Richard A. Knaak - Shadowsteed

You will raise me a demon.

The words were seared into Drayfitt's mind. The chilling

visage of his monarch haunted him still. There had never been

any doubt that the king had been serious. He was a humorless,

bitter man who had, over the last nine years since his horrible

disfigurement, become everything that he had at one time

despised. The palace reflected that change; where once it had

been a bright, proud structure, it was now a dark, seemingly

unoccupied shell.

Yet, this was Drayfitt's ruler, the man who represented what

he had sworn his loyalty to more than a century before. Thus,

the gaunt, elderly man had simply bowed and said, "Yes, King

Melicard."

Ahh, Ishmir, Ishmir, he brooded. Why could you not have

waited until my training was complete before you flew off to die

with the other Dragon Masters? Better yet, why did you have to

train me at alt?

The chamber he occupied was one of the deepest beneath the

palace and the only one suited to the task at hand. The seal on

the door had been that of Rennek II, Melicard's great-great

grandfather and a man known for dark tastes. The chamber had

been cleaned so that Drayfitt could make his marks, etch the

lines of the barrier into the floor. The cage, a thing of

enchantment, not iron, filled much of the room. He was

uncertain as to what dimensions a demon might possess, and

RICHARD A. KNAAK

much of what he did was guesswork, even with the aid of the

book Quorin had located for the king. Still, Drayfitt had not

•outlived most of his contemporaries by leaping blindly into

things.

The room was dark, save for a single torch and two dim

candles, the latter necessary for reading the pages of the tome.

The flickering torch raised demons of its own, dancing shadows

that celebrated the coming spell with gleeful movements. Drayfitt

would have preferred the place brilliantly lit, if only for his

own nerves, but Melicard had decided to watch, and darkness

preceded and followed the king wherever he stalked. Shift-

ing, the ancient sorcerer could feel the strength of Melicard's

presence behind him. His lord and master was obsessed—

obsessed with the destruction of the Dragon Kings and their ilk.

"How much longer?" Melicard's voice throbbed with antici-

pation, like a child about to receive a favorite candy.

Drayfitt glanced up. He did not turn to his ruler, but rather

studied the design in the floor. "I am ready to begin, your

majesty."

The voice of Quorin, the king's counselor, abruptly cut

through the sorcerer's thoughts like a well-honed knife. Mal

Quorin was the closest thing Talak had to a prime minister

since the demise of old Hazar Aran, the last man to hold the

position, two years ago. The king had never replaced him,

though Quorin did nearly everything the prime -minister was

supposed to do. Drayfitt hated the counselor; it was the short,

catlike man who had first reported to Melicard that there a

spellcaster in the city—and one sworn to the king. If there was

any justice, any demon he succeeded in summoning up would

demand the counselor as a sacrifice—if a demon could stomach

such a foul morsel.

"One was beginning to wonder, Drayfitt, if your heart was

in this. Your loyalty has been. . .cool."

"If you would like to take my place. Counselor Quorin, I

will be happy to let you. I certainly would not want to stand in

the way of someone obviously more well-versed in sorcery than

myself."

Quorin would have replied, always seeking the last word, but

Melicard cut him off. "Leave Drayfitt to his task. Successful

results are all that matter."

The king supported Drayfitt—for now. The old man wondered

how long that support would last if he failed to produce the

SHADOW STEED

creature his liege desired. He would be lucky to keep his head

much less his quiet, simple position as Master of Appoint-

ments. Now, the latter was probably lost to Drayfitt, success or

not; why waste a man of his power on a minor political post

even if it was all Drayfitt had ever wanted?

Enough dreaming of things lost! he reprimanded himself.

The time had come to summon the demon, if only to tweak the

well-groomed mustache of Quorin.

Neither the king nor his counselor understood how simple

the summoning itself actually was. There had been times when

he had been tempted to tell them, to see the disbelief on their

faces, but his brother had at least taught him that the secrets of

sorcery were the most precious things a mage owned. To

maintain his. position and to counterbalance those like Quorin,

Drayfitt had to build himself up as much as possible. It would

have been laughable if it had not been so tragic. There was a

chance that success might get them all killed. The barrier might

not hold whatever it was, if anything, he summoned.

Raising one hand in a theatrical manner he had practiced

long and hard to perfect, Drayfitt touched the fields of power

with his mind's eye.

The summoning was simplicity itself; surviving the encoun-

ter with whatever happened to be snared was another matter.

"Drazeree's ghost!" Quorin blurted in growing fear.

