Tyrcamber found those stories unlikely because anyone who tried to harvest manticore venom would likely be killed for his efforts.
Olivier’s griffin let out a furious shriek, and the great beast soared towards the approaching trio of manticores. The Knight of the Griffin began shooting arrows. The first two shafts missed, but the third slammed into a manticore’s shoulder. The winged creature roared and turned towards Olivier. The griffin shrieked in a way that seemed somehow mocking and banked away, the wounded manticore pursuing.
The other two manticores dove towards the waiting serjeants.
“Shields!” roared Rudolf, casting his own Shield spell. Tyrcamber followed suit, pushing aside his fatigue and summoning a half-dome of flickering orange-yellow light that appeared above his head, angled between him and the manticores.
It was just in time. A half-second later the manticores roared and opened their jaws, and the creatures breathed twin cones of flame upon the serjeants. The cones of fire washed across the Shield spells, which held against the onslaught. At least, most of them held against the onslaught. One of the younger men was not strong enough to maintain his Shield spell, and the fires engulfed him. He fell shrieking and writhing to the ground, covered in so much flame he would likely be dead in a few moments, which was a grim sort of mercy. The manticores also shot poisoned barbs from their tails as they passed. One of the barbs missed, but the other struck a man in the cheek. The man collapsed at once, twitching, black foam bubbling from his mouth and nose. He barely had time to scream before his heart stopped. Manticore venom was an agonizing death, but at least it was a quick one.
“Crossbows!” roared Rudolf. “Crossbows, crossbows! Wait until they come around for the second pass! Any man fires before I give the command, I’ll have his hide!”
The manticore that Olivier fought howled in fury and belched a cone of flame across the sky, but Olivier’s griffin was too nimble. The griffin dodged beneath the cone of fire as the flames billowed upward, and Olivier put two more arrows into the manticore’s belly. The other manticores banked, their wings tucked behind their backs as they began to dive, fires blazing back to life behind their white fangs.
“Release!” said Rudolf.
The serjeants raised their crossbows and pulled the triggers. The Order of Embers used a standard design of crossbow, manufactured in the foundries of the Imperial capital of Sinderost, and it was a powerful weapon. Most of the bolts missed the swooping manticores. But about a third of the bolts slammed into the creatures, steel quarrels punching into their hides. The barrage of bolts pinned the manticores’ wings to their flanks, and the creatures let out furious roars of pain.
They also crashed hard against the ground, skidding as they came to a stop.
But the impact wasn’t nearly enough to kill them.
“Quick!” shouted Tyrcamber. “Take them before they recover. Armor and Shield spells! Move!”
He did not wait to see if the serjeants obeyed, but sprinted towards the nearest manticore, his dark elven sword in hand. Tyrcamber cast a spell as he ran, forcing more magic through his tired mind, and worked the Armor spell. The magic surged through him, and flames erupted from his body, sheathing him in elemental fire. The flames would burn anyone who drew too close to him.
More importantly, they would also protect him from fire.
The Armor spell proved its value about two seconds later when the manticore turned its head to face him and opened its jaws. A cone of fire billowed out and washed over Tyrcamber, and he felt the strain as the manticore’s fire struggled against his Armor spell. For an instant, the black shadows of the Malison danced at the edges of Tyrcamber’s mind, but he forced them aside and kept running.
The creature bounded towards him, leaping like a lion, its jaws yawning and its paws outstretched to crush him. Tyrcamber threw himself to the side and rolled, avoiding the bulk of the manticore. The creature’s scorpion-like tail stabbed down, and Tyrcamber kept rolling.
The stinger plunged into the earth maybe an inch from his face.
Tyrcamber sprang back to his feet and attacked, slashing his sword. The creature jerked back, and his blade slashed a wound down its neck. The manticore snarled and lunged towards him, and Tyrcamber dodged again.
By then a score of serjeants rushed towards him, and the manticore hesitated, trying to assess the new threats. Tyrcamber seized the opening, taking his sword in both hands and swung the blade down with all his strength. The sword sank maybe a third of the way into the manticore’s thick neck, dark elven steel slicing through both muscle and bone. The manticore jerked, letting out a strange gurgling noise, and Tyrcamber swung twice more, his arms burning with the effort. On the third blow, the manticore’s head fell off and rolled away into the dust of the desert. Dark blood with a strange acidic smell spurted from the ragged stump of the creature’s neck, and the manticore’s carcass slumped to the ground, the wings unfurling, the tail sprawled loosely behind it.
