Something is happening. The fog swirled about, a violent storm of shadow and light. Sometimes, the area was lit for several minutes, as if the sun had risen and finally managed to slice through the mist. At least it had thinned a bit, he thought. Even when it was properly dark it was possible to make out shapes several yards away. Whether that change was due to some success on Lord D’Farany’s part or was simply a natural occurrence, the young officer did not care. He was only glad it was happening.
D’Marr hated this place, but the damned heat and sunlight was preferable to this mess. So far this night, two men had simply disappeared and a third . . . well, there were some things that made even him queasy.
And that patrol scattered, more than a dozen men lost there, too. Oddly, that both irritated and excited him. The reports spoke of a huge dark stallion with a rider, the latter having a dozen different descriptions. The survivors all seemed to have been obsessed with the monstrous steed . . . no surprise, if it was what he thought it was. One of the spies from that kingdom, Zou or some such nonsense it was called, had reported trouble involving a mage on a large black horse.
The Gryphon had an ally in this realm who matched such a description, a demon called Darkhorse. D’Rance, of course, had been able to supply that tidbit of information.
Two sentries stumbled across his path and swiftly backed away. They saluted, but the young officer just waved them aside. He had no time for men doing their duties. It was the ones who were not who would feel his wrath if they were so unfortunate as to cross him. D’Marr wanted to be done with this task. Once he had the officers under control and they in turn the men, he could return to the tunnels.
His mind drifted back to the patrol’s encounter with the monster known as Darkhorse. The demon could not possibly have come across them by chance; he had to have specifically come here searching for the wolf raiders. Any notion that contradicted that was not acceptable to either Orril D’Marr or his lord. Even the blue man agreed with him on this matter.
The Gryphon had to be here. It fit. The black steed’s appearance had come too quickly after their landing. He had a rider with him. If the rider had not been the damned birdman, then it had to be one of his friends. Either way, they could only have known of the raiders’ presence through the Gryphon. It made sense to him.
Admittedly, there was some logic missing in the argument, but one other reason superseded all others in this matter. D’Marr recalled the attack on the port city. Lord D’Farany had hoped to accomplish two things there. One had been to steal a series of charts that would aid them in this venture and the other had been the hope that they would catch their greatest adversary off-guard.
They had been unable to kill the Gryphon that day, but his brat had paid for the deaths and defeats the empire had suffered. Not satisfactory, but it would do until the Gryphon’s head decorated a lance tip.
And that time is coming soon. True to form, the bird had followed them across the seas. D’Marr had predicted he would and for once he had outdone the blue devil in that respect. You’re coming to me, Gryphon, coming to join your brat!
His hand touched the pommel of the scepter. When he had finished the Gryphon, there would remain only the cat woman. She would follow after her mate, being as predictable in her way as he was when it came to revenge. Then I will have taken all three.
No one would deny his greatness then.
His course took him around the camp until he returned to the mouth of the tunnel leading to the Quel city. The camp was at last in order. The officers were now in line and they, in turn, had the men under rein. D’Marr had done as best as was possible. Now it was time to-
A tall figure emerged from the tunnel. From his walk and his manner, D’Marr had no trouble identifying the northerner. The man looked bedraggled, exhausted. The young officer smiled briefly, then once more fixed his expression into one of detachment.
D’Rance saw him and did not bother to hide his own distaste. He tried to walk past his shorter counterpart, but D’Marr was having none of that. To know that the northerner had been put through the paces made his own tedious day more palatable. “Tired already?”
“You will play no games with me, Orril D’Marr. Our lord has struggled long and I was forced to help maintain him, yes?”
“And what could you do for him, blue? Wipe his brow when he sweated?”
D’Rance sneered. “The knowledge of a scholar is a greater weapon at times than the sword of a simple soldier, yes? You would have pounded on the crystal device with that toy on your belt, I think, as you did to the walls. Such effort, but so little result.”
“You’re a scholar of magic?”
The blue man suddenly lost interest in the battle of words. “I have given my all for our effort, little man, yes, and our Lord D’Farany knows this. I have been given leave to rest and rest I shall.”
The exhausted northerner turned and stalked into the fog. D’Marr watched him disappear, then glanced at the tunnel mouth. All the blue devil’s efforts would amount to little before this night had ended. Whatever favor he had curried with Lord D’Farany would fade when D’Marr revealed the secret cavern.
He started down the tunnel, finalizing his plans. He would need four or five men, just to be on the safe side. They could plant the explosives in the proper locations and light the fuses. There would be rubble to clear away, too, which meant that five or six men would work better. The most important task D’Marr would save for himself, however. It was he who would be the first to enter the unknown, he, the discoverer. And whatever secret, whatever treasure lies behind there, I will be the first to know it.
“Sir!”
Although his expression remained bland when he turned back toward the mouth of the tunnel, inside, Orril D’Marr was seething. What do they want now? “Yes?”
An understandably nervous officer even younger than he stood at attention at the edge of the entrance. No doubt he had been volunteered by his superiors for this mission. That way, if D’Marr chose to take out his wrath on someone, it would not be them. “Sir, I have been ordered to report that there is some confusion in the eastern flank. Several men have reported a roving light. Two went out to investigate and have not returned. Another man reports . . .”
