Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol II - By Richard A. Knaak Page 0,144

the early Vraad. As Serkadion Manee, a singular sorcerer who had decided to chronicle the rise of his kind, had written, the elves had been too peaceful and giving to coexist with the new race. They had vanished virtually overnight. Nimth had seemed to die a little then, if Manee’s words were to be believed.

Living elves meant only one thing to the Vraad. Slaves and toys. It burned deep within Dru that his initial reaction had almost been as terrible as that of the rest; he had thought of what it would be like to study one, to take it apart and see how it differed from his own kind.

Sharissa would have abandoned him there and then had she only known.

He realized that Gerrod was staring at him, the younger Vraad’s eyes glistening.

“I want it to fail.”

At first, Dru was uncertain that he had heard the other correctly. When Gerrod’s expression did not change, however, he knew that the sons of the dragon were indeed all insane. In the end, Dru could only ask a simple “Why?”

The hooded Vraad looked at him helplessly. He seemed unconcerned that anyone might hear his traitorous words—traitorous to both his clan and the Vraad race as a whole.

“I don’t know! I feel it sometimes, as if my head were about to split in two! That something very wrong awaits us, something that means death… and more… to the Vraad, all Vraad!”

Suddenly Gerrod stared up at the ceiling. His mouth drew shut, a tight, thin line across his countenance. His head snapped down a second later. The eyes that met Dru’s were full of both relief and despair.

“Rendel’s made it. I can feel him. His ka now definitely inhabits the realm beyond. Our success”—Gerrod hesitated, visibly tasting the words and disliking their content—“is a certainty now!”

For the second time in only a matter of minutes, Dru could not hold back the shiver that coursed through him.

THOUGH IT HAD no mouth, it screamed.

Though it had no eyes, it turned its head toward the dark, raging heavens, as if seeking some power to end its agony.

Its visage was blank. No mark, no hair, graced its head. There were no ears, though it seemed to listen. Naked, it stumbled to its feet, which had no toes, and grasped the tree it had fallen against with hands that were little more than stubs. It was a sexless being, devoid of any distinguishing feature over the expanse of its entire body. It could feel the elements warring around it, but could do little else.

It was a golem, the first to be grown and the first to be claimed by the Vraad.

A flock of wyverns, half as tall as the helpless creature staggering below but capable of tearing asunder predators thrice their size, huddled fearfully in the few trees dotting this area of the storm-drenched field. It was not the wind and the lightning that sent shivers through their reptilian forms. What they feared was the being feeling its way around the trunk of the tree on which many of them perched. It was not exactly the scent that stirred their anxiety, but a presence of power so foreign to their limited existences that it frightened them into immobility.

The faceless monstrosity guided a foot over the upturned root it had previously tripped over. As it did, bulbous growths sprouted from the end, twisting and shaping themselves into individual toes. The other foot was also whole now, though the change went unnoticed by the creature itself. It could only feel its pain.

The storm had swept across a clear evening sky mere moments before, but it was already at its height. As it vented itself, the thing paused, seeming to consider something.

It suddenly pulled back its fist and, for no apparent reason, harshly struck the trunk of the tree. The wyverns squawked in panic; the blow nearly cracked the trunk in half. Sorcery crackled in the air around the blind wanderer. As it pulled the hand back for a second try, blood dripping to the already-soaked earth, stubs emerged from the front, mad little points that stretched and wriggled, creating fingers and forming a true hand in the space of a single breath. The blow stopped in midflight, the hand’s owner only now becoming aware of what was happening. If its empty visage could have indicated anything now, it would have been pleasure—the pleasure of a dead man who had been given a reprieve.

It wiggled the fingers on both hands, seeming to admire