Manticores, unlike trolls and the greater dragons, could not regenerate, so Tyrcamber turned and rushed towards the second manticore that his men had downed. As he ran towards the beast, he saw that Rudolf already had the situation well in hand. At the serjeant-captain’sbellowed commands, the serjeants had formed a ring around the manticore, shields raised, and stabbed with their swords. It was slower and less forceful than Tyrcamber’s bold attack, but it was safer and more reliable, and none of the serjeants had Tyrcamber’s raw magical strength.
Even as he ran towards the fight, the manticore slumped, and three men stepped forward and drove their swords into the creature’s neck. The manticore howled and spat out a gout of flame. The flames splashed against the Shield spells of the nearby men, and then the manticore let out a rumbling growl and went limp, the glow fading from its eyes.
“Good work, serjeant-captain,” said Tyrcamber.
“Sir,” said Rudolf, turning, his sword and shield ready. “The second manticore?”
“Down,” said Tyrcamber, scanning the burning sky. “Is Sir Olivier…”
“There, sir!” said one of the serjeants, pointing.
Tyrcamber turned and saw Sir Olivier of Falconberg and his griffin mount dueling the remaining manticore.
It was a dizzying sight. The manticore and the griffin circled around each other, raking with their claws. Sometimes their wings folded and they dived at each other. The manticore breathed blasts of fire from its jaws and struck with its stinger, but the griffin was too fast, too nimble. The manticore was larger and probably stronger, but in the air, the manticore’s greater size was a liability.
And through the whirling duel, Olivier kept his seat, loosing shaft after shaft at the manticore. The crimson beast was starting to resemble a pincushion, and Tyrcamber saw drops of dark blood falling from its wounds. At last the griffin dove beneath the manticore and Olivier dropped his bow, the weapon dangling from a strap attached to his saddle.
In one smooth, blurring motion, he seized the dwarf-lance and stabbed. The weapon grew longer in his hands, the shaft of bronze-like metal extending, and the blade ripped across the manticore’s throat and down through its chest. The manticore’s scream of fury turned to a dying gurgle, and the creature’s leathery wings went limp.
“Stand clear!” roared Tyrcamber when he realized what was about to happen. “Stand clear!”
“You heard the knight!” said Rudolf. “Move, move, move!”
Olivier’s griffin banked to the west, and the manticore fell from the sky. It wasn’t dead, not yet, and from time to time it managed a feeble thrash of its wings. As it fell, it roared, spraying fire from its jaws in an expanding cone. The manticore crashed into the ground with a crunch and a thump, and it went limp, its final roar cut off abruptly.
Silence fell over the desert of Mourdrech for a few seconds, and then Olivier’s griffin let out a piercing shriek that sounded like a victory cry.
“It seems we’ve won, sir,” said Rudolf as Olivier and his winged mount circled back
to the ground.
“Aye,” said Tyrcamber. “How many did we lose?”
“Five dead for sure,” said Rudolf. “Maybe more.”
Tyrcamber nodded, grimacing. God, but he hated to lose men under his command. He began to understand how his father had become so grim. “Have the men see to the wounded. Those who have any stamina left can use the Heal spell. If they’ve used enough magic that they’re on the edge of the Malison, they are to refrain.” Magic, like any other human talent, grew stronger from use, and the men of the Order of Embers generally had greater magical stamina than most others. All men could use magic, but not everyone took the time to develop the talent and the skill to use it.
“Yes, sir,” said Rudolf. Though Tyrcamber supposed the old serjeant-captain already knew everything he had been told.
“I will speak with our new acquaintance,” said Tyrcamber as the griffin came to a landing on the road, dust billowing up from the flapping of its wings. “Rejoin us once you’ve seen to the men.”
“Sir,” said Rudolf, and he strode off and began barking orders.
