Chapter Thirteen.

In the field abandoned by the gnome, there occurred a strange thing. It happened when no one seemed to be looking that way, curious since, until that point, countless prying eyes had studied the land in a futile attempt to understand what the citadel's master had done.

The pentagon rematerialized . . . but not quite in the same place.

Then it disappeared again.

Wellen and Shade stood at the front gate of the twisted castle that served as the meeting place of the Lords of the Dead. The magical ball of light that the master warlock had summoned was their only illumination, but it served to give the anxious scholar some idea of how the bizarre structure looked.

What it looked like a hodgepodge collection of many places all fixed together by insane craftsmen. Towers jutted at impossible angles and the style of architecture in one region sparred with an entirely different style next to it. The only thing they all had in common was a presence of despair and decay . . . and madness, too, Wellen corrected himself.

"Shall we go inside?" the hooded figure asked rhetorically.

And just like that, they were.

Shade looked up into the darkness. "Come out, my cousins, and let us speak of family!"

Save the scattering of tiny, hideous forms at the silence- shattering call, there was no response.

As willing as Bedlam was to save Xabene, he wondered what his companion thought he could do against the ageless necromancers. His own abilities were too unpredictable, too reluctant. They had saved him from one of the Necri, but seemingly abandoned him to the other. The only skill he trusted was his ability to sense oncoming danger and that was of no use to him now, for the screaming in his head only told him what his normal senses had from the beginning. This was not a place for a living mortal.

"We shall have to go to them," Shade informed him. "I would recommend staying near my side for now."

Where else would I dare go? the explorer wanted to ask. Too many larger things moved about at the edge of the sorcerous illumination, as if biding their time. Wellen tried not to contemplate what would happen if the light spell failed.

Shade began leading him through a moss-covered hall. The stench was, if anything, worse within the walls than without. Now and then, a large ma.s.s lying sprawled on the floor required them to step carefully. The entire place seemed orchestrated to emphasize what it was the Lords of the Dead were. The scholar whispered so to his dread ally, not so much out of fear of discovery, but because the silence was so absolute that any noise was an intrusion that struck to the soul.

His words did not surprise the shadowy form beside him. A dry, sardonic chuckle escaped the ma.s.s of cloth. "There has ever been in my family a sense of the theatrical. Still, I doubt this world we see is the one that they perceive. It has been said that the one most susceptible to an illusion is often the one who has cast it, for he of all people must believe in its worth."

Rolling the last past over in his mind, Wellen dared ask, "Who said that?"

"I did."

Somehow, Wellen found that the answer did not surprise him.

The hall abruptly ended at a flight of stairs leading up . . . and up. Even when Shade expanded the ball of light, they could see no end.

"I see they are expecting us." Shade raised a gloved hand. In the extended brilliance, Bedlam noted that his clothing and that of his companion had been repaired. It was a bit consoling, he admitted to himself, that Shade was powerful enough to deign to reclothe them while still concentrating on the danger at hand. Wellen knew he himself would have been hard pressed to conjure even a good glove, if even that much was possible for him.

"Enough of these childlike games." The warlock's hand folded into a fist as he called out, "By the dragon banner, I demand a confrontation!"

"The banner is torn," mocked a whispering voice.

"The staff is broken," said another.

"And the clan is dead," uttered a third.

The staircase was gone. For that matter, their entire surroundings had changed, though Wellen would have sworn it was the room that had come to them, not the other way around. They stood in a chamber where an immense pentagram had been etched into the floor. A dark circle marked each point and corner of the pentagram, eleven circles all told when the one in the center, one fairly close to the duo, was counted, too.

"We are all that remains of the glory," said yet a new voice from almost behind them.

Bedlam whirled, but Shade seemed not at all put out by the sudden intrusion. He stood his ground and Wellen, trusting his judgment in this case, relaxed, but only a bit. They were, after all, in the sanctum of the Lords of the Dead.

A shape began to coalesce in the region where the last voice had originated. Basically manlike, but in the way a cloud can look like a person. Temporary. Always shifting, as if the memory was hard to recall. Wellen had an impression of a fully armored figured wearing a cape. The more he stared, the more the impression became clearer. The necromancer, for it surely had to be one of them, wore a helm with some sort of intricate design. Much of his countenance was covered, which the scholar thought was probably a good thing.

