Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol II - By Richard A. Knaak Page 0,408

blinked in surprise, watching as he lifted the box so that it rested on his lap. The ease with which she had convinced him worried her at the same time that it cheered her. Much of the patriarch’s indomitable spirit had died over the past days. There was no predicting what he might do in his present state, and the sorceress had no desire to become part of some death wish. Still, she had sworn to help him for the time being, and she would not break that promise.

To herself Sharissa admitted again that she wanted to know what had happened—provided she survived that knowledge, too.

The Darkhorse who fled from the box this time was a greatly subdued creature. He did not shout, nor did he stamp and gouge the earth to show his fury. Instead… he wavered.

“What… what is it now, dragonlord?”

“Darkhorse!” Sharissa was stunned by the tentative tone of his voice. He had almost as little spirit as the patriarch. Her sympathy for the clan master dwindled to a shadow of itself as she wondered what sort of punishments he had meted out to the eternal.

“Sharissa.” Darkhorse bowed his head low and would not look her in the eye. The ice-blue orbs seemed dimmer than she recalled.

“Will he be all right?” Faunon quietly asked her. “It almost seems that we might have to protect him.”

“Even if he cannot, he will be better off free of that horrible device!”

The patriarch stirred himself. “Demon, your friend has requested we seek your assistance. The citadel of my people may now be a deadly trap to all those who enter. We might have need of your considerable power.”

“My power is not so considerable now,” the shadow steed muttered. “I have trouble keeping my form even. Why ask, anyway? You have my life in your hands. Merely command me as you have before.”

Barakas looked down at the box in his hands. He looked at Sharissa. A spark of life still remained in his eyes. To the ebony stallion, he replied, “I made a pact with the Lady Sharissa. A pact of freedom if she will do this thing for me. That pact includes you.”

He threw the box to the ground with as much strength as he could muster.

Darkhorse’s horrific prison shattered with such ease that Sharissa and the others could only stare at it for several seconds.

“Hurrah,” murmured a sardonic Gerrod in the background.

Life, or something akin to it, returned to the Void dweller. Darkhorse laughed, relief from the strain of so agonizing a captivity vying for dominance. He was still very weak, but now he at least had spirit. Sharissa smiled.

“I owe you much, patriarch, for what you did to me, but I will abide by my friend’s pact. When this is done, however, we depart and, should your path and mine cross again, there will be a reckoning.”

The warriors reached for their weapons, but Barakas waved them off. “I expected no less.”

The shadow steed, still wavering in form, turned to face the party’s objective. “Then let us be on with this task. I yearn for an end to this.”

Grimacing, the young sorceress urged her mount forward. She, too, yearned for an end, but wished he had phrased things differently.

Gerrod rode up to where she and Faunon were and pressed his animal between theirs. The elf frowned in his direction, but kept silent because of the warlock’s friendship with her.

“I have something for the two of you… small tokens of luck, nothing more.” He reached out and handed each of them a small crystal. “Humor me and keep them with you.” Before they could ask what he intended, the warlock was behind them again. No one else had paid particular attention to the exchange, so concerned was the rest of the party with their kin who had remained in the citadel.

Darkhorse trotted several paces ahead of them as they neared the Tezerenee settlement, he being the one least likely to face injury if surprised. Sharissa’s eyes narrowed as she studied the open gate. It was not merely open, but almost off its hinge and very battered, as if something had sought to break through—but from the inside.

The riding drakes stirred and began sniffing the air.

“They smell blood,” Faunon said, his eyes not leaving the battered gate.

“How do you know?” she asked. She could see no sign of blood, but that did not mean there was none.

“I can smell it, too. An acrid, coppery smell it is.”

“Silence!” hissed the patriarch.

Maintaining careful hold of