Drayfitt would have smiled, had he heard the outburst, but

his mind was on the link he had created. There was only the

link—no chamber, no king, not even his own body. He was

invisible—no—formless. It was an experience that he had

never before achieved and the wonder of it almost proved fatal,

for in maintaining his link with the spell, he nearly broke the

one binding him to his mortal form. When the sorcerer realized

his error, he immediately corrected it. A lesson learned, Drayfitt

realized ... almost too late.

Before him, the stream of light that was the mental represen-

tation of his bond disappeared into a gleaming tear in reality.

He knew that the tear was visible to the king and Counselor

Quorin, a sign of success for them to mull over while he moved

up. If failure greeted him at any point onward, he hoped that

Melicard would realize that he had tried his best, that he had

proved his loyalty.

A cold presence with a feel of great age grazed the outer

boundaries of his seeking mind. Ancient was not a satisfactory

RICHARD A. KNAAK

description for such a creature. A desire to abandon the

summoning washed over Drayfitt, but he fought it, understand-

ing that it was a ploy by the creature he had snared. The

analogy of a fisherman who has caught the grandfather of all

sea monsters did not escape him. What he had snared was

powerful—and very reluctant to the notion of being forcibly

brought to Drayfitt's world. It was ready to fight him with all

weapons available to it.

Some would have fought the demon here, in this place with

no name, but Drayfitt knew that he could only bind his catch if

he battled it from the physical as well as the spiritual planes.

The earth, whose existence was interwoven with both the fields

of power and his own life, was his anchor.

As he retreated toward his body, the sorcerer was amazed at

the ease with which he drew the demon after him. The struggle

was far less than he expected, almost as if the demon had some

strong bond of its own with his world, a bond it could not deny.

That a thing spawned out there could have any tie with the

mortal plane disturbed him. The thought of a trap occurred to

him, but it was a brief notion. Such a trap was too daring; the

closer they moved back to Drayfitt's domain, the more difficult

it would be for the demon to free itself.

The sorcerer felt the creature's growing frustration. It was

fighting him—constantly—but like someone forced to do battle

on a number of fronts. Had they met on equal terms, both with

their respective abilities intact, the elderly sorcerer knew that

he would have been no more than a breath to his adversary.

Here, the battle was in Drayfitt's favor.

The return seemed endless, far longer than when he had

departed his body. As he finally neared his goal, he was struck

by a great wave of panic emanating from the demon. The link

stretched as he had not known it could and, for a moment, it

felt as if part of the demon had broken away.

Nonetheless, his prey was with him. Body and mind began

to meld. Other things—sounds, pressures, odors—demanded a

measure of his attention.

"He's stirring again!"

"You see, Quorin? I told you he had not failed. Drayfitt is

loyal to me."

"Forgive me, my liege. Three hours we've stood here,

waiting. You said he'd dare not die and, as usual, you were

correct."

SHADOW STEED

The voices echoed from a vast distance, as if the spellcaster

were hearing them through a long, hollow tube... yet, both

men surely stood nearby. Drayfitt allowed his senses time to

recover and then, still facing the magical cage he had created,

opened his eyes.

At first glance he was disappointed. The rip in the middle of

empty space still remained and nothing stood within the con-

fines of the barrier. Around him, the shadows still danced

merrily, among them the two distended forms of his compan-

ions. The shadows of the king and the counselor loomed over

his head while his own seemed to crawl across the floor and up

a good piece of the far wall. Most of the pattern that he had

drawn on the floor was smothered in darkness as well.

"Well?" Quorin asked testily.

The link still remained, but it no longer extended beyond the

tear, instead twisting uselessly back into the shadowy regions

within the boundaries of the magical cage. The rip was already

closing. Drayfitt, confused, stared at the empty scene for

several seconds. He had succeeded—at least all indications

pointed to that. Why, then, did he have nothing to show for his

efforts?

It was then he noticed the difference between the flickering

dancers on the walls and the stillness of the inky darkness

within the barrier. The shadows did not move when they should

and even appeared to have depth. Drayfitt had the unnerving

sensation that to stare too long was to fall into those shadows—

and never stop falling.

"Drayfitt?" The king's confidence was turning to uncertain-

ty tinged with burgeoning anger. He had not yet noticed the

difference in the shadows.

The gaunt sorcerer slowly rose, a wave of his hand indicating

that silence was needed. With one negligible thought, he broke

the link. If he was mistaken and there was no demon, Melicard

would soon have his hide.

Stepping nearer—though not so near that he was in danger of

accidently crossing the barrier—Drayfitt examined the magical

cage with a thoroughness that left the king and counselor

fidgeting. When Drayfitt saw the shadows twist away, he knew

he had succeeded.

There was something in his trap.

