"Maybe…" Wherever they had gone, Norrec knew that he could be of no aid to them. The best he could do was keep their memories alive in him-and do something with his own life in honor of the friendship the three had built. He glanced up again, noticed for the first time that the ever-present storm clouds had finally quieted. In fact, they had already begun to dwindle to the point where patches of clear sky could be made out.
"What will you do now?" the necromancer asked him.
"I don't know." He glanced in the direction of Lut Gholein, the only sign of civilization for days. "Go there first, I suppose. See if they need any help cleaning up. After that… I just don't know. What about you?"
She, too, looked to the far-off city, giving him a chance to study her profile. "Lut Gholein makes sense also.Besides, I wish to discover whether Captain Jeronnan and the King's Shield are there. I owe him a debt. He treated me well, as if I were his own daughter-and he probably fears I drowned at sea."
Having no desire to part from her company just yet, Norrec responded, "I'll come with you, then, if you don't mind."
That brought an unexpected smile from Kara. Norrec liked it when the dark-haired woman smiled. "Not at all."
Recalling the ways of the many nobles he had served, Norrec offered her his arm, which, after a moment's hesitation, the necromancer took. Then, together, the weary pair made their way through what remained of the ruined dune and headed back toward civilization. Neither looked behind them to where the head and body of General Augustus Malevolyn already lay half-covered by the drifting sand, where Horazon and the armor had faded into the desert itself. The weary, battered soldier especially had no desire to be reminded of what had happened-and what could have happened if matters had taken a turn to the dark.
The legacy of Bartuc, the legacy of the Warlord of Blood, had been buried once again from the sight and knowledge of all… this time hopefully forever.
Epilogue
Night fell upon the desert of Aranoch, a solemn, brooding night. The creatures of the day hurried to the safety of their lairs while those who hunted in the darkness came forth in search of careless prey…
And from beneath the sand slowly emerged a monstrous form, one that would have sent maggots, scarabs, and vulture demons fleeing in mindless panic. Mandibles snapped open and closed several times and bulbous yellow orbs that glowed faintly in the darkness carefully perused the unyielding landscape, searching… searching somewhat fearfully.
Xazax rose unsteadily, a pool of brackish, black fluids underneath him. The wound caused by the necromancer's dagger refused to be healed by his power and the mantis knew that he could not yet petition his lord Belial to help him. By this time, Belial would know of his failure and, worse, the decimation of the infernal horde summoned to aid General Malevolyn.
The mantis had sensed the terrible spell being cast even as he had fled. Who had been responsible for it, he could only guess, but it had meant the certain end for most of the lesser demons. Summoning such numbers in so quick a fashion had required each hellish warrior to be initially bound to the mortal shell they had been given. With the passing of time, even as little as a month, they would have grown more adapted to this plane, been able to fully cast off the husks. This new spell, though, hadtorn them from their earthly anchors far too soon. Only the strongest would survive the extraordinary forces unleashed by the abrupt separation. In human terms it would have been akin to removing a baby from the womb more than a month before its proper birth time. Only the strongest would survive…
The few survivors would be condemned to wander Aranoch without any guidance, unable to return to Hell without aid. Unlike Xazax, most these demons lacked sense enough to plan beyond the moment; Belial had relied on his lieutenant for their guidance.
In that lay the mantis's only hope for redemption. His dark lord might forgive him if Xazax managed to gather those who remained and sent them back to Hell. For that, the demon would need another human dupe capable of sorcery, but there were always plenty of those. Of more immediate importance, however, was the necessity of finding prey of his own, something to provide the energy he heeded to combat his wound. The mantis would have preferred a nice, ripe merchant camped out for the night, but at this point, anything he could catch would have to do.
Nervously the demon moved about on the sand. The cursed necromancer's spell still lingered, albeit with less influence than before. Illusions of angels and other fearful sights on occasion materialized before Xazax, but with effort each time he managed to fight off the urge to flee.
When he had regained his strength, recovered from his wounds, the mantis would find Norrec Vizharan and the female. He would impale each, making certain that they lived, then slowly work on peeling the flesh from first one, then the other. After that, Xazax would devour them slowly, savoring each bloody morsel—
— Xazax…
He froze, waves of fear seeking to wash over him. Damn the human's spell! Would the last vestiges of itnever fade away? How many illusions, how many whispering voices, would the demon have to suffer before it all stopped?
Smelled you from afar… knew you immediately…
The giant mantis looked around, but saw nothing. So, it was only in his head this time. He could suffer that well enough-
— A shadow darker than the night swept across Xazax, completely startling the wounded monster.
Cunning… lying… traitorous little bug…
Xazax froze. None of the creations of the female's spellwork had ever spoken in his mind with such elaborate conviction.
"Who dares?" he rasped, turning in the direction from which he sensed the voice in his head somehow originated. "Who—"
And before the hellish mantis loomed the most terrible of all the nightmares he could have dreamed. The demon's mandibles stretched wide and a single, almost plaintively spoken word tried unsuccessfully to completely escape.
"Diab—"
A scream punctuated the stillness of the nighttime desert, a scream seemingly of no earthly origin. It caused the various creatures of Aranoch to pause in whatever they had been doing and listen in absolute terror. Even long after the cry abruptly cut off, they remained unmoving, fearful that whatever had preyed upon the source of the mournful sound might next be coming for them.
And among those of Belial's demons that yet survived from the debacle at Lut Gholein, that fear took a greater form. They sensed what had happened, sensed the force behind it-and knew that for them and the humans of this mortal plane the nightmare might just be beginning…
About the Author
RICHARD A. KNAAK is the author of more than twenty fantasy novels and over a dozen short pieces, including the New York Times bestseller The Legend of Huma for the Dragonlance series. Aside from his extensive work in Dragonlance, he is best known for his popular Dragonrealm series, which is now available again in trade paperback. His other works include several contemporary fantasies, including Frostwing and King of the Grey, also available again. In addition to Legacy of Blood, he has written Day of the Dragon for the Warcraft series and will soon return to Diablo for a second tale. He is also at work on a major trilogy for Dragonlance.
Those interested in learning more about his projects should check out his Web site at http://www.sff.net/people/knaak.