"What do you see?" Shade whispered.

Wellen hastily described it.

"You perceive memories. To me, there is a walking cadaver, a thing less alive than the false father I confronted in my chambers. It wears the armor that you mention, but it is rusting and ill-fitting on so emaciated a torso. All of them look so. Yet, even I see only memories."

"All of them?" He looked around and discovered that there were ten other murky figures around them, each one standing near a darkened circle. When they had appeared he could not say. "Are they . . . dead?"

"For all that they should be, they are not."

"We are immortal, cousin," said the one nearest to them. "No more than I."

"We have become the G.o.ds we once were and more."

"G.o.ds?" Shade laughed. "We were never G.o.ds. Just spoiled children with G.o.dlike powers, children who did not know how to use those powers." The warlock pretended to look around. "And I see you have learned nothing in that regard."

"Our kingdom is a paradise." As the leader spoke, the others moved to the center of their respective circles. "We have re-created the Nimth of old."

"True . . . you have re-created the twisted, sick child we left behind."

The air crackled with barely suppressed power. Despite their air of indifference, Wellen could see that the Lords of the Dead were very much disturbed by both the intruders and the words of their cousin. He wondered why Shade did nothing. Surely his companion saw what was happening around him?

"We have mastered life and death."

The hooded warlock purposely turned away from the speaker and addressed Bedlam. "They think that because they can steal a piece of a dying person's ka, that they have captured the entire thing. They think that a scavenger stealing a morsel is the same as a hunter catching his prey. Have you ever seen such naivety?"

"You demanded confrontation and we have given it to you!" The necromancers grew larger. The nauseating stench they raised made Wellen's eyes water.

"The female is your responsibility, Master Bedlam," Shade remarked quietly. "Follow her trail. You cannot miss it from here."

"His words are ensorcelled," one of the other necromancers commented. "He hides something from us."

"To little avail," intoned the leader. He took his place in the center and faced the warlock. "To little avail, cousin."

Shade wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and turned around to stare at the thing that claimed kinship. "Nothing I do is to little avail, Ephraim."

The ball of light circling above the duo's heads became a nova.

It was as if the necromancers' world itself screeched in agony. A howl rose among the Lords of the Dead as the blinding illumination revealed to all what they truly were. Wellen swallowed hard. Neither the image he had seen nor the view Shade had described left him ready for the dark mages' true forms. Wellen found it hard to believe that these things could be alive in any sense.

A hand caught his shoulder and a voice, Shade's voice whispered, "Now is the time, scholar. Find her and take her from here. Go!"

Propelled in part by the warlock's hand, he ran blindly toward the only exit he could see.

The light died. Not faded away. Died. Wellen felt it, just as he felt the summoning of great strength by the Lords of the Dead. The running explorer stumbled, then discovered that despite the absence of illumination, he could still see the arched exit. WeIlen increased his pace, regretting for the thousandth time that he had not been able to secure some sort of weapon, such as the falchion that Lore had carried. His knife was gone now, too. Now he only had his sorcerous skills to trust, not a great consolation in this dismal place.

It occurred to him that he was running without thought, that Xabene could be on the opposite side of the necromancers' citadel. For some reason, though, the novice mage was almost certain he was on the right trail, almost as if the two of them were linked to one another.

A hiss warned him of approaching danger. Wellen came to an abrupt halt and flattened himself against the nearest wall. He tried not to think of the things he had seen crawling around on other walls in the castle, reminding himself that they could be nothing compared to what moved ahead of him.

Whatever source, be it Shade's doing or some stirring of his own power, allowed him to see in the darkness, he was hard pressed to make out what shambled slowly toward his location. Wellen was reminded of a beehive with tentacles, but that was all the detail he could make out. He thought that something, some sort of slime, dripped from it, but that was based purely on the sounds the horror made as it moved slowly along.

Wellen was certain that it was coming for him, until it suddenly turned and went through one of the walls without so much as a second's hesitation. An illusion? With great care, the curious explorer stepped over to where the monstrosity had disappeared. Just before the wall, he stepped into something moist, certain evidence that what he had seen had not been the product of overtaxed imagination. The scholar within could not help taking a moment to study the phenomenon.

