Legends of the Dragonrealm.

Vol IV.

Richard A. Knaak.

INTRODUCTION.

With great pleasure I welcome you to this fourth collection of the Dragonrealm saga. We have at last gathered all of the novels originally published by Warner Books, not to mention the online novellas. In this edition are stories spanning centuries in this world, including tales revealing great secrets about some of the most important characters.

In Dragon Tome, we not only meet the first Bedlam to arrive on the sh.o.r.es of the continent, but also discover the truth about the Libraries of Penacles and their creator. Toss in the Lords of the Dead, Shade, and the Purple Dragon and you have a story concerning a pivotal point in the Dragonrealm.

The Horse King is no less significant in that it also deals with the origins of one of the series' most popular and unique characters, Darkhorse. And while Lanith, ruler of the kingdom of Zuu and the villain for whom the novel is named, is ambitious and powerful, his sinister ally is certainly the guiding force behind the story's events . . . not to mention the force responsible for Darkhorse's very existence. Here we also find conflict in the Bedlam family itself, leading to disaster.

With Dragon Master, some of the first hints of the complexities of the Turning War are revealed in the discovery that one of those who followed Nathan Bedlam against the Dragon Kings still lives . . . and unfortunately blames anyone with the name Bedlam even while seeking to create a second war between drakes and mankind.

The dark past also rears its ugly head in A Wolf in the Fold when the Gryphon's son is kidnapped by Wolf Raiders led by an old enemy. Worse, to rescue his child, the Lord of Penacles must not only venture into the underworld of the Quel, but also leave his pregnant queen alone just as a second a.s.sa.s.sination plot stirs to life.

And if you thought you knew everything about Cabe Bedlam himself, A Game of Ghosts reveals not only just how much remains to be told, but also how those secrets may yet claim his life. What lies awaiting the master wizard within the ruins of Mito Pica will make even vengeful survivors from that lost city and murderous drakes seem slight threat in comparison.

We have also added some teasers from other various novels in the back, including a short scene from the upcoming Dragonrealm trilogy, The Turning War. I hope you enjoy not only these glimpses, but also the fact that there are still tales from the Dragonrealm ahead. Even before the trilogy ends, I hope to begin moving forward in the current timeline with some twists and turns that I think will continue to reveal new dimensions to this world.

I thank you again to all of you who have followed and supported this series!

Best.

Richard A. Knaak.

DRAGON TOME.

Chapter One.

He always knew when it was the most opportune time for an excursion outside. It was all in the book, so to speak. He knew his adversaries' habits better than they themselves did, just as he had known the habits of their predecessors. He had been at this game far longer than either of the two groups now seeking his legacy and he would be at it when they were only whispers in the winds of time.

They ever underestimated him because of his form, he knew. To them, he was a misshapen little gnome, one of the solitary folk who lived for knowledge and gathered what they could of that rare resource. He was incredibly small and wrinkled with age. His arms had the length that his legs had been cheated of and so he seemed to almost shamble rather than walk or run. There was not one single follicle of hair on his head, which often resulted in him looking like a polished egg when the sun shone down. His nose was long and crooked and his eyes were wide and filled with the wisdom of ages, His clothing was simple, consisting of a cloth robe and hood that made him look more like a pile of rumpled laundry than a living creature. He wore simple shoes and a belt from which hung several pouches, but nothing more. There was no need for anything more.

If he looked like a gnome, there was good reason for that; it was he who had given birth to that race when he had taken elfin maidens for mates far in the past. Though those days were past, his offspring continued to spread his mark. It was a sign of his once-great power, one still to be reckoned with even now.

He was no more than a few minutes from his sanctum, but the storm had at last cleared. With the clouds dissipating so fast, it was possible that the dawn would yet reveal a bright, golden sun and a deep blue sky. Dawn was the only thing he really cared about anymore; that and his daily game with those who would seek to steal what was his and his alone.

At the bottom of the hill he paused. From this point on, the land would shield him no longer. Before him stood only wild gra.s.s, not nearly high enough to hide even his tiny form. That there was any gra.s.s at all was a sign of his own might, for one of his opponents had burned the entire region clean in an attempt to drive the gnome from his sanctum. Left to the weakness of nature, the region would have remained barren. He had no desire to make his home in the middle of a scorched desert, however, and so had sought out the proper spell. That his success only proved to his adversaries the vast extent of his legacy was a moot point. They had seen enough wonders to know that stealing the contents of his citadel would make the victor master over the entire continent.

