Gryphon fought overseas. The war had gained for him a bride and their two children; yet it had taken away so much as well, stealing from him the eldest of those children, the warrior-child Demion. All knew that the lionbird would have rather lost both hands or even his own life than his eldest child. As it was, he and the cat- woman Troia now doted on their second son.

“Your visit’s a surprise, but a pleasant one, Gryphon. I have to admit, though, that I don’t know why you’re here.”

One of the servants brought them drinks. The Gryphon thanked her for the goblet, then raised it to his mouth. As he did, his features blurred, becoming those of a handsome, somewhat older man with fine patrician features. The transformation startled the servant, who almost dropped the wine. She scurried off before the Gryphon could lower his drink and apologize. His features had already reverted to those of the eagle.

“I forget sometimes that there are so many outside of Penacles who are not used to me.”

“I think it was just the suddenness of the change. Drakes change, too, but it takes them more time.”

“Perhaps.” The Gryphon paced the terrace as he thought. Like the predator he was, the former mercenary could not sit still when disturbed by something. He did, however, manage to pause when he spoke. “I’m chiefly here because Toos wants to hear how things went in Talak.”

The warlock gave him a conspirational smile. “I’d think that Penacles would already know more than I could relate.”

“He was especially interested in your personal observations,” responded the lionbird, ignoring Cabe’s comment about the spies that Penacles no doubt had spread throughout the mountain kingdom. Of course, Talak had its own spies in Penacles just as they likely had them in Gordag-Ai and Zuu. Spies were a favorite pastime of rulers.

“About the entire visit or something in particular?”

“Both, actually. Let us start with your view of the stay itself.” The lionbird took another sip of his drink, again momentarily transforming his features.

“Gwendolyn should be here for this.” The warlock looked around, but there was no sign of his wife. He projected a summoning, but the only response from her was that she would come when she was able. Cabe decided to leave it at that. The Lady Bedlam and the Gryphon were old comrades of a sort, both being survivors from the days of the Turning War, although they had not met then. If the enchantress chose not to be here, it was not because of any lack of love. The Gryphon and his wife were as dear to her as Erini.

“My visit must be necessarily short, Cabe. I understand if the Lady Bedlam cannot be here. She could never