hinting of red flickered there.
Every nerve in her body taut, the sorceress reached out with her senses and sought the evidence she needed. Almost immediately, Valea received the answer she had expected.
Shade was there. She knew his magical signature as well as she knew her own. Since that fateful journey into the memories of the Manor, her home, Valea had come to recognize the traces of his spellwork. She suspected it was because the two of them shared a link that went beyond that one experience. Deep beneath the Manor, Valea had discovered the tomb of an elven maiden, Galani. She had been perfectly preserved, almost as if time itself had frozen. This was the same Galani who had been part of a ghostly vision seen more than once in the huge house above. This was the same Galani who had, in life, been cousin to the sorcerer Arak.
Arak had been friend to Shade.
Galani had fallen for the tragic figure, but, as was his curse, Shade had died without her knowing of it. When he had risen again, his mind twisted, he had used Arak and Galani to further his own evil goals. Only Galani’s sacrifice had saved her cousin and the Dragonrealm from the darker side of Shade. She had killed the warlock again before herself dying. Arak had sealed her body under the Manor and it had been Shade’s reappearance now that had stirred some part of the dead elf’s spirit to contact the only one who could understand and accept her message, her warning.
Valea, it seemed, was the reincarnation of the elf. With but a few subtle differences due to their respective races, the two had been identical of features and form.
Yes, it had to be Valea who finally put an end to the curse of Shade. Whatever his good aspects, the evil could not be allowed to return. Valea felt certain that she held the key, although whether that key would lead to her success, she could not say in the least.
The enchantress reached into her blouse, pulling out a chain she wore around her neck. At the end, an unprepossessing, brutally chiseled stone hung. It was barely the size of her smallest fingernail, but Valea treated it as if she carried the weight of the world.
“Let us hope this works . . .” she whispered to it. “Let us hope I’ve planned right, Galani . . .”
Then, undaunted by her tremendous doubts, Valea replaced the stone against her bosom and started for the castle. The whispering continued, the same word repeating over and over. The young spellcaster ignored the whispering, already wary of her surroundings. The winged thing that had almost fallen upon her had finally reminded Valea just what unnatural realm she walked. Every step meant danger. This was, after all, the kingdom of the Lords of the Dead.
And she doubted that they would long suffer a living soul in their midst.
He peered out the window as he did every moment of his existence. It was both his only salvation and his greatest torture. Out there, he sensed the countless shadows flittering about, existing only because the masters of the realm desired them to do so. The scene was always the same . . . the grayness, the lifelessness . . . the eternity.
And then something so extraordinary that it made him leap to his feet appeared in the distance, a shock of life and color such as he could only dredge up from his most ancient memories. It moved with purpose, moved with an animation so foreign to the still lands surrounding the castle. Pushing his hood back slightly, he pressed his face against the bars, trying to make out more detail. It was as if he had been given a glimpse of paradise, so wondrous was this unexpected vision.
But as the figure neared and he made out exactly what it was, his expression grew both dumbfounded and fearful . . . the latter not for himself. He shook his head, blinked, and stared again, disbelieving the sight. His tormentors had finally begun the new, sadistic game that they had promised . . .
“Sharissa . . .” he murmured. “Sharissa . . .”
II
The most disastrous trait running through his family, Cabe Bedlam decided, had to be its members’ tendency to thrust themselves into dangers despite common sense. He had done so far too often. So had Gwendolyn, his wife, and their son, Aurim, who insisted on wooing the daughter of one who had betrayed the parents.
But now his daughter had outdone them all, literally stepping into a nightmare without apparently any sane regard for herself. She had gone where even Cabe in his wildest dreams would not have dared, a place that made even Darkhorse wary.
“She has come this way,” bellowed the huge, ebony stallion despite their silent, ominous surroundings. “There is no doubt about it.”
Cabe eyed the ruins of the castle through which they now journeyed. Under the hood of his gray travel cloak was a face that would have seemed more appropriate on a farmer or blacksmith. His broad, clean features and unassuming eyes hid power of which few could even dream. Average of build and clad in simple deep blue pants and shirt and high leather boots, he would not have garnered a second glance by most if not for the wide streak of silver in his otherwise plain, dark hair. That silver marked him as a spellcaster and one of skill. Cabe was a wizard from a long line of wizards that included the famous and the nefarious. His grandfather, Nathan, had been the leader of the Dragon Masters, mages who had sought to free the lands from the rule of the Dragon Kings. His father, Azran, had been a black knave who had betrayed Nathan and the rest for his own sinister designs.
And now Cabe and Darkhorse had entered what remained of his dire stronghold in the midst of the volcanic lands of the Red Dragon.
Memories of his captivity in his father’s sanctum made the vein in Cabe’s neck throb. The castle had been brought down during a battle between the previous drake lord and Azran, with the former losing both the battle and his life. Azran, however, had gone mad in the process, the evil power of his creation, the sword curiously and ominously called
“She should’ve never come to this place,” the human murmured not for the first time. “Valea knew the stories.”
“But stories are just that to the young, who have not experienced the true terror,” replied the blue-orbed steed. That Darkhorse spoke was not the most astonishing thing about Cabe’s companion, for he was not a horse at all. The huge stallion had chosen his form centuries prior when first coming to the Dragonrealm from the empty dimension called only the
Cabe kept in check the remark that came to his lips in response to his companion’s words. While Darkhorse sounded as venerable as a creature that, if not slain, could live forever should, he had himself a childlike habit of running into trouble headfirst.
Jagged pieces of stone still stood here and there, testament to the gargantuan size of Azran’s citadel. In truth, much of the edifice had fallen quickly because it had been held together by the sorcerer’s own magic. That any of it still stood amazed Cabe.
A skeleton half-buried in rubble caught his attention. The ribs were almost human, but the skull was quite avian, like that of a man-sized bird. The Seekers, the ancient predecessors of the Dragon Kings, had been forced to serve Azran and many had perished fighting the forces of the Red Dragon. This was not the first set of bones the pair had come across. The landscape surrounding the ruins still offered glimpses of the scores of creatures from both sides who had died fighting for two megalomaniacs. Cabe had even briefly caught sight of the gargantuan, telltale skull of the Dragon King himself, left half-buried by dust and molten earth by his successor.
“Turn west,” he suddenly told Darkhorse. Valea’s magical trace, albeit much faded, led that way. Other than