As for the gnome, he did not cue. At this stage in his vast life span, the pursuit of ever more knowledge was all that was important.

To the naked eye, the field looked empty, save for a peculiar structure some distance from where the gnome stood. The structure, a sort of wide, featureless pentagon three stories high, sat in the midst of the wild gra.s.s like a benign tyrant surveying its kingdom. If it seemed that there were no windows nor even a door through which to pa.s.s, that was because such was the case. If anyone other than he attempted to seek entrance, then that unfortunate visitor would find himself fruitlessly wandering the perimeter of the citadel. Only he knew how to enter, which was why he held the trump card in the game of wits. His would-be successors dared not kill him out of hand lest they lose the one key.

That did not mean that they did not try other methods, most of which included pain . . . but not death.

It appeared that the field was peaceful, that his adversaries had abandoned their efforts for the night. This might be true of one, for the time being, but not of the other. Always there was at least one.

Shouldering the brace of rabbits that had been his night's work, he began to trudge through, what was to him, the knee-high sea of dancing greenery. From within, tendrils of invisible power, already highly sensitized to the possible plots of the usurpers, stretched ever farther out. If any spell or physical threat came within a hundred yards of him, he would know. Anything beyond that range would not even "dent" the magical shield that surrounded his person and it was likely that anything nearer would do little more. Still, one could grow too complacent. There were always new and more deadly attacks.

Knowing that always added a little spice to his life. It gave his desire for research that extra little flavor, since his very existence might hang in the balance.

When he had nearly cut the distance between himself and his home in half, the squat sorcerer paused. Nothing had as yet disturbed his network of defensive spells, but a sense of foreboding . . . call it intuition . . . told him that someone or something lay waiting in the near vicinity.

Which one? he wondered. Who's been silent of late?

The first spearheads of sunlight rose over the horizon. The aged spellcaster admired the sight for a moment, then resumed his trek. He was still slightly curious about the sensation he felt, but since it did not hint of danger, the gnome was not overly concerned.

Perhaps an enterprising elf? Once or twice, that race had made overtures to him, seeking his friendship, but no longer interested in dallying with the female of the species, he had ignored them. Compared to the other watchers, the elves were inconsequential.

Now his sanctum, his home and place of research, was little more than a hundred feet away and still he had not been attacked. The wizened sorcerer grew bemused, wondering if his handiwork would go wasted this time. He had not even really needed the rabbits, able as he was to summon them to him, but the walk and the challenge always stirred his blood. It was almost disappointing.

There was that sensation still . . .

Standing at last before the gray structure, he raised his hand to open the way-and felt every protective spell activate as something hurtled straight down from high in the sky above him.

It was strong, far stronger than he had expected. It shrugged off his initial defenses as he might shrug off a leaf that had fallen on his shoulder. Whatever it was must have been high up indeed to have avoided detection sooner and it evidently moved with a speed that would have left even a dragon dumbfounded. The sorcerer dropped his brace of rabbits and focused his attention upward at the startling new threat. Whichever of his present adversaries was responsible for this a.s.sault had outdone themselves.

A huge, bat-winged shape formed in the dim light of pre- morning. It shrieked, much the way the night flyer it so resembled did, and reached out with long, taloned fingers for him. Like a bat, those fingers were part of the webbed wings themselves. It had long ears and a body that was essentially humanoid, but that was all the detail he could make out under the circ.u.mstances.

Ugly as sin, no doubt, the sorcerer thought even as he moved to defend himself from it.

With a speed remarkable for one of his build, the gnome reached into one of his pouches and removed a small stick. Holding it up above his head, he gave the tip a flick of his thumb. The tip of the stick burst into a brilliant white light, brighter a hundred times more than the sun at its zenith. He was prepared for searing illumination and so his eyes had closed just before his thumb had struck.

The night flyer was not so fortunate.

It squealed, wavered, and finally whirled out of control. Though he suspected it could guide itself by sound as well as by sight, he knew that the light had disoriented it too much for the moment. Its masters might have created it so that it would be used to the light of day, but few things could stare into the gleaming white flare in his hand and not lose their sight permanently. What made the trick more enjoyable to the sorcerer was that the source of the light was a product of nature and not a costly bit of spellcasting. Making the stick had cost him only a few minutes' work.