"Do not try to play me for a fool," he whispered defiantly.

"I know you are there. Show yourself—but beware of trying

6 RICHARD A. KNAAK

any tricks! This cage has surprises designed just for your kind,

demon!"

"What's that you're doing?" Quorin demanded, starting to

step forward. It was clear he still assumed that Drayfitt had

failed and that the sorcerer was now stalling in the hopes of

saving his neck.

"Stay where you are!" Drayfitt commanded without looking.

The counselor froze, stunned by the sheer intensity of the

spellcaster's tone.

Turning his attention back to the barrier, the elderly man

repeated his earlier command, this time for the other two to

hear. "I said show yourself! You will obey!"

He waved a hand in the air, using it to guide the lines of

power to the results he wanted. He was not disappointed.

It howled\ The noise was so horrifying that Drayfitt's con-

centration all but broke. Behind him, Quorin swore and stum-

bled back. Whether Melicard was also shaken, the sorcerer

could not say. Even the king had his limits. As the ringing in

his ears died down, Drayfitt wondered if everyone in the

palace—everyone in Talak—had hear the demon's howl of

pain. He almost regretted what he had done... but he had to

show the creature who was master. So it had always been

written.

At first, he did not notice the darkness draw inward, thicken

even, if such a thing was possible. Only when the first limbs

became recognizable—and then the fact that there were/owr of

them, all legs—did he fully appreciate his success. The demon

had finally, completely, bowed to his will.

The three men stood mesmerized by the transformation

occurring before them. Forgetting their uncertainty, the king

and counselor joined Drayfitt near the outer edge of the barrier

and watched as a trunk joined the legs, and a long, thick neck

stretched forth from one end, while a sleek, black tail sprouted

from the other.

A steed! Some sort of ghostly steed! The head coalesced into

a distinct shape, and Drayfitt amended his opinion. It was more

like the shadow of some great horse. The body and limbs were

distended, changing as the demon moved, and the torso... The

spellcaster had the uneasy feeling that if he stared too long he

would fall into the demon and keep falling forever and ever.

Anxious to rid himself of the idea, he turned his head, only to

find the face of the king.

SHADOW STEED 7

Unaware of the sorcerer's nervous gaze, the disfigured king

giggled at the sight of his new prize. "You have done me a

wondrous service, Drayfitt! This is all I asked for and more! I

have my demon!"

With a smooth, swift motion, the huge head of the dark steed

turned to face the trio. For the first time, the ice-blue eyes

became noticeable. Drayfitt returned his gaze to his prisoner.

He shivered, but not nearly so much as he did when the demon

arrogantly shouted, "You mortal fools! You children! How

dare you pull me back into this world! Don't you realize the

havoc you've brought forth?"

Drayfitt heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him and

knew immediately that Melicard was mere moments from one

of his fits of rage. Not wanting the king to do something

foolish—something that might release the demon in the process—

the spellcaster shouted back, "Silence, monster! You have no

rights here! By the spells I have performed, you are my servant

and will do my bidding!"

The black horse roared with mocking laughter. "I am not

quite the demon you originally sought, little mortal! I am more

and I am less! You caught me because my link to this world is

stronger than that of any creature of the Void!" The steed's

head pressed against the unseen walls of his cage, eyes seeking

to bum through Drayfitt's own. "I am the one called Darkhorse,

mage! Think hard, for it is a name you surely must know!"

"What is he talking about?" Quorin dared to mutter. He had

one hand pressed against his chest, as if his heart were seeking

escape.

In the dim torchlight, neither of his companions could see

Drayfitt's face grow ash white. He knew of Darkhorse and

suspected the king did as well. There were legends, some only

a decade old, about the demon steed, a creature whose former

companions included the warlock Cabe Bedlam, the legendary

Gryphon, and, most frightening of all, the enigmatic, cursed

immortal who called himself Shade.

"Darkhorse!" the sorcerer finally succeeded in uttering, as a

whisper.

Darkhorse reared high, seemingly ready to burst through the

ceiling. In a mixture of regret and anger, the demon steed

retorted, "Aye! Darkhorse! Exiled by choice to the Void in the

hopes of saving this mortal plane from the horror of a friend

who is also my worst enemy! This world's worst nightmare!"

8 RICHARD A. KNAAK

"Silence him, Drayfitt! I want no more of this babbling!"

Melicard's voice had a dangerous edge to it that the spellcaster

had come to recognize. He feared it almost as much as he

feared what now struggled within the barrier.

"Babbling? If only it were so! Darkhorse shifted so that it

was now the king who faced his inhuman glare. "Don't you

listen? Can't you understand? In summoning me back, you've

pulled him along, for I was his prison! Now he roams free to

do whatever ill he so desires!"

