Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

But that was impossible. That one was dead, dead, dead.

He turned about, trying to make out anything in the thickening haze.

“Aah, dear, dear Darkhorse! I’ve missed you so very, very, very much! How could you stay away so long?”

A tiny, black spot formed in the mist. The shadow steed snorted, then retreated. The spot drifted toward him, growing and coalescing. It swelled to the size of a pumpkin, then began taking on a different shape. Arms and legs thrust out and the general form shrank to a doll-sized figure with no features.

No features save two ice-blue orbs that suddenly opened in the darkness that covered what should have been its face.

The giggle echoed louder in Darkhorse’s head. He reared, kicking at the ebony puppet even though it was too far to hit.

“You are no more!” he roared. “You have ceased to be! You are dead, Yureel!”

“What is death to us, my brother, who are immortal, who are without beginning or end?” Yureel floated closer. “But wait! You do have a beginning! I did create you, didn’t I?”

“And from that moment on, we ceased to have any connection to one another! I abhor everything you are, Yureel! You torture and wreak bloodshed, manipulate the minds of others simply for your own amusement!”

The puppet spun upside down, giggling. “But whatever purpose do the ephemerals serve, hmm?”

“Their lives may be fleeting compared to ours, but they earn them far more than we ever have!” Darkhorse’s eyes narrowed. “And you have already forfeited what foul existence you had!”

He reared again, clashing his front hooves together. Lightning crackled, striking out at Yureel.

But the bolts faded just before the malevolent puppet. “Shame, shame, shame, brother! It seems I must punish you . . .”

And as he spoke, Yureel swelled further in size. He grew as large as Darkhorse, then larger yet. As he grew, his form defined further, his outer shell becoming that of a monstrous knight with a horned helmet. One hand twisted, stretched, transforming into a huge spiked mace with twin heads.

“Come, embrace me, my brother!” the giant boomed. He brought the mace down hard. Thunder roared as the weapon cracked the ground, creating a chasm into which Darkhorse nearly fell.

The ebony stallion leapt over the gap, but just as before, the ground grabbed at his limbs. This time, however, Darkhorse reacted quicker. His legs shot into his body. As he landed, his torso shivered like a sack of water, softening the collision with the earth.

Immediately, eight spiderlike appendages burst free. Darkhorse raised himself up, stretching until he stood as tall as Yureel. The shadow steed’s muzzle distorted, growing wider and toothier. Little of Darkhorse now resembled the animal from which he had named himself.

“You have no soul and therefore cannot be here, Yureel! Whatever you are, you are not what you appear!”

Even as he finished his declaration, Darkhorse charged. His head sharpened to a needle point, which he plunged into the knight’s chest.

Yureel ripped in half, his upper torso flying over his adversary. The lower portion melted, turning into a huge, black puddle.

The mace came crashing down on Darkhorse, fiery sparks shooting up where it hit. Darkhorse roared in agony and lost hold of his shape. He flowed over what had been Yureel and the puddle sought to meld with him.

Another giggle escaped the monstrous warrior. Yureel’s upper half spun about, then grew a new pair of legs. “Come, come, my brother . . . let our quarrel be no more! Let us be of one mind . . . and body . . .”

As Yureel combined with him, Darkhorse felt the horrific presence of his counterpart. Despite the stallion’s denial, this was Yureel-or at least a part of him. There was something else, something magically created that enhanced what was actually Yureel-and surely had to be the work of the Lords of the Dead.

“You will be me and I will be me again . . .” whispered Yureel’s mocking voice. “I will step forth from this boring place of shadows and again play with your favored world! I will write an epic of blood that will encompass all!”

And he swallowed Darkhorse.

They had been separated, just as Shade had expected. He had thought that perhaps it could be avoided, but his cousins had planned better. Still, he felt secure that he could overcome whatever they had in mind for him.

It would involve the daughter. Ephraim surely had seen in her the truth long ago. Once, perhaps, twice, maybe, but never so often. Cabe Bedlam did not realize the secret his daughter held, perhaps unknowingly.

How many times have you been reborn, Sharissa? I knew you as Galani and twice others, but there likely were more. Now you are Valea Bedlam, your soul combined once again with the bloodline from which you first sprouted . . .

That was hardly the necromancers’ work. They dealt in death and undeath, not life and reincarnation. No, this was most likely the intention of that which Shade feared more than any other, which had sent him on his path of immortal madness.

But you will not have me . . . he told that invisible foe. Twisted though my soul has become, you will never have me!

Did the Lords know that they unwittingly did another’s bidding? Surely not. Not even Ephraim could foresee that. Only Shade recognized his ultimate foe, the same one he had battled since the son of Barakas Tezerenee. It was that foe, the warlock suspected, who had turned awry Shade’s spell, the one that would have made death for him but a word. It was that foe who had sought his destruction, but who had failed. Shade had lived, albeit cursedly so.

And now his ageless adversary sought his life again through the necromancers. The irony was not lost on him.

Shade had no doubt that Cabe Bedlam and Darkhorse faced evils of their own, but to turn back to help them would only serve the purpose of Ephraim and the others.

The haze closed about him, forcing the warlock to choose his steps carefully. He sensed the ever-present spirits, but they were nothing to him. The one he had feared most was not among their invisible horde.

But no sooner had he thought that, when he noticed the outline of someone walking toward him. Instinctively, thousands of years of hardening slipped away. The booming voice and arrogant tone echoed through his memories and Shade almost cringed.

Yet, when the silhouetted figure spoke, the voice was one more calm, more concerned-and not that of Barakas Tezerenee.

“I hoped I would find you here,” the ghost said.

If Shade’s blurred features could have evinced surprise, they surely would have now. “Master . . . Zeree . . .”

“Ever the formal one,” the bearded figure replied with a sad smile. He stood nearly seven feet tall and his narrow features were handsome in their way. He had a hawklike appearance that was complemented by the thin, groomed beard that matched the brown that was the color of most of his flowing hair. To one side of the ghost’s head, a streak of silver darted back, but, unlike the Bedlams’, it was an affectation, not a sign that he was a spellcaster. This one had lived before that had become the mark of the mage. “I would permit you to call me Dru, Gerrod.”

“I will not call you that out of respect, Master Zeree . . . and you will not call me who I no longer am.”

“Ever the stubborn one, too, as I recall.” The specter stepped closer. The hazy landscape could be seen through his faded gray robe.

“They have sent you,” growled the faceless warlock, unable to completely hide his anxiety. “What malignant purpose do you serve for them?”

The ghost of Dru Zeree smiled sadly again. “None, G-friend. Ephraim and the others know nothing of my presence here. If they did, they would be quite shocked.”