Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol II - By Richard A. Knaak Page 0,85

seeing him so—with his arms crossed and his worn robes replaced by a fascinating, multicolored garment that the sorcerer would have never worn in life. A false smile graced his lips, obviously the warlock’s doing, as Drayfitt had, in the shadow steed’s limited experience, never been a man to smile freely. This was not the elderly sorcerer but some cruel parody.

The funeral bier was worse. As had been his people’s way, Shade had created what might have been called a typical Vraad monument to opulence. Gilded and decorated freely with what were likely actual gemstones, it seemed more like an attraction in a city bazaar than the resting place of the unfortunate spellcaster. The base, in fact, was composed of four, intricately carved figurines designed to seem to be holding the bier level and representing the drake, human, Quel, and Seeker races. Darkhorse pondered briefly the potential significance of the four, but could think of nothing that related to his present situation. Desiring a closer look, he probed the immediate area again.

A thin tendril of life flickered within Drayfitt’s body.

Untrusting, Darkhorse probed again. It was there! Only a trace and barely even that. He knew he could not save the aged mortal, but there was a chance, then, that Drayfitt might be able to tell him something about Shade’s plans. Anything.

The essence of his probe altered. Where in the past few days he had twice been forced to part with a portion of his very being, Darkhorse now willingly gave of himself, a handful of water to a man dying of thirst. It was a slow, careful process. Too much and he might finish what Shade had started; too little, and he might not revive the sorcerer in time.

The cracked, gaunt face twisted suddenly as life fought back. Drayfitt coughed and choked, his fingers reaching out to claw at the air, perhaps in an unconscious attempt to further gather life to his thin shell.

Darkhorse silently cursed those who had given the original Shade his own life.

Eyelids fluttered open, but the eyes within did not see. The shadow steed moved closer, hoping that, even if the dying mortal could not see, then he could at least hear.

“Friend Drayfitt, it is I, Darkhorse,” he whispered in one ear. “Do you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Drayfitt, I have done my best for you, but your time is short. Talak and your people still depend upon you, as they have for more than a century.”

The sorcerer’s mouth opened and closed. Darkhorse waited. The human’s mouth opened again and a hiss escaped as Drayfitt sought to speak. Uncertain as to whether he might push too far, Darkhorse gave of himself again.

“Draaa… aaa…” the failing spellcaster managed to say.

“You are Drayfitt. That is true.” Inwardly, the stallion wanted to roar. Would this be all his efforts came to? Was there nothing left of the human’s mind?

“Draaag… King!”

Dragon King? Which one? The lord of clan Red?

“Tallll… aaak!” Drayfitt’s left hand sought out his own chest. “Quorin!” It was the clearest, most precisely spoken word so far, an indication of the sorcerer’s hatred for the counselor. Drayfitt clutched at his chest again, as if seeking something that had hung around his neck—or Quorin’s.

While what he had heard had begun to form an ugly picture in Darkhorse’s mind, none of it concerned the one the phantom steed was hunting. “What of Shade? Tell me of Shade!”

“Memmm… mrriess. Focus… child?” The eyes turned, seeing perhaps, at least shadows of what was around him. Drayfitt, with forethought that had kept him alive and secure for so long, was trying to economize his words to those that would mean the most. He knew that his life was ebbing away and that even Darkhorse’s gift was failing him.

“Focus? Child?” What did it mean?

“Mistake again… again—”

“Master Drayfitt!” someone shouted from without. Darkhorse turned, then realized that the sorcerer was still saying something. By the time he turned again, Drayfitt had grown silent. His eyes were still open, but the only thing they might be seeing now was the final path that all mortals took at the end of life. His last words had been lost.

“Drayfitt!” An officer in his middle years barged through the tent flaps. Unlike most humans, who were properly in awe of the eternal, the newcomer took one stunned glance at the immense steed before him, drew a sword, and charged.

The image was so incredulous that Darkhorse laughed despite all that had happened. Ignoring the laughter, the soldier cut expertly at the stallion’s legs.