By no means had he stood still while all this happened. Even as the creature, seven feet in height at least if he were any judge, clawed at its eyes, the gnome was already opening up a path for himself in the side of the pentagon. A swift series of gestures with his left hand resulted in a circular hole that formed directly before him. He stepped through, dragging the retrieved rabbits along with him, but paused before sealing the entrance up again.

The beast was already fluttering off into the retreating night, its mission a quick and embarra.s.sing failure. From experience, the gnome knew the mental and physical agony the monstrosity was going through. He felt no sympathy, save for the wasted effort on the part of the beast's creators. Seeing now its sickly white coloring, odd for a creature of the night, he had a good suspicion which of his opponents had been responsible.

"Hmmph! The Lords of the Dead. Of course it would be one of theirs!" Necromancers who had appointed themselves G.o.ds. Fools in one way, but still quite challenging and able. They had, with their own vast storehouse of power, created quite a formidable weapon, but one that evidently lacked the cunning needed for its task. Yet, he could hardly believe it had been so short and simple. It was almost anticlimactic after all his expectations.

"Almost farcical, if you ask me," he muttered, though those involved would have hardly questioned him on the subject. "Waste of good material! Never use a good weapon with a bad plan!"

Watching the ma.s.sive shape disappear into the clouds, the gnome's brow suddenly wrinkled. It might not be an ill- conceived attempt after all. They should have known by now that such a weak attack would be destined for failure. This might have been an exploratory a.s.sault, a preamble to the true attack.

He smiled in antic.i.p.ation of what their next move might be and when it might take place. Whatever they plotted, he would be ready for it, of course, but the thought that they might have come up with some novel approach stirred his hunger for research. He would have to research the possibilities this incident presented, even if it turned out that any such possibilities were nothing more than the products of his inventive imagination.

The hole had just begun to seal itself when he again felt the presence of that patient watcher. Freezing the doorway spell, the bent sorcerer peered outside again. He saw nothing, not that he had expected it to be that simple, but in his mind's eye, where the power flowed, there came an image of a tall figure, human perhaps, wrapped in a shroudlike cloak.

That was all. As if his sensing this had broken a fragile bubble, both the image and the feeling of being watched vanished.

Frowning, the gnome allowed the wall to finish sealing itself up. He had protected his precious legacy from foes human and otherwise for endless millennia and he saw no reason that he could not protect it from one more. Be his rivals birdmen or cloaked sorcerers, they were nothing next to him.

Another image flashed through his mind, but this one was merely a memory of his most persistent and patient adversary yet. He chuckled at some of the clever but futile tricks that one had pulled. "Yesss, and that goes for you, too, lord dragon!" the aged spellcaster muttered. "The book's mine and that's all there is to it!"

The squat figure resettled the rabbits on his shoulder and trundled down the hall, thoughts of dragons, bats, and such now giving way to memories of the sensual aroma of roast hare. He so enjoyed the peaceful life. This was not at all like his former home, the place that he had abandoned so very, very, very long ago.

No, this domain was nothing like Nimth.

Chapter Two.

"There!"

It was Captain Yalso himself who planted the flag. With the aid of his great bulk, he shoved almost two feet of the wooden pole into the soft earth at the inward edge of the beach. As two sailors unfurled the banner-which was actually a ship's identification banner borrowed for just this occasion-a cheer went up from both those who made up the sh.o.r.e party and those watching from the three-masted vessel anch.o.r.ed in the natural harbor. After months of treacherous sailing, the Heron's Wing had reached its destination.

The myth was now a fact. There was a fabled Dragonrealm! Or at least a continent in the same general location, Wellen Bedlam thought, staring in sour humor at the tiny flag, one that had not even been his idea.

The guiding force as well as the master of this expedition, he should have been the one most excited by this turn of events. His dream had been fulfilled. From the first time his parents had told the children the tales of Lord Drazeree and the Dragon Men to the final days of his own researches in the ruins of the ancient city, he had believed that the Dragonrealm had existed as more than just a storyland. Somewhere there had to have been a basis for such tales.