"Who?" Drayfitt dared to ask, despite the growing rage

of his liege at the lack of obedience. "Who is it that I have

accidently released?" It was the thing he had feared all during

the preparations, that he would accidently loose some demon

on the Dragonrealm.

Darkhorse turned his massive head back to the sorcerer and,

oddly, there was a sadness inherent in both the chilling eyes

and the unholy stentorian voice. "The most tragic being I have

ever known! A friend who would give his life and a fiend who

would take yours without a second's care! A demon and a hero,

yet both are the same man!" The spectral horse hesitated and

quietly concluded, "The warlock ShadeV

II

So different from Gordag-Ai. So big!

Erini Suun-Ai peered through the curtain of her coach

window, ignoring the worried looks of her two ladies-in-

waiting. A light wind sent her long, blond tresses fluttering.

The breeze was pleasantly cool against her pale, soft skin and

she leaned into it, directing the delicate, perfect features of her

oval face so that the wind stroked every inch. Her dress, wide,

colorful, and flowing, made it impossible to sit directly next to

the window, and Erini would have preferred to take it off,

hating it the way it ballooned her slim figure.

Her ladies-in-waiting whispered to one another, making dis-

SHADOW STEED 9

paraging remarks. They did not care to see their new home, the

huge, overwhelming city-state of Talak. Only duty to their

mistress made them come. A princess, especially one destined

to be a queen, did not travel alone. The driver and the cavalry

unit escorting her did not count; they were men. A woman of

substance travelled with companions or, at the very least,

servants. Such was the way of things in Gordag-Ai, in Ae

lands once ruled by the Bronze Dragon.

Erini's mind was unconcerned with things of her former

homeland. Talak, with its massive ziggurats and countless

proud banners flying in the wind, was her new home, her

kingdom. Here, after a suitable courtship, she would marry

King Melicard I and assume her duties as wife and co-

monarch. The future held infinite possibilities and Erini wondered

which ones awaited her. Not all of them would be pleasant.

The coach hit a bump, sending the princess back against her

seat, her companions squealing with ladylike distaste at the

rough road. Erini grimaced at their actions. They represented

her father, who had made the marriage pact with the late,

unfortunate King Rennek IV almost eighteen years ago. Melicard

had been a young boy just growing into manhood and she a

newbom babe. Erini had met Melicard only once, when she

had been perhaps five, so she doubted his impression of her

had been very favorable.

What made all three of them nervous were the rumors that

floated about the Dragonrealm as to the nature of Melicard.

There were those who called him a fanatical tyrant, though

none of his own people ever talked that way. There were

rumors that he trafficked with necromancers, and that he was a

cold, lifeless master. Most widespread of all were the horrible

tales of his appearance.

"He has only one true arm," Galea, the stouter of the two

companions, had whispered at one point. "They say that he cut

it off himself, so as to wear that elfwood one he now sports."

"He has a lust for the worst aspects of sorcery," Magda,

plain but domineering, uttered sagely at another time. "A

demon it was that is said to have stolen his face so that the king

must always hide in shadow!"

After such horrible statements as these, the two ladies would

eye one another with their perfectly matching Poor Princess

Erini! expressions. At times, they somehow succeeded in

looking like twins.

RICHARD A. KNAAK SHADOW STEED

The princess did not know how to take the rumors. She knew

it was true that Melicard sported an arm carved of rare

elfwood, a magical wood, but not why. Erini also knew that

Melicard had suffered some catastrophe almost a decade before

that had left him bereft of that original arm and disfigured as

well. Even magical healing had its limits at times, and some-

thing involved with the incident made it impossible to repair

the damage to any great extent. Erini knew she was marrying a

crippled and possibly horrifying man, but her brief memories of

gazing up fondly at the tall, handsome boy had combined with

her sense of duty to her parents to form a determination

matched by few.

That did not mean she did not wonder—and worry.

Returning her gaze to the spectacle outside, she studied the

great walls. They were gigantic, though the arrogant ziggurats

within thrust higher. Against any normal invader, these walls

would be unbreachable. Talak, however, had always been in

the shadow of the Tyber Mountains, lair of the true master of

the city, the late and unlamented Gold Dragon, Emperor of the

Dragon Kings. Drakes had little problem with walls, whether in

their birthforms or the humanoid ones they wore more often.

Things have altered so much. She had, as a child, understood

that, as queen, she would rule beside Melicard but that, at any

time, the Gold Dragon might come and make demands of the

city. Now, the Dragon Kings were in a disarray; with no heir to

take the place of the Dragon Emperor—though there were

rumors about something in the Dagora Forest far to the south—

Talak was, for the first time, independent.