Tentacles burst from the wall, seizing him by the arms and throat.

Crying out, Bedlam tried to pull back. The thing proved stronger, however, and he found himself slowly but surely edging toward the wall. Wellen wondered what would happen when he and the stone met, then decided that it was a question better left forever unanswered. Frantically, the would-be warlock tried to summon up some sort of spell.

Nothing happened. He cursed his premonitions; the ability was so overwhelmed by the necromancers' kingdom that the warnings had become one constant headache, with no definition between near and not-so-near danger. Such was the trouble of becoming too accustomed to sorcery; one could forget it had limits.

In desperation, Wellen gave up attempting sorcery and tried the only thing he could think of. Bracing himself, he kicked the stone from where the tentacles projected.

If anything, the tentacles pulled with more fervor.

"Let me help you," came a quiet but, somehow, commanding voice. A single, delicate hand, female, reached out and touched one of the tentacles.

The appendage unwound and snapped back into the wall with such haste that it took part of Wellen's sleeve with it. Again the graceful hand, attached to a slim arm clad in white gossamer, reached out and touched a tentacle.

Whatever was happening, the beast had decided it had happened once too often. Wellen fell back as the tentacles were frantically withdrawn. He coughed as air rushed into his lungs. There was no doubt in his mind that he had scars around his throat and wrists. Still trying to draw breath and also watching to make certain that the wall stalker did not attempt to renew its attack, he said, "My . . . my thanks!"

"I would always help one of my children."

He raised his head and twisted around to see who had saved him.

She was taller than him and nearly as tall as Shade. Her well-formed figure was outlined in white, making her appear to be some snow G.o.ddess, and her hair, long and flowing, was silver-blue. A streak of very solid silver also ran through her hair.

His next statement died as he studied her more closely. The hall behind her was visible through her.

She smiled, almost a bit sadly, and somehow the smile made up for the fact that she was one of the undead. This was not Yalso. This was not one of the necromancers' toys. Here was one who could not, would not, hurt him.

"Tell him I always cared about what happened to him," she whispered. Then, in slightly lighter tones she added, "There are still a few facets of crystal in your eyes."

"Wait!" He knew without knowing how, that she was leaving. "What-"

The white wraith pointed backward at the hall behind her. "She lies that way. You won't be impeded anymore. I can see to that before I go."

She was growing less distinct, looking more and more like a bit of smoke in the wind than a woman.

He hesitated, then asked, "Did I . . . did I summon you?" "I will never belong to the children of the drake," was her dwindling response.

Wellen shook then, feeling as if he had both found and lost something. He rose, thinking that the spirit had looked familiar, almost like . . . like the phantasm that had haunted Shade? Lady Sharissa?

Did she call me one of her children? The scholar found that hard to believe. If true, the bloodline had grown diluted over time. Many families, including his own, had laid claim to being descended either from the Lord Drazeree's . . . Dru Zeree's . . . daughter or from the children his elven bride had borne him. He had liked to think there was some truth, had even subconsciously used it as a reason for his obsession, but to actually be . . .

As astonished as he was, Wellen recalled what his true task was and rose. If he was a descendent of the legendary lord, it behooved him to prove himself more than he had so far.

Wellen followed the path both his mind and the wraith's words told him was the true one. He was relieved to discover that she had not lied about one thing; nothing larger than a hand-sized, dead-white spider crossed his path and it had retreated quickly. All the time, the castle was silent. What had happened to Shade and the Lords of the Dead was an enigma. Wellen had expected the castle to rock from the intensity of their battle. He had antic.i.p.ated explosions, thunder, and the screams of ma.s.sive monsters brought into the fray by both sides. The silence, however, reminded him too much of the invasion of the Green Dragon's domain. The scholar was unfamiliar with sorcerous duels, but he a.s.sumed that they involved some noise.

Turning a corner, he found a wooden door. There was no question in his mind that this was his destination. This was where Xabene, or a part of her, was kept. He had no idea what he would find behind the door. A wraith, like the one in the hall? Conjectures were useless; it was easy enough to find out.