His entire reputation as a master scholar had been at risk these past few years, but that had hardly been a concern to him. Even when the Master Guardians, who ruled the nebulous region called the Dreamlands from mysterious Sirvak Dragoth, had warned him of the dangers of delving too deeply into the past . . . a shaded threat? . . . he had pressed on. After his researchers had finally, conclusively, pointed to the west, beyond the terrible seas, Wellen had somehow gathered the support to finance this expedition. When it had appeared that the effort was about to flounder just as the Heron's Wing was about to set sail, he had even taken his own meager finances and spent every last coin to make certain that the ship would leave.

Brushing sand from his brown, cloth shirt, he pulled his long, green cape about him and turned from the merrymakers. Yes, he had made his dream come true, but now Wellen wondered at what cost that might be. In the safe seclusion of his chambers back home, he had only imagined the dangers. The reality of those dangers, however, was more than he truly wanted to face. It bothered him that he of all people might most jeopardize the expedition.

I'm afraid! The thought had burned its way into his soul. I'm afraid. I've spent my entire life with the deadliest threat to my existence the possibility that I might fail to graduate!

Sand flew up as he walked aimlessly across the beach. Even with knee-high boots, some of the granules still managed to get inside, making his feet itch. Wellen wished all of his sufferings could be so tiny. How would it look back home if the expedition leader was the first man to crack? How would it look if Prentiss Asaalk had to take over?

Thinking of the northerner, whom other interests had chosen as Bedlam's undesired second, Wellen now recalled his own physical deficiencies. It was bad enough that he was afraid, but he had to compete against a man who looked like some demiG.o.d hero out of an ancient myth. Where Wellen was short, barely topping the midway point between five feet and six, Asaalk was nearly a foot taller. The shorter man was by no means unathletic, but his broad frame more resembled a flat gate when compared to Prentiss Asaalk's herculean dimensions.

Facially, there was no comparison. Wellen's own features could be called unremarkable at best. Slightly rounded face, simple nose, una.s.suming mouth . . . only his hazel eyes, which somehow always snared the attention of those he spoke to, rose above the ordinary. Penetrating eyes, however, added up to little compared to the aristocratic features of his second. Not only did Asaalk have the bearing of a leader, but he had the arrogant beauty that all those story heroes had seemed to have, save for the legendary Drazeree.

Despite his constant listing of his faults, however, the short man still found himself very much in charge. For some reason, people were more willing to listen and follow him. It confused Wellen and it almost certainly annoyed the ambitious Asaalk. That added yet another fear to those of the scholar. When would come the point when he led his people into disaster and, should they survive, Prentiss Asaalk finally and irrevocably took his place as leader?

The day was young. The wind fruitlessly tried to tousle his brown hair, which had been cut short in order to save him the trouble of having to take care of it any more than he had to. He pushed a few loose hairs aside, trying not to think of the d.a.m.nable silver streak that his fingers touched, and paused to stare at the woodlands beyond the beach. They seemed quiet and una.s.suming, but was anything so in this strange land? A part of him argued that he worried needlessly, but the rest of his mind knew that such worry was the only thing that kept him from growing too dreamy, a dangerous tendency of his youth. Though not quite three decades old, Wellen liked to think that his reckless days had ended with the broken leg and arm he had received because he had been daydreaming instead of making certain that the library ladder was stable.

"So just what're you doing here?"

He nearly jumped, so startled was he to hear the question that he had just been asking himself spoken out loud. Then, realizing it was not he himself who had spoken, Wellen knew that the question had a different, far more mundane basis behind it. He exhaled in relief and turned to face Captain Yalso.

The mariner was ancient, but no one could say just how ancient he was. As old as the seas, one crewman had said, but if Yalso was that old, he was holding up well for one of his age. Though the hair on his head was shockingly white and his beard stretched down to his chest, the captain was by no means a frail old man. His girth alone proved that, if not also the way he was able to manhandle his crew during the roughest storms and get them working in order to save the Heron's Wing and all those on board. He had done that more than once on the long journey. Like most men, it seemed, Yalso also stood several inches taller than Wellen. Again, it always surprised him when men such as the sea captain deferred to him in matters.

