Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

of the mist for himself. There is a power there, yes? A different, alien magic! It had repelled him at first, but now it attracted. The blue man felt he could accomplish great things with it once he learned how it had come to be. He needed time, though, time alone in that chamber. Time alone to study.

Thrusting aside the flap of his tent, the tall figure darted inside. It was not until the flap had closed behind him that he noticed something was amiss. Something that only his burgeoning magical senses could note.

With no effort at all, he created a small ball of light brilliant enough to illuminate most of the interior.

Lord D’Farany’s work? Was he now toying with the blue man? He did not like the thought of ending up as one of the martinet’s playthings. Orril D’Marr excelled at slow death, yes.

It was then he noticed that his carefully hidden collection of Quel artifacts had been taken out and scattered over his worktable.

Who would dare? This was not the way of Lord D’Farany. D’Marr, then? One of his spies? It made no sense; they could learn nothing from his collection save that he had palmed some pieces. The little martinet would know that such efforts would be a waste of everyone’s time.

Somehow, he knew that this could not be the work of the Aramites . . . yet, who did that leave?

One of the figurines on the table, a small crystal bear, leapt up from the table and past his shoulder.

Stunned, he spun around, trying to keep track of it. The Quel talisman stood on the ground behind him, as motionless as it had been before its extraordinary leap into momentary life. With great caution, Kanaan D’Rance reached down for it.

The tiny bear sprang away from him, flying into the dark shadows in the corner of his tent. The blue man snarled and started for the spot. Although he could not see the artifact, he knew that it could go no farther. The tent would impede its progress. Now it was a simple matter of searching those shadows. The scholar in him took over. Once he found the peculiar little piece, he intended to study it thoroughly until he discovered the reason for its sudden animation.

A laugh from within the shadows made him pull back his questing hand.

A grotesque, round figure who could have not been hiding all this time squatted in the shadows. He could see nothing of the face except the long, narrow chin and the slash of mouth. The creature raised a spindly arm to the huge, broad-rimmed hat he wore and lifted it just enough to reveal the rest of the unholy visage. It was all D’Rance could do to keep from shouting. He stood there, petrified.

“A fascinating struggle; a struggle fascinating to me,” said the intruder. “Especially to me.”

“Who . . . ?”

The mouth shaped into a mischievous grin. A bony hand formed a fist, then opened again. In the palm of the hand was the elusive figurine. “Plool I am; I am Plool . . .” The grin grew wider. The eyes, the ungodly, crystalline eyes, glittered merrily. “A friend.”

“Something has definitely changed, Lord Gryphon, and not necessarily for the better!”

The Gryphon noticed it, too. There was indeed a change in the air, or rather the fog. He shivered and was not exactly certain why. The change might have been for the better; they had no way of knowing otherwise.

Pessimism? More likely experience and common sense. The lionbird had been in too many dire situations not to expect the worst. Usually, through no effort of his own, he was proven correct in that assumption.

“What do you make of it, Darkhorse?”

The shadow steed snorted. “Nothing! I make absolutely nothing out of it. It is from Nimth and as far as I am concerned, that which is Nimthian is a threat to all!”

“Like Shade?” he could not help asking the eternal.

Darkhorse was prevented from answering by what sounded like a crack of thunder. He stumbled. The entire area was suddenly aglow even though it was still night. The Gryphon heard a rumbling, glanced down, and, with the aid of the mysterious light, saw the earth opening up before them. He started to point it out to his companion, but the stallion was already backing away. The chasm began to widen and from it poured forth a grayish substance much like clay.

“Can you leap over it?” He had seen Darkhorse clear gaps far wider than this one.

“I will do so once I am certain that it is safe to do so! Do not trust appearances in this place; there is usually more to come!”

That was when the molten clay turned toward them.

From the center of the bubbling mass burst forth a crude, thick tentacle. At the same time, the Gryphon felt his own body twist. He stared in horror as his arms began to lengthen and his torso started to turn sideways.

“Darkhorse!” The Gryphon struggled to maintain control of his fingers, which were trying to bend backward of their own accord.

“Hold . . . hold on to . . . me!”

He did. As best as his distorted form would allow, he held on to the dark stallion. His fingers still struggled for independence, but his will was stronger.

The lionbird felt a surge of movement from the eternal, then the rush of air, foul air, as Darkhorse leapt.

It took forever to land, at least in the Gryphon’s mind, and when they did, Darkhorse did not stop. He continued to run. Over hill and flat earth, the terrain did not matter. All the while, the light remained with them. They raced on for what had to be several miles before the Gryphon recovered enough to demand that his companion come to a halt. Darkhorse did not acknowledge his words, but he nonetheless came to a reluctant halt some few moments later.

The Gryphon looked himself over, wary of what he might find but determined to see what terrible changes might have been wrought on him. To his astonishment and relief, he saw that he was just as he had always been. Leaving the vicinity of the chasm had restored him to normal.

“Grrryppphhonnn?”

“Darkhorse?” In his relief at finding he had survived intact, the lionbird had nearly forgotten the one who had saved him. It had not occurred to him that the eternal might also have suffered some monstrous alteration. “Darkhorse! What is it?”

There was no response from the shadow steed, but he was shivering noticeably. The Gryphon glanced at the rocky ground beneath them, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and gingerly dismounted. Darkhorse continued to shiver. He did not even look back at his rider, simply stared ahead.

“Darkhorse?”

“I . . . cannot . . . fight it this time!” The shivering grew worse yet. The shadow steed stumbled back a step.

“Fight what?” How could he help the eternal?

“Fight . . . what almost took . . . control . . . when I was . . . with Cabe!”

The last word ended in a scream.

Darkhorse melted.

He was quicksilver, flowing in all directions. A black pool with vague equine touches to him. The lionbird danced away from him, aghast. “Darkhorse! What do I do? What can I do?”

“Urra . . .” From the horrific mass rose a figure the color of ink. Cold, blue orbs stared out from a face that was and was not a copy of the Gryphon’s own. Every detail of the Gryphon’s own form was copied, yet it was a flawed reproduction. He raised one clawed hand toward what his companion had become.

The shape melted, but re-formed almost instantly. A thing of many arms and eyes, the latter all blue, sprouted before the Gryphon. He did not back away, although experience should have demanded otherwise.

As quickly as it had formed, this shape, too, melted. A new one, another humanoid figure, coalesced.

This one the Gryphon also recognized. “Shade!”

Shade, but with the definite outline of a face. Quick as the lionbird was in attempting to see those blackened features, he was not quick enough. Shade, the shape of Shade, rather, poured to the earth before the Gryphon could make out the details of his visage. The Gryphon watched the melting with some disappointment despite the circumstances. For all the years that he had known the warlock, he had never discerned the true features of the