Tyrcamber approached Olivier and his mount but kept a wary distance. He knew that griffins were proud and fierce and reacted with hostility to anyone except their rider. Olivier stroked the griffin’s neck, whispering something to the creature, and then patted its shoulder and stepped back. The griffin took a few steps forward, lowered its head, and started to eat one of the dead goblins, ripping strips of meat from its corpse. Olivier took the dwarf-lance from the griffin’s saddle and turned to meet Tyrcamber, swinging the weapon like a walking staff.
“Figured you wouldn’t mind if she eats some of your desert goblins, sir,” said Olivier. “She could eat some manticore, of course, but it’s so acidic she’d have the runs all the way to Tamisa.”
“I suppose that would be unpleasant for anyone beneath your flight,” said Tyrcamber, and Olivier laughed. “She?”
“Aye,” said Olivier, and the wiry man turned a look of affectionate pride towards the griffin, who had eaten most of the goblin’s torso by then. “Her name’s Thunder Cloud, though I usually just call her Cloud.” He paused. “Your serjeants did well against the manticores. I’ve seen men panic and flee for their lives when faced with the creatures.”
“They did well indeed,” said Tyrcamber, “though we lost more than I would have wished. Rudolf has them well-trained.”
Olivier grinned. “The serjeant-captain and I keep running into each other during the Emperor’s campaigns with the Imperial Orders. Good to see he’s still alive.” His smile faded. “I regret that I led the manticores to you. I was hoping to evade them over the deserts and then loop southwest to Tamisa. I didn’t expect to run into you.”
Tyrcamber shrugged. “I expect the manticores would have come to us in any event. We spilled a great deal of goblin blood, and I’ve heard the damned manticores have noses like bloodhounds.”
“They do,” said Olivier, and he looked to the side. “Serjeant-captain.”
“Sir Olivier,” said Rudolf, and he grinned at the Knight of the Griffin. Despite the differences in their ranks and social stations, the two men greeted each other like old comrades. “So, once all the real work is done, you come flitting down to join us earthbound mortals. Typical of a griffin rider.”
Tyrcamber blinked. Rudolf had never taken that tone with him.
“And you stood staring into the sky with your jaw hanging open while I did all the real fighting,” said Olivier.
“Just as well Thunder Cloud didn’t eat any of that manticore meat, then,” said Tyrcamber.
Rudolf and Olivier stared at him and then burst out laughing. Tyrcamber blinked and then smiled. He didn’t often make jokes. The mood for humor rarely took him after the siege of Tongur.
“Well, thank God for small favors,” said Olivier. “What brings you to the desert?”
“Likely the same thing that brought you here, sir,” said Rudolf. “The Master of our Order has sent us to Tamisa, to help fortify the city against a potential xiatami attack.” He scowled at the dead goblins. “Those goblins were commanded by a Conciliator and his bodyguards. If the xiatami are sending raiders this far north, they’re getting ready for a fight.”
“A Conciliator?” said Olivier, surprised. “You were able to take him down?”
“Sir Tyrcamber slew the priest,” said Rudolf.
“Did you, sir?” said Olivier.
“I did,” said Tyrcamber, giving a grim glance to the slain corpse of the xiatami Conciliator. “God was with my arm, and I was a little faster than my foe.”
“Well done,” said Olivier, clapping Tyrcamber on the shoulder. His manner had been genial and friendly, but there was respect in his eyes now. “Those xiatami priests are tricky bastards. They use blood magic to reduce the dangers of the Malison so they can hit right hard.”
“They can,” said Tyrcamber. “Thankfully, we were able to take the priest down before he could work any serious harm. But what brings you and Thunder Cloud to the Mourdrech Desert, sir? I rather doubt it is a coincidence that our paths should cross on the road leading to Tamisa. You said you were scouting ahead?”
“I am, sir,” said Olivier. “I’m here for the same reason that you and your lads are. The Master of the Order of the Griffin sent me to Mourdrech to help deal with the xiatami. Duke Faramund Berengar requested our help.” He pointed at Thunder Cloud, or specifically the saddlebags hanging from the mighty beast’s harness. “I have letters from Master Erchwulf. The Order of the Griffin is sending a force of griffins and stormhawks to assist the Duke against the xiatami. Until they arrive, I am to put myself at the Duke’s disposal as a scout and a messenger.”
