Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol II - By Richard A. Knaak Page 0,56

more than the split-faced monarch had had during his first visit.

Given time, this princess would make him a whole man again. The shadow steed studied Melicard’s visage closer, especially the living eye and the set of his mouth.

Apparently, there will not be time after all.

The king was here with an ultimatum. Darkhorse could read that even before Melicard spoke.

“My army marches against the clans of Red in the Hell Plains at tomorrow’s dawn. Men will die so that their children will live free. The Plains will drink their blood as it drinks the blood of drakes.”

“A pretty speech… and very old.”

“You have been told not to be disrespectful to his majesty, demon! Perhaps you need another lesson—”

Melicard curtly signalled for silence. “Quiet! I want this creature, this legendary Darkhorse who fought alongside the Dragon Masters, Cabe Bedlam, and other humans throughout the centuries, to tell me why he will not save the lives of men by ending those of drakes!”

The ebony stallion sighed. “You who would make history, have you not studied it? Are not the lessons of the Quel, the Seekers, and those who preceded even them evident? This land we now call the Dragonrealm is a harsh mother. It has watched the glory of many races and it has watched the downfall of each—all through bloodshed. Even the Quel, who succeeded where others failed and held onto a bit of their power when the Seekers took control, even they did not learn from their mistake and eventually lost what little they had in trying to destroy the new avian masters! As for the Seekers, in putting down the last gasp of the Quel, they planted the seeds of their own destruction!”

Melicard was silent, but Darkhorse could see his words had had no effect. And I scoffed at his tired speech!

The king’s eventual response was what he had expected. “Though you are our prisoner, for some reason we cannot make you obey. Drayfitt has tried to explain, but that means nothing. Tomorrow, I will send the army out—without your magical aid. It will take them a week to ten days to reach the northern part of the Hell Plains, where the Red Dragon’s revitalized clans prepare for their own assault. We shall catch them unprepared, however; and, where Azran Bedlam failed, we shall wipe them out to the last egg. One less clan. The others will follow.”

“All hail the conquering heroes!” scoffed the shadow steed.

“Your majesty—” the counselor began to protest.

“You were overzealous before, Quorin. We will not punish this one, not this time. Perhaps he will reconsider before the deaths have grown too many.”

Darkhorse refused to look at the king any longer, instead choosing to alternate his piercing gaze between Drayfitt, the weakest link, and Mal Quorin, the treacherous one. The elderly spellcaster looked pale, worn, as if he had just suffered a great disaster. If so, the malevolent cat who counseled the king had something to do with it because there was now a slight hint of satisfaction on Quorin’s face that, under the circumstances, should not have been there. The counselor almost seemed pleased by events.

Something is not right where this tabby is concerned, Darkhorse decided. What can I do about it now, though?

“Come,” Melicard commanded his two advisors. “There are more fruitful endeavors to pursue at the moment.”

“The only fruitful endeavors will be those of the Lords of the Dead—after the battle.”

The door shut behind them with a sinister note of finality. Darkhorse kicked at his invisible cage, frustrated more than before.

“Fools!” he cried, though he doubted they could hear him, sound-absorbing as this room was. “This will be far worse than the Turning War!”

He brooded after that, unheedful of the hours that soon passed by and wondering again and again if they now intended on abandoning him down here indefinitely. Perhaps, as the years fall, some scavenger searching through the ruins of this once-proud city-state will find his way down here and pass on a word or two before leaving me alone again.

The door jostled. Someone was trying to open it—but with little success. Darkhorse gathered himself together, his interest in things revived by this sudden and possibly trivial incident. It may only be a guard testing the lock…

Nothing else happened for more than two minutes. The shadow steed’s hopes sagged again.

A sudden groan of twisting metal informed him that the first time had not been an illusion. The area of the door where the handle and lock were situated had been torn asunder,