An army of majestic trumpets sounded, giving Erini a start.

The coach made no move to slow, which meant the gates had

been opened and they would proceed straight through. The

sides of the road began to fill with the locals, the farmers and

villagers, some clad in their holiday best, others looking as if

they had just come from the fields. They were cheering, but

she expected that. Melicard's advisors would have arranged

such a showing. Yet, Erini was somewhat skilled at reading

faces and emotions, and in the dirty, worn features of the

people cheering her she did see honest hope, honest accept-

ance. They wanted a queen, welcomed the change.

The rumors about Melicard whispered mockingly in the back

of her mind. She forced herself to ignore them and waved to

the people.

At that moment, the coach passed through the gates of Talak

and the rumors were once again buried as Erini devoured the

wonders of the inner city with her eyes.

This was the market district. Bright, clashing tents and

wagons competed with decorated buildings, many of them tiny,

multileveled ziggurats, exact copies of the titans looming over

all else. The more permanent structures appeared to be inns and

taverns, a cunning move to snare the unwary traveler who

might, merely because it was so convenient, end up buying a

few extra things from the bazaar. Even more banners flew

within the walls, most bearing the patriotic symbol of Talak

these past nine years: a sword crossing a stylized drake head.

Melicard's warning to the remaining drake clans, including the

Silver Dragon's, to whose domain the city was now geographically

annexed.

Galea and Madga were oohing and aahing over everything,

having finally given in to growing curiosity and forgetting that

they did not want to be here. Erini smiled slightly at that and

returned her attention to her new kingdom.

Clothing styles differed little here, she noted abstractly,

though they tended to be even brighter, yet more comfortable in

appearance than the bedsheet she was wearing. There was also

a propensity toward military uniforms, a confirmation of one

rumor that Melicard was still expanding his army. A troop of

footsoldiers saluted smartly as she passed, as alike as a row of

eggs—with shells of iron. The precision pleased her, though

she hoped that there would be no need for all this training. The

best armies are those that never have to fight, her father had

once said.

The coach continued on its way through the city. The market

district gave way to more stately structures, obviously the

homes of an upper class, either merchants or low-level func-

tionaries. There was a market here as well, but this district was

subdued in comparison to that of the more common folk.

Erini found this section pleasant to view, but rather lack-

ing in true life. Here, the shadowy masks of politics were

first worn. She knew that from this point on reality would be

slightly askew. Without hardly being aware of it, her posture

stiffened and her smile grew empty. It was time to play the part

she had been trained for, even though she had not yet met her

betrothed. For the lowest courtiers on up, the princess had to

12

RICHARD A. KNAAK

SHADOW STEED

13

wear a mask of strength. Their loyalty to her depended on their

belief in her power.

Power. Her fingers twitched, but she forced them still. In the

excitement and then the uneasiness of finally arriving in Talak,

she had almost dropped her guard. Erini glanced at her ladies.

Magda and Galea were staring at the palace, awed by what was

the greatest edifice in the city, and had not noticed the involun-

tary movements. The princess took a deep breath and tried to

steady herself. She dared not trust them with her problem.

What would she do about Melicard, though?

By the time the coach reached the outskirts of the royal

palace, she felt she was ready. The turbulence of her tired mind

had been forced down again. Now, her only concern was

making the proper impression when Melicard came to meet her

at the bottom of the palace steps, as was custom.

"Don't these people know anything about protocol?" Magda

sniffed imperilously. "The royal steps are all but bare of the

members of the court. The entire aristocracy should be here to

meet their new queen."

Erini, who had been straightening her clothing out of

nervousness, looked up. Pulling aside the curtain of her win-

dow, the princess saw what, in her anxiety, she had not noticed

before. It was true; there were no more than a handful of

people awaiting her arrival and even at a distance the princess

could see that none of them matched Melicard's description in

the slightest.

The coachman reined the horses to a halt, and one of Erini's

footmen jumped down and opened the door for her. As the

princess descended, she caught sight of a short, graceful man

with odd eyes and stylish mustache who reminded her of

nothing less than a pet panther her mother had once bought.

from a merchant of Zuu. Erini felt an almost instant dislike for

the newcomer despite the toothy smile he gave her. This could

only be Melicard's counselor, Mal Quorin, a man obviously

ambitious. What was he doing here instead of Melicard?

"Your majesty." Quorin took the tiny hand that the princess

forced herself to thrust out and kissed it in a manner that

Richard A. Knaak - Shadowsteed

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