He waited, but the other officer did not go on. “Reports what?”
“Someone laughing . . . from above him.”
The corners of D’Marr’s mouth edged downward. His work was already falling apart. If this was an example of the situation being under Lord D’Farany’s control, then it was no improvement. Success was supposed to mean that the fog would either vanish or obey the commands of his master. It had, so far, done neither as far as D’Marr could see. If anything, this latest report indicated things had turned worse.
He returned to the surface and looked around. How he was supposed to keep this rabble organized was beyond him, but it was his function. That meant chasing down those incompetent officers and uncovering the truth about things that went bump in the fog. He was growing tired of this. There would have to be some changes made in the ranks.
“What’s your name?”
“Squad Leader, Base Level, R’Jerek, sir.”
The man’s superiors had picked the lowest officer they could find. He still bore the R’ caste designation. Anything above him would have the D’ like D’Marr’s name bore. His estimation of the value of R’Jerek’s superiors dropped further. “Your immediate officer?”
“Captain D’Lee, sir.”
“Lead me to him, D’Jerek.”
“Yes, sir . . .” The younger officer paused. “It’s R’Jerek, sir.”
“Not after I’m through with your superior, Captain.”
His guide said nothing more after that.
Orril D’Marr gave the tunnel one last glance. Tomorrow, he swore to himself. It’ll hold until tomorrow.
So much power! Kanaan D’Rance stumbled toward his tent, which was, not by chance, away from the rest. As much as he would have been hap
pier to sleep among the fascinating Quel artifacts, that was not allowed. Still, he had smuggled a few of the items into his tent, where he tried to understand and make use of them. His skills were growing; he had even managed to heal his hand without anyone ever discovering the truth. The streak in his hair was becoming a problem, however. He was certain that the Aramite leader suspected.
The secrets the trinkets held paled in comparison to the struggle that had gone on tonight, a struggle in which Lord D’Farany had all but triumphed. The mysterious adversary was vanquished; now, the Aramite commander only had to bind the magical fog to his control. Lord D’Farany was already talking of making use of the deadly mist, an idea contrary to his first inclination. Despite the wrongness of the sorcery tied into the fog, or perhaps because of it, the keeper now saw great potential in it as a weapon for the raiders.
Kanaan D’Rance agreed for the most part, but he differed with his master in one respect. He wanted control of the mist for himself. There is a power there, yes? A different, alien magic! It had repelled him at first, but now it attracted. The blue man felt he could accomplish great things with it once he learned how it had come to be. He needed time, though, time alone in that chamber. Time alone to study.
Thrusting aside the flap of his tent, the tall figure darted inside. It was not until the flap had closed behind him that he noticed something was amiss. Something that only his burgeoning magical senses could note.
With no effort at all, he created a small ball of light brilliant enough to illuminate most of the interior.
Lord D’Farany’s work? Was he now toying with the blue man? He did not like the thought of ending up as one of the martinet’s playthings. Orril D’Marr excelled at slow death, yes.
It was then he noticed that his carefully hidden collection of Quel artifacts had been taken out and scattered over his worktable.
Who would dare? This was not the way of Lord D’Farany. D’Marr, then? One of his spies? It made no sense; they could learn nothing from his collection save that he had palmed some pieces. The little martinet would know that such efforts would be a waste of everyone’s time.
Somehow, he knew that this could not be the work of the Aramites . . . yet, who did that leave?
One of the figurines on the table, a small crystal bear, leapt up from the table and past his shoulder.
Stunned, he spun around, trying to keep track of it. The Quel talisman stood on the ground behind him, as motionless as it had been before its extraordinary leap into momentary life. With great caution, Kanaan D’Rance reached down for it.
The tiny bear sprang away from him, flying into the dark shadows in the corner of his tent. The blue man snarled and started for the spot. Although he could not see the artifact, he knew that it could go no farther. The tent would impede its progress. Now it was a simple matter of searching those shadows. The scholar in him took over. Once he found the peculiar little piece, he intended to study it thoroughly until he discovered the reason for its sudden animation.
A laugh from within the shadows made him pull back his questing hand.
A grotesque, round figure who could have not been hiding all this time squatted in the shadows. He could see nothing of the face except the long, narrow chin and the slash of mouth. The creature raised a spindly arm to the huge, broad-rimmed hat he wore and lifted it just enough to reveal the rest of the unholy visage. It was all D’Rance could do to keep from shouting. He stood there, petrified.
“A fascinating struggle; a struggle fascinating to me,” said the intruder. “Especially to me.”
“Who . . . ?”
The mouth shaped into a mischievous grin. A bony hand formed a fist, then opened again. In the palm of the hand was the elusive figurine. “Plool I am; I am Plool . . .” The grin grew wider. The eyes, the ungodly, crystalline eyes, glittered merrily. “A friend.”
“Something has definitely changed, Lord Gryphon, and not necessarily for the better!”
The Gryphon noticed it, too. There was indeed a change in the air, or rather the fog. He shivered and was not exactly certain why. The change might have been for the better; they had no way of knowing otherwise.