“You drew the short straw, eh?” said Rudolf.
Olivier grinned. “Well, Master Erchwulf wanted it done right.” He looked at Tyrcamber. “Duke Faramund’s your brother-in-law, isn’t he?”
“Aye,” said Tyrcamber.
“What do you think of him?” said Olivier.
Tyrcamber hesitated. His father detested Faramund Berengar. His sister Adalhaid was quite fond of him. “I think the Duke is a capable captain and a valiant knight.” He decided it was wise to change the subject. “Master Erchwulf must be taking the threat seriously if he’s sent you with a dwarf-lance.”
Olivier blinked. “Never seen one before?”
“Not this close,” Tyrcamber admitted. The weapon in Olivier’s hand looked like a solid piece of bronze, but he knew it would be lighter than either bronze or steel. The dwarven glyphs carved into the blade and shaft of the spear glowed like sullen coals, and Tyrcamber could see the faint lines that let the weapon extend its length at need.
“Useful, isn’t it?” said Olivier. “The dwarves made them to kill dragons, but damned if they’re not good against manticores as well. Or anything else, for that matter. The Order of the Griffin doesn’t have many dwarf-forged weapons. The little bastards are hard dealers, and only sell their weapons at a dear price. But the force that is coming to Tamisa will have many of the Order’s dwarf-forged weapons.” Some of his good cheer faded. “The Master is afraid the Valedictor will attack from the east while the xiatami invade from the south. So best to defeat the xiatami as soon as possible.”
“Agreed,” said Tyrcamber. “Which is why we will be continuing southwest as soon as my men are ready. Sir Olivier, I invite you to travel with us the rest of the way. If we are attacked again, we will have a better chance if we can support each other.”
An odd sense of familiarity went through him. It reminded Tyrcamber of his journey to Tongur. On the road, he had met a caravan of merchants, the Guardian Rilmael, and his friend Sir Corswain, and together they had completed the journey to Tongur.
He hoped the campaign in Mourdrech was less bloody than the siege of Tongur.
“Sound counsel,” said Olivier. “Thunder Cloud and I would be happy to accompany you to Tamisa, sir. Though best have your men stay away from Cloud, at least until she’s used to them. Griffins d
on’t always react well to strangers.”
“Very well,” said Tyrcamber. “We’ll leave at once.”
***
Chapter 3: Fortress City
It took an hour of work to make the serjeants and the supply train ready for travel. Wounded men were tended with the Heal spell and made well enough that they could survive the remaining journey to Tamisa. Fortunately, there were no severe injuries, and Tyrcamber expected his wounded men would recover once they had a chance for some rest in the Order’s chapterhouse at Tamisa.
The slain men were wrapped in their cloaks and loaded aboard the spare camels and horses.
The dead goblins and xiatami were looted, dragged a good distance from the road, and left to rot in the heat of the desert.
Once the work was finished, they resumed the journey southwest to Tamisa. Olivier accompanied them on foot, leading Thunder Cloud by her reins. The griffin had eaten several dead goblins, and Olivier explained that she would need to rest for a while before taking to the air again. Tyrcamber supposed that made sense since he never liked to exert himself after a large meal. He sent his scouts ranging out again. If there were more goblins or xiatami in the nearby desert, he did not want to be taken unawares.
The road began sloping downhill, and the salt tang of the sea came to Tyrcamber’s nostrils. Soon after the ground became less dry, and the road ran through a broad plain of cultivated fields. Countless rows of irrigation ditches reflected the sky fire like bands of molten gold. The desert of Mourdrech was dry, but frequent storms rose off the southern sea. In ancient times the xiatami and their slaves had dug a vast network of irrigation ditches to capture the rainfall and use it for crops, and the men of the Empire had taken control of that network when the xiatami had been driven south. The interior of the duchy of Mourdrech was almost all desert wasteland, but the coast was so fertile that the Duke of Mourdrech regularly sold grain in the markets of the rest of the Empire.
As the day wore into afternoon, first the sea came into sight, and then the city of Tamisa itself.
Malison: Dragon Fury Page 3
