Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

by Richard A. Knaak

  That was all that his companion wanted to say on the subject, so the Gryphon turned to studying their surroundings. The odd light-where is its source?-enabled him to see maybe five yards away from them in any direction. He had no idea where they were save that they had gone farther west. Darkhorse had not thought about his course. If not for the Gryphon, they might still be racing through the fog. He was glad he had managed to speak out or else they might have kept on racing until they ended up in the middle of the Aramite camp itself. The lionbird did not want to confront his adversaries until he knew the advantage would be his.

  He wondered how close they were. Close enough that his claws unsheathed in anticipation. The peninsula was very, very long, but Darkhorse moved swifter than the wind. What would take a true steed days to reach could take him only hours. The Gryphon was aware that his mount had paid no attention to his speed, so there was no satisfactory method of calculating where they were.

  The mysterious illumination at last began to dim. Nothing remained constant here. From what the shadow steed had related to him about this foul mist, the lionbird was surprised the light had lasted this long. He was not sorry to see it go. Despite the temporary increase in visibility it had created, it made the Gryphon more anxious. Night was supposed to be dark. He was more comfortable with that. In the night, his reflexes and senses were an advantage over most foes. Hunting the wolf raiders was best done at night.

  The Gryphon stared into the darkening fog. He could imagine the scene. Lone soldiers wandering in the night, unable to see much save with torches that marked them for him. If the warlock was their prisoner, they would lead the Gryphon to him. If Cabe was not at their mercy, then that would simplify matters for the lionbird. He would not have to hold back.

  The images became so real that the Gryphon could almost see the shadowy forms and hear the clink of metal upon metal. His good hand clutched the grip of his sword.

  He was jolted by a strange, whistling sound . . . then it became impossible to breathe as something thin and tight wrapped itself snugly around his throat.

  “Gryphon! Beware!”

  Ignoring the belated warning, the Gryphon reached down and drew his sword. He knew that it was a whip that encircled his throat and knew very well who was at the other end. What he counted on was the other underestimating his strength. The lionbird was stronger than most humans, even despite his three-fingered grip. He took hold of the whip and pulled, at the same time bringing his sword into play. His attacker had no chance to react; the Gryphon’s blade ran him through in the neck.

  Pulling his sword free before the soldier could even fall, the Gryphon whirled about. No figment of his imagination were these men. He had seen shapes and heard sounds, but like a senile fool, he had paid them no mind. Perhaps it was time for him to die. When one grew old and careless, that was what was supposed to happen.

  No, for your sake, Troia, and for the memory of our Demion, I will not!

  They swarmed toward him. Darkhorse had described in detail his first encounter with the patrol and so the Gryphon knew that this second patrol was much larger and better prepared than its predecessor had been. Someone understood too well what they might be hunting and had supplied the soldiers with tools designed just for the likes of Darkhorse and him.

  Even as he took down a swordsman, the Gryphon knew that he alone would not be able to escape the Aramites. They must have heard us; they must have heard Darkhorse as he struggled. There would be little aid from Darkhorse. The shadow steed was situated but a few yards to his left and already struggling against more than half a dozen attackers. Darkhorse and his opponents seemed at an impasse; they could not reach him, but he was still too weakened from his inner battle to do them any harm.

  Already three swordsmen fought him from different angles. He was able to keep them more or less in front of him long enough to disable one in the leg, but others were already gathering. Four men with a net worked toward his back. A lancer and yet another swordsman joined his attackers. A pattern developed, a lance thrust followed by one or more sword attacks, generally together. The Gryphon fought them off, but he was forced to back up each time.

  When the net came down on him, the lionbird knew that he had allowed himself to be played like a puppet. That there had been no other choice in no way assuaged his anger at himself.

  His sword was yanked from his grip, but he had the satisfaction of severely clawing one of his captors before they wrapped the net tight around him. When they were done, he was trussed up like a piece of game . . . and to the wolf raiders he probably was. The Gryphon heard one of the Aramites call out to Darkhorse.

  “Hold, demon, or we will fillet your friend here and now!”

  He would have urged the shadow steed to ignore the threat, but someone rapped him on the side of the head, dazing him for several seconds. By the time his head cleared, Darkhorse had already surrendered.

  “Watch him!” ordered the same voice, likely the patrol leader. “Commander D’Marr will want him in good shape for questioning!”

  The Gryphon could not see his captors’ eyes, but he noted that a couple of the men who were handling him stiffened at the mention of the name. D’Farany’s torturer.

  “Bind his mouth.”

  Someone shifted him around so that another guard could wrap thick cloth around his beak. In the darkness of reborn night, the lionbird could make out the outline of the demon steed. Darkhorse had lowered his head. Two Aramites were looping something around the eternal’s neck. It could not be a rope noose. Something as simple as that would never hold Darkhorse. No, it had to be a magical bond of some sort, a bond whose power they trusted to work despite the tricks of the fog. The Gryphon was not certain he would trust any sorcery or sorcerous artifact while lost in this mist. He hoped their faith would come back to haunt the wolf raiders before this was all over. If not and their toys worked as they should . . . then it was all over already.

  Unless Cabe was not a prisoner . . .

  If not, where was he?

  A pair of boots crossed his limited field of vision. They paused before him. “Make him docile for the trip. That’ll keep the demon in line.”

  The Gryphon knew what was coming and braced himself for it. The blow to the back of his head was a good one, he was just barely able to note, for alone it was enough to send him spinning into unconsciousness. He would have only one fist-sized lump when he woke.

  Provided the Gryphon woke at all.

  Wake he did, but it was no relief to do