Pessimism? More likely experience and common sense. The lionbird had been in too many dire situations not to expect the worst. Usually, through no effort of his own, he was proven correct in that assumption.
“What do you make of it, Darkhorse?”
The shadow steed snorted. “Nothing! I make absolutely nothing out of it. It is from Nimth and as far as I am concerned, that which is Nimthian is a threat to all!”
“Like Shade?” he could not help asking the eternal.
Darkhorse was prevented from answering by what sounded like a crack of thunder. He stumbled. The entire area was suddenly aglow even though it was still night. The Gryphon heard a rumbling, glanced down, and, with the aid of the mysterious light, saw the earth opening up before them. He started to point it out to his companion, but the stallion was already backing away. The chasm began to widen and from it poured forth a grayish substance much like clay.
“Can you leap over it?” He had seen Darkhorse clear gaps far wider than this one.
“I will do so once I am certain that it is safe to do so! Do not trust appearances in this place; there is usually more to come!”
That was when the molten clay turned toward them.
From the center of the bubbling mass burst forth a crude, thick tentacle. At the same time, the Gryphon felt his own body twist. He stared in horror as his arms began to lengthen and his torso started to turn sideways.
“Darkhorse!” The Gryphon struggled to maintain control of his fingers, which were trying to bend backward of their own accord.
“Hold . . . hold on to . . . me!”
He did. As best as his distorted form would allow, he held on to the dark stallion. His fingers still struggled for independence, but his will was stronger.
The lionbird felt a surge of movement from the eternal, then the rush of air, foul air, as Darkhorse leapt.
It took forever to land, at least in the Gryphon’s mind, and when they did, Darkhorse did not stop. He continued to run. Over hill and flat earth, the terrain did not matter. All the while, the light remained with them. They raced on for what had to be several miles before the Gryphon recovered enough to demand that his companion come to a halt. Darkhorse did not acknowledge his words, but he nonetheless came to a reluctant halt some few moments later.
The Gryphon looked himself over, wary of what he might find but determined to see what terrible changes might have been wrought on him. To his astonishment and relief, he saw that he was just as he had always been. Leaving the vicinity of the chasm had restored him to normal.
“Grrryppphhonnn?”
“Darkhorse?” In his relief at finding he had survived intact, the lionbird had nearly forgotten the one who had saved him. It had not occurred to him that the eternal might also have suffered some monstrous alteration. “Darkhorse! What is it?”
There was no response from the shadow steed, but he was shivering noticeably. The Gryphon glanced at the rocky ground beneath them, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and gingerly dismounted. Darkhorse continued to shiver. He did not even look back at his rider, simply stared ahead.
“Darkhorse?”
“I . . . cannot . . . fight it this time!” The shivering grew worse yet. The shadow steed stumbled back a step.
“Fight what?” How could he help the eternal?
“Fight . . . what almost took . . . control . . . when I was . . . with Cabe!”
The last word ended in a scream.
Darkhorse melted.
He was quicksilver, flowing in all directions. A black pool with vague equine touches to him. The lionbird danced away from him, aghast. “Darkhorse! What do I do? What can I do?”
“Urra . . .” From the horrific mass rose a figure the color of ink. Cold, blue orbs stared out from a face that was and was not a copy of the Gryphon’s own. Every detail of the
Gryphon’s own form was copied, yet it was a flawed reproduction. He raised one clawed hand toward what his companion had become.
The shape melted, but re-formed almost instantly. A thing of many arms and eyes, the latter all blue, sprouted before the Gryphon. He did not back away, although experience should have demanded otherwise.
As quickly as it had formed, this shape, too, melted. A new one, another humanoid figure, coalesced.
This one the Gryphon also recognized. “Shade!”
Shade, but with the definite outline of a face. Quick as the lionbird was in attempting to see those blackened features, he was not quick enough. Shade, the shape of Shade, rather, poured to the earth before the Gryphon could make out the details of his visage. The Gryphon watched the melting with some disappointment despite the circumstances. For all the years that he had known the warlock, he had never discerned the true features of the man. Not even Shade had been able to recall what he had once looked like.
Yet a new form grew, but this one, it turned out, was to be Darkhorse again. It was a slower shaping than the others, possibly because it looked as though the eternal was forcibly willing himself back into existence much the way the Gryphon had struggled with control of his fingers.
When at last he was fully formed, the ebony stallion shook his head and eyed his companion. “I had thought I had beaten the urge when last I was here, but the fog, Nimth, is stronger still.”
“What happened to you?”
Darkhorse took an unsteady step. His form rippled. “Still not completely safe! You will have to give me a little time. What happened to me? I am even more susceptible to the wild powers of Nimth than you are! Ha! I am worse than wet clay in the hands of those powers! When I was here with Cabe, it almost happened. I fought back and succeeded then, but not this time! I failed! I was twisted into whatever shape it could derive from my memories. Any memory.”
“Including Shade?”
The eternal steadied himself. “He will haunt me forever! I had forgotten that I had ever known his true visage. It was in the last days . . . or . . . was it long, long ago?”
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III Page 25