As Bedlam reached for the handle, the citadel shook.

A roar like a thousand storms raging all around nearly deafened him. Wellen put his hands to his ears and fell to one knee as the floor began to ripple beneath his feet. Pieces of stone dropped from the ceiling as shock wave after shock wave rocked the castle. It was as if all the effects of battle had been saved up for this one movement. Perhaps Shade had confined the battle somehow so that Wellen could find Xabene without too much trouble. If so, it boded ill that the hooded warlock's intentions had failed.

The stone floor tilted, nearly sending the hapless rescuer crashing into the opposite wall. He tried to grab the handle again, but it stayed just out of reach. Wellen managed to stand in one place, but then his boots started to sink into the stone floor. Not wanting to sink through to whatever lay below, or worse, find himself trapped in the very stone itself, the determined explorer struggled his way back to the more solid walls and pulled himself up by what little fingerhold he could find. The floor still had some solidity, too. With effort, he found himself making progress toward Xabene's chamber again.

A flurry of tentacles in his face made him throw himself to one side. A wall stalker sprouted full-grown next to his chest, but it had no interest in him. Wellen watched as the monster frantically wiggled its mult.i.tude of appendages in a useless attempt to stay attached to the wall. With what must have been a despairing hiss, the creature lost total control and plummeted to the floor.

It did not fall through as he expected. Instead, the wall stalker struggled as a drowning man might. One or two tentacles of the beehive creature shot in his direction, but not far enough. The thing rolled about in the liquid floor. It seemed to be trying to swim its way to the opposing wall. Unfortunately, the wall stalker was not built for that. All it succeeded in doing was miring itself further.

As abruptly as it had liquified, the stone floor reverted to normal . . . much to the distress of the necromancers' pet.

Wellen swore as he turned away from the stomach-wrenching sight. As simple as it had been for the wall stalker to shift through stone, there was evidently some conscious effort needed. Caught unaware as it struggled, the monstrosity was crushed in the sudden reversion. A shower of entrails and fluids narrowly missed Bedlam. A wave of sulfur made his nose burn and his eyes water, but fortunately, it was only a momentary thing.

Testing the stone, Wellen dared put his full weight on the floor again. Tremors still shook the castle. Although there were no windows here, he did not doubt that if there had been he would have seen a panoramic display of colored explosions lighting the generally dismal landscape. Light seemed a key element in dealing with the Lords of the Dead. They and most of their abominations had an aversion to it. Only a few servants, mostly humans like Xabene and reluctant creatures like the Necri, the latter of whom probably preferred the night, were likely to be of any use during the daytime.

He touched the door. To his surprise, it swung open easily. Almost too easily, he thought, but then it was doubtful that the necromancers had contemplated someone actually invading their citadel. Either that or once they had made use of Xabene, she had become unimportant to them.

"Xabene?" His voice echoed.

He stepped into the chamber, not understanding. Xabene had to be here. It felt correct. Shade had said he would be able to follow the trail; the wraith of Lady Sharissa had pointed the way. This was the place.

It's not her true body I'm looking for, Wellen reminded himself. It's her spirit.

Follow the trail . . . he had followed it to the room, but could it be followed farther?

Slowly, he wound his way into the middle of the room. There did seem to be more to the path. It was as if he was at his destination but not.

As he circled the center, still tracking the trail, the scholar saw a form shimmer into and out of existence.

A woman on a platform.

He continued to circle the center, finding somehow that the trail overlapped itself again and again but did not come to a definite conclusion. What sort of mad sorcery is at work here?

Wellen glimpsed the image again. It was Xabene. She seemed a little more solid now, although the image itself lasted little longer than it had the first glimpse. The enchantress was stretched out much the way she had been in the Dragonrealm, yet now she was more ephemeral, more like a dream.

This is not her true body. Would he be able to touch her, much less wake her? Wellen tried calling out to her again, hoping that his voice would do what his hands might not. "Xabene! Awaken!"

She remained as she was, but the image of her grew more constant, albeit still ghostly. Bedlam circled like a vulture, both marvelling and despairing at the way the path seemed destined to go on forever. Still, each revolution appeared to bring him closer to his goal. Closer, but never actually there.