Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

of one mind.

They, the Lords of the Dead.

The chamber in which they stood was devoid of any trappings. No tapestries, no banners, no weaponry. Only an arched, open window out of which none of them ever looked gave the room any life . . . that and the thick, bronze door upon which the insignia of a dragon could just be made out at eye level.

The light that futilely illuminated the chamber originated from a crystal buried just below the lead necromancer’s booted feet. The faint glow was misleading; the crystal was anything but weak. It was the only new addition to their sanctum since its creation . . . and had been set there specifically because of one being. One hated being. It gathered and amplified their work, fed more wholly the magic they cast into the one who would wield it.

The figure in the center raised a black, gauntleted hand. In his eyes, the arm within the mail was as thick and sturdy as it had always been. He did not see that the armor and glove hung loose and rusted and that what glimpses of the form within could be seen were dry of flesh and bony. “His ka is strong. He is much himself . . .”

One at the high point of the pentagram stirred. Like the others, he wore a partially concealing helm with the stylized image of a dragon atop it. The black armor and dark cloak in which he was also clad hung as loose as that of the leader. The cloak was tattered and unlike the first figure he wore no boots-and had no feet or lower legs to speak of. They had long ago rotted away, just as had various bits of the rest of the necromancers.

But in the eyes of all, they were still the same eleven who had, long ago, discovered this path and by unanimous vote had forever changed themselves. They were strong of sinew, determined of eye, the blood of the dragon, the blood of Clan Tezerenee.

They were Vraad, the race of sorcerers who were the predecessors of more than just the humans of the Dragonrealm.

“But he is not completely himself, is he, Ephraim? All depends upon that, doesn’t it?”

Ephraim shifted one foot from near the crystal, a slight movement with vast overtones. The other necromancer also moved, his reaction one more submissive.

“We are one in this as we are in all else, are we not, Zorane? You question my work, my search?”

“No one questions,” interjected another from Ephraim’s right. “We are all anxious for victory. We are anxious to bring our dear cousin under rein.”

“And he shall be. Gerrod will know his place . . . and ours.”

The silence that followed his words indicated the acquiescence of the others. Since the beginning, Ephraim had been the planner, the instigator. All actions flowed through him. It was the way of things. It was as natural as breathing-which all of them had ceased doing centuries ago.

“The players are arranged. He is expecting us to react and she is expecting to find a tragic hero. We should not disappoint them.”

Ephraim raised his arms high. As one, the other Lords of the Dead bowed their heads and concentrated . . .

III

The castle had no entrance, at least none that Valea could find. She had skirted around it as much as possible, avoiding only the area where the land dropped off into an endless void. Valea had peered down into the haze, seeking some bottom, but none could she find. It was as if the realm of the dead ceased at this point.

Returning to where she had first reached the looming structure, the enchantress mulled over her situation. She had belatedly cast a shield around her that she hoped would blind the Lords to her location, but knew that such ancient sorcerers would eventually overcome it. That meant that Valea had to hurry.

Why had Shade come to this place? Was he now in league with the macabre necromancers? It seemed so unlikely. Even despite his shifts from light to dark, there was no record of him ever having allied with the Lords. It seemed that the depths of their hatred for one another likely ran very, very deep.

Was he a prisoner, then? That made more sense. Valea wondered if that was what the elf maiden’s spirit had sought to tell her, that Shade was not a threat himself, but was in danger.

If the warlock was a prisoner, that presented potential disaster. It might be possible for the Lords of the Dead to finally turn him to their cause through some wicked spell. If that happened, Valea could not imagine the fate the Dragonrealm would soon after suffer.

She wished that Galani could have told her more, that somehow the spirit could have made clear what it was Valea faced and what was expected of her. If only-

An image flickered in and out of existence before her very eyes. The vision was so very brief, but Valea could never have mistaken the face peering back at hers-for it had, in many ways, been her own.

“Galani?” the red-haired young woman whispered.

Again, a flickering image, but this time posed differently. It was not Galani, for the hair was long, lush, and cascaded down past the waist. Even more startling, it was a brilliant silver-blue, so radiant in contrast to the starkness of the land. The face was more human, too, although the eyes were an arresting aquamarine and crystalline in design.

Crystalline . . . her father’s journals spoke of people with crystalline eyes.

The Vraad.

Gasping, Valea instinctively backed a step away. Then the realization that this ghost wore her own face made her move forward again. Was there a link to this phantasm akin to the one with Galani?

Again her doppelganger appeared and this time the one hand pointed upward and to the east where a dagger-shaped rock twice as tall as Valea stood.

Biting her lower lip, the spellcaster followed. The phantom materialized every few yards, always anxiously pointing at the rock.

When at last Valea reached it, that changed. Suddenly the ethereal woman formed inside the very rock, reaching out to her earthly twin with beckoning arms. She seemed to want Valea to walk into solid stone, something which, while easy for a ghost, was not so simple for a living being.

But when Valea touched the rock, her hand sank through. She quickly withdrew her hand, then touched the rock once more. When her fingers again sank deep, she felt around. Part of the rock was illusion. An arched opening slightly taller than her lay hidden right before the spellcaster.

Valea stepped through.

She had a brief moment of vertigo . . . then stood in a dank, stone corridor lit only by some vague, sourceless gray illumination. A fine dust covered the floors and the walls and the corridor seemed to go on forever.

The ghost formed briefly again, pointing down the direction Valea faced. The enchantress headed along the hall, eyes and other senses ready.

But nothing barred her path. She continued on down the corridor, passing door after wooden door. The first few she tried, only to find them tightly locked and sturdy despite their rotting appearance. Her spectral companion continued to urge her on and Valea finally abandoned all attempts to check the rooms.

The dust thickened as she made her way deeper into the castle and that bothered the spellcaster. If this area was in use, why were there no footsteps? It was as if nothing lived here. Surely, though, at least the Lords of the Dead walked the castle . . .

Then Valea realized that she might be presumptuous to expect that the necromancers were at all mortal any more.

A slight sound suddenly made her freeze. Valea backed against one of the doors.

The sound reminded her of something being dragged. In such a place, in such a realm, the possibilities of what that meant twisted her stomach.

The noise grew louder, nearer. Valea raised one hand, ready to fight with a spell. The source of the sound had to be almost upon her, but still she could see nothing. Her hand clenched in anticipation and worry-