"Ha!" Encouraged by his success, the Dragon King increased the intensity of the green mist. The knight in front remained still, but the other pieces moved closer, as if the death of one had strengthened the others.

Wellen saw the queen raise her specter. He was caught in a quandary. Warn the Dragon King? Let him be attacked? Either way he and Xabene lost. They needed the drake to save them from these silent sentinels, but they also needed the chessmen to rescue them from the clutches of the dragon.

He was saved that decision by the Dragon King himself, who noticed the queen at the last moment. The jewel in her scepter glowed a warm rose. Purple's eyes narrowed and darkness seemed to come from them. He reached out and swiftly blocked the queen's scepter. A crimson flash was all they could see, then the darkness vanished. The queen slowly lowered her royal weapon and stood there as if nothing had happened.

"Can't we do anything?" the enchantress asked. "I have some power! Perhaps I could pull one of those from the ceiling onto some of the ones coming toward us!"

"Do nothing!" the scholar uttered in sudden inspiration. Perhaps they were not in so great a danger after all!

She looked at Wellen as if he had lost all sense of reality. "If we do nothing, we die."

"If we do nothing," he responded in as low a voice as possible, "then they may ignore us completely. So far, they've only attacked the Purple Dragon!"

"I think I would prefer not to wait until they have killed him. By then we'll be surrounded!"

He nodded. "When I said do nothing, I meant only in terms of attacking them. I think that they may only be interested in the Dragon King"-Wellen pointed at the archer above-"or else we would have been dead already."

The original chess piece, the knight, finally attacked. With a rapid one-step, two-step run, he moved close to the Dragon King. He brought the axe up and around in a vicious arc, his speed so astonishing that the drake lord barely had time to react. Not trusting to his spells at so close a range, the reptilian monarch stumbled backward. It almost proved a fatal mistake, for Serkadion Manee's weight made just enough difference that the drake nearly fell.

Cursing, the Dragon King shot a glance at the frozen figure. With little ceremony, he dumped the still form of Manee on one of the squares a few feet back and to the side. In his now-free taloned hands materialized an incredibly long, curiously curved sword. No human that Wellen had ever met could have wielded so great a giant, but the Dragon King did so with ease.

He moves and acts with confidence, the scholar noted. How long has he held this spell from the eyes of his brethren? One would almost think he had been born in such a body and not shaped himself through masterful sorcery!

The ebony knight brought the axe around again, this time in a downward arc. The gleaming head missed its target by less than a foot, but it forced Purple back another square. If he was not careful, Wellen thought, he would be in danger of stepping on--- Serkadion Manee was no longer lying p.r.o.ne on the square where he had been so roughly deposited.

Xabene noticed it at the same time. "The gnome!" she hissed. "He's escaped!"

It hardly seemed possible, but there was no sign of the libraries' creator. Wellen could not even say exactly when he had disappeared.

A golden streak flashed by them, narrowly missing him. Reflex action made him fall to the floor away from the path of the bolt.

"We may die whether they intend to kill us or not!" he managed to gasp.

There was no response from the sorceress. Fearful that she had somehow been struck down by the arrow, despite the fact that he was almost certain it had continued on, Wellen rolled over.

Xabene was gone.

Something heavy and metal crashed to the floor beside him. Not Xabene, as his mind first imagined, but the knight who had crossed weapons with the Dragon King. The helm was cracked and for the first time he caught a glimpse of the warrior within.

The sight almost made him sick. Within the armor, thankfully only barely visible, was the mummified visage of a man. By the explorer's calculation, he had been dead for years. There was hardly anything but dried skin and bone. By comparison, Shade almost looked robust.

Then, to his horror, the head began to turn slowly toward him. He scrambled back.

Something that would not be denied pulled him from every direction.

The chessboard corridor and his macabre companion faded. For the first time, Wellen welcomed a teleportation spell, regardless of where it might be sending him.

A darkened chamber formed around him. He breathed a sigh of relief . . . and looked up at the looming specter of a huge, ebony-armored warrior clad in scarlet cape and crown and bearing a long scepter upon which was fixed a rainbow gem whose power even an inept novice like Wellen Bedlam could sense.