"You're driftin' off, you are," Yalso told him in tones designed not to carry beyond the two of them. If there was a man on the ship that could be called Wellen's friend, it was Yalso. Until the scholar had come along, he had been looking at nothing but a long overdue retirement. Wellen had given him one last great adventure . . . the greatest one, in fact. No one had ever sailed this far west. No one that had come back to tell of it, that is. The young scholar had had an insistent, knowing way about him, however, and that had been enough for the seaman. He had never lost faith in Wellen.

"I'm sorry," Bedlam muttered. "I keep wondering what we'll find out there." He gestured inland.

"Oh, trees, gra.s.s, animals, birds . . . " Yalso winked. "I think maybe a few lost cities, damsels in distress, and gold aplenty. . ."

They both smiled at that image. While there were always those aboard who expected the expedition to find such things, the two were more practical. As far as the captain was concerned, sailing here had been a reward all its own. He had proved once more that he was the best captain there was and that the Heron's Wing was the finest lady ever to set sail. Wellen, on the other hand, cared mostly for the history.

His spirits had risen a little, but Wellen could not shake off certain fears. Not after the first attempt to land.

Here be dragons was a warning essential to the tale of this distant land. Dragons they had not seen . . . at least not enough so that they could be identified as such . . . but there were strange dangers aplenty here, of that Wellen was certain.

"You're thinkin' of that blasted city again, aren't you, Master Bedlam? Don't. This here's safe harbor, not like that haunted, monster-laden cove."

Haunted, Wellen could not recall, but the ruined city to the northeast, the wind-swept region that was their first sighting of the legendary Dragonrealm and was to have been their initial landing point, was indeed 'monster-laden' as the ancient mariner had just commented.

Their first sight of land had brought a cheer and when the city had first been spotted it was thought that here might be people open to trade. Only when they had sailed closer had the crew and pa.s.sengers of the three-master noted that the port city was in ruins and had been so for centuries. Part of it had apparently even sunk into the sea. Still, it had been a marvel to see, what with its almost inhuman architecture and beauty, and so they had talked of exploring it, possibly even finding riches long abandoned.

Then, the lookout had seen the sleek, scaled backside in the water.

Sea-blue, that was why no one had noticed them at first. Possibly they had been swimming too deep, also. All that the daring explorers still knew was that suddenly there were several murky shapes in the waters around them that promised leviathans. Captain Yalso was of the opinion that they had come across a breeding ground or something. Prentiss Asaalk had wanted to hunt one. He was, fortunately, in the minority.

The shapes had remained no more than that, ever diving out of sight when the explorers moved closer, but that did not mean that the ship was left alone. When the first tremor rocked the Heron's Wing, they knew that several had swum underneath. Oddly, very little damage occurred to the ship, but possibly because Captain Yalso instinctively understood what it was they wanted. Each strike was focused at the bow of the ship, halting the three-master's progress and soon forcing the vessel back.

"They want us out of here!" he had informed Wellen. "They're givin' us a chance to leave in one piece!"

Sure enough, when the Heron's Wing had finally turned about and headed away, the fearsome shapes had receded. The explorers had kept sailing and had not looked back until the city and its denizens of the deep were no more than a spot on the horizon.

"Drifting again." The comment scattered the shorter man's memories. The scholar stared down at the sand beneath his feet, reorienting himself to the present.

Wellen started walking up a small rise, wanting to stand among the foot-high blades of wild gra.s.s. "Sorry, captain. I don't mean to do it. It just happens."

"Nothing wrong to dream; that's what got you, got all of us, here. You just have to know where the dreaming ends and the reality begins . . . otherwise ya put your foot in something terrrrible!"

He was never certain whether Captain Yalso affected a salty accent at times or whether the man just switched back and forth without realizing it. Yalso was far more cultured than the short man had expected, but that might have just been the personal prejudice borne of having been highly educated. "I'll try to remember that."

"Good!" The heavy-set sailor joined him, his boots sinking a bit in the soft earth. "If anything happens to you and I have to listen to the blue man's royal orders for very long, then there's gonna be a mutiny!"

The "blue man" was Prentiss Asaalk. For reasons only the Dreamlands might know, Asaalk's folk were blue-skinned. It was not a dye of any sort; they were born a dusky blue from head to toe, including their hair. The only people so colored, they felt it marked them as special, which explained to a great extent Asaalk's arrogant manner. He was a product of his culture.

Still, even for a blue man he could be demanding.