He had found the king of Serkadion Manee's chess game at last . . . or perhaps the king had found him.

Chapter Nineteen.

The black king continued to stare in silence. Wellen remained where he had materialized, uncertain if even the slightest movement was allowed.

After a long, breath-holding wait in which the ebony figure did not stir, the scholar began to wonder if he had misjudged the situation. He looked at the visored head and dared talk to it. "Are you the one who saved me?"

Nothing. Yet, knowing the abominable thing that must lie within, he could not take a lack of response as meaning that he was safe. "I'd like to stand, if you have no objections to that."

He decided to take the silence for agreement. Wellen slowly rose from the floor, his eyes ever locked on the monarch of night. The armor spoke of a being gargantuan in proportions, larger than even the humanoid form of the Dragon King. While such giants were not unknown among humanity, it was possible that the armor enhanced its wearer, made the thing within appear larger than it was.

Either way, if it chose to strike him down, he doubted he would be able to defend himself.

When he stood before it, and it did not react, the shorter scholar took a step toward it. Still nothing. He continued until he was well within arm's reach. The scepter did not rise and crush his skull. The gauntleted hand did not seize him by the throat and squeeze.

He reached up and touched the black king lightly on the chest. The chessman might as well have been a marble column for all he moved.

"Praise be!" Bedlam exhaled. Thinking of the need for a weapon, Wellen tried to take the scepter. It was held so tight, in fact, that it was more likely he would end up crushed under the fallen figure of the king if he continued. Exasperated, Wellen stepped back from the monstrous toy and finally studied his new surroundings.

Choking down a gasp of disgust, Wellen for the first time saw the other playing pieces of the gnome's macabre game. A full score at least, all surrounding him, a legion of the dead. There were a few more black pieces and an entire range of white. There were duplicates, too, evidently in case one of the others became too damaged to use again. They were the only things he could see in the chamber, but that was not surprising, since the only illumination was a pale blue ball just above him.

He was alone. No Xabene. No Serkadion Manee. Where they had vanished to he had no idea. Worse, where he had vanished to was a complete mystery. Just how vast was the gnome's citadel? The libraries alone were a phenomenon in size, but now he was discovering corridor after corridor and room after room.

There was little choice but to seek a way out of this place and hope he could find Xabene. Then, the two of them would have to find a means of escaping Manee's paradoxical pentagon. What happened between the Dragon King and the gnome was of no interest to him. Wellen merely wanted his freedom.

Choosing a direction unpopulated by the grisly warriors, the explorer started out. The throbbing in his head had begun again, although he could not say exactly when, but here it was fairly useless. There was too much within a near distance that was genuinely a threat to the would-be warlock. His ability informed him of nothing he did not already know about. Had one of the chessmen raised a weapon against him, Bedlam would have been no better warned.

If this was the extent of his powers, then he doubted he would ever be a competent sorcerer. At this point, he doubted he was much more competent at anything.

He found, to his relief, that the blue light followed him as he progressed. It would at least be possible to wander about without having to worry about walking into something in the dark. The illumination was still not the best, but it always kept a yard or two of the path around him visible, which had been more than he could have hoped.

Now if only I can find a doorway or a gate out of this chamber! The fear that this was a place accessible only by a teleportation spell had already occurred to him, but Bedlam tried not to think about the possibility. If such was the case, then he was doomed to capture, or even worse, to die here and become one more rotting corpse.

Wellen increased his pace.

After what he estimated to be at least three or four minutes, WeIlen began puzzling over the lack of walls. Not once had he noticed one, not even when he had stood in the midst of the chessmen. Looking up, he realized that there was no visible ceiling either. Only the floor beneath his feet, the blue globe floating over his head, and the horrific army he had left behind seemed to exist. There was no sound, save his breathing and his footfalls. He might have been in limbo.

Limbo . . .

He came to a dead halt, trying to hear again the voice whispering in his head. Had it been his imagination? A single word, one sounding more like a gust of wind than speech, that was all it had been. Just a trick of his anxious mind?

Mind . . .

Again, a single word! "Is someone there?"

The proverbial silence of the tomb was all that greeted him, but Wellen was certain it had been another who had spoken.

"Where are you?" His voice did not echo. Even sound died here.

Died . . .

This time, Wellen thought he noted a direction. It was difficult to say if he was imagining that, too, for the voice still appeared to exist in his head alone. Yet, he felt that turning to his right and walking in that direction for a time was the correct choice. Perhaps the only choice.

"Please," the scholar whispered, running a hand through his hair as he tried to think. Despite a quick and lengthy stride, Wellen still saw nothing. "Who are you? I don't mean any harm."

It could all be another game, either Serkadion Manee's or the Dragon King's, but he doubted it. With each other to have to concentrate upon, neither could waste time on such a game with him.

Having little other choice, he continued walking. Wellen guessed that he might be underneath the rest of the citadel. Perhaps this was a storage area for Serkadion Manee's abandoned experiments or his monstrous toys, if the chess pieces were any indication. Either way, the scholar only cared about escape.

No escape . . .

"No escape? But . . ." He closed his mouth. The voice within was not speaking of his fate, but rather its own. For the first time, he sensed the mournful, beseeching tone, the sense of agony and loss.

The cry for release.

More than mere words were being conveyed into his head. Emotions. Vague memories. A warning.

Its fate could be his, if he was not careful.

"But where are you?" He had to find out what the source of the voice was. He needed to know if he could free it from whatever torment held it. Wellen had to find out if he could avert his own fate.

Then, the dim blue illumination touched an array of small, glittering objects before him.

They stood upon a pedestal, each in its own little slot. Vials no bigger than his index finger. There were ten vials in all, each sealed tight with wax. What was within he could not say, only that it shifted as he tried to see it, almost as if it did not want to be seen. His scholarly side seized control. Wellen crouched near the pedestal and surveyed the scene from eye level. The slots had been designed to securely hold the containers. No simple jostle of the pedestal would shake them loose. For that matter, the stand itself had been created from the same stonelike substance that formed the pentagon itself. The pedestal literally grew from the floor, which made it doubtful that anything short of a dragon would actually be able to disturb it in the first place.

"But what is it?" he muttered.

There came an almost undeniable urge to reach forward and touch the nearest vial. The urge was desperate, needy, and not of his own doing. It was the same sensation as the voice. Whoever or whatever had chosen to speak through his mind desired him to touch one of the vials. It pleaded through sheer emotion for him to do so. He started to comply, but as he eyed the odd array, the arrangement of the containers registered.

He was staring at a pentagram. The pattern was almost identical to that utilized by the Lords of the Dead. This was not just a display, but part of a complex spell of which the sealed vials were likely of the utmost importance. There was one at each point of the pentagram. The only difference was that instead of an eleventh container, a clear gemstone filled the center. It was not an overly brilliant stone, which was why he had not paid that much attention to it, but he saw now that someone had cut the stone to certain specifications. If things followed as they had with the necromancers, then the centerpiece was a focus of sorts.

What was in the vials, that they were used in this spell? What sort of power had the gnome captured in each? What was he doing with it?

The urge to reach for the nearest vessel struck him again, but he shook it off. Touching the magical construct of a creature like Serkadion Manee could easily prove very, very fatal. He had his life to consider. His and Xabene's. She was still trapped here somewhere, perhaps the captive of the immortal.

Trapped . . . A chill wind enshrouded him. Indignation amidst despair rocked his senses. Pleading struck him again while he fought off the other emotions.

There's more than one! the scholar thought. More than one . . . soul? . . . trapped . . . trapped? Wellen dared lean close enough to minutely study the foremost flask.

A soul? No, not a soul. A mind.

Ten of them.

"Lord Drazeree protect me!" he uttered, falling back on the inaccurate version he had grow up with. This was what Shade had hinted at! This was what the twisted gnome did with those he invited in! He doesn't like to waste anything. He said so himself!

How did he progress? Did he take their memories, as he had taken Wellen's, and then used their bodies for whatever purpose the gnome needed them for? No, the bodies had to be the last thing, else the minds would have been damaged, possibly destroyed.

The possibilities became too grotesque. Bedlam forced the thoughts to the back of his mind, but they continued to make their presence felt. He concentrated on the vials. Within was something not quite white, not quite liquid, that tried to hide from his sight. Each vial held similar contents.

With a deep breath, Wellen took hold of the closest. Pleadingsobbingshatterchildrenfatherhelphusband Wellen gasped and tore his hand away from the vessel.

"Too much!" he shouted at the mind he had touched. "I can't take that all in!" The memories and the message had kept mixing. It was probably as confusing and difficult for the trapped thing within as it was for the scholar.

Shatter, he recalled. It said 'shatter'. A plea to destroy the vial? That would kill it--- He shook his head. Not kill it. In truth, the ten were already dead; they had just not been allowed to rest. How long since they had been forced into this tortured nonexistence? The minds must burn out eventually, but they went through agony in the meantime. Bedlam had felt that. Not just from the one he had touched, but from all of them.

There were many questions the dark-haired explorer desired answers to, but to delay in what had to be done would only be adding to the cruelty that Serkadion Manee had instigated.

The vials would not come free of the pedestal; Wellen had learned that during his brief physical contact with the vessel. He would need something to smash them with, but his choices were sorely limited. Anything that could have been used as a weapon had been removed. While he did not want the immortal's victims to suffer further, Wellen did not relish using his bare hands.

He looked down, trying to think, and noticed his boots. They were of the st.u.r.dy kind, designed for the tremendous trek originally intended. Comfortable, but with st.u.r.dy enough soles and a bit of heel that, admittedly, had been added in vanity to give him a little more height than nature had provided.

Stepping back, Wellen measured the pedestal. If he raised his leg high enough . . .

Balancing himself, Wellen kicked with as much force as he could muster.

The vial shattered, pieces flying everywhere.

Something like a whisp of smoke shot forth from the remains of the vessel. A trilling sound a.s.sailed the explorer's ears as the smoky form whirled about his head once. Wellen caught a glimpse of a face, or at least thought he had, belonging to a woman. That was all he could see. The smoke curled around itself then and, without further fanfare, dissipated.

He became awash in a sea of emotion. Pleading and hope from those still trapped. The ease with which he had liberated the first still somewhat surprised Bedlam, but it was possible that Serkadion Manee had never considered an intruder down here. Wellen suspected that the reason he was here in the first place was due to the very beings he was now aiding. The Dragon King's presence likely had something to do with their sudden freedom to act in their own behalf.

Shifting his stance, Wellen brought his boot up again. This time, he aimed so that more than one vial would be in the path of his heel. The sooner this was finished the better.

Three more containers shattered under the impact of his second strike. A harmony arose as three tiny forms intertwined with one another and then, like the first, circled his head once. He saw no ghostly visages this time, but he felt their overwhelming grat.i.tude, their relief at being freed from their torment.

As the three faded, the scholar studied the remaining ones. The antic.i.p.ation they exuded permeated him, making Wellen all that more desirous to put an end to the travesty. He considered his arm. The vials were actually fairly fragile, perhaps a necessity for the spell. While his hands were unprotected, his arm was covered in cloth. One good sweep of his arm could do what would have required his heel two or three attempts to complete.

He stepped around to the other side of the pedestal, measured, and pulled his arm back.

His head shrieked a dire warning.

Wellen fell to the floor and rolled away from the pedestal, the blue light, as was its manner, shifting to compensate. The scholar came to a crouching position. The pedestal was only a dim outline at the edge of the ball's illumination. He could see no threat to warrant the alarm.

"What . . . have . . . you . . . done?" came a voice from somewhere behind the vials.

The despair he felt was not just that emitted by the minds in the vials. His own more than matched theirs.

"Do you know what you've done?" What was most frightening about the voice was its detached quality, almost as if the questioner had gone beyond anger to something far colder and far deadlier.

An inferno lit up the region, momentarily blinding Wellen. When he was able to see again, a tiny part of the scholar's mind noted that beyond himself, the pedestal, and the newcomer, there seemed to be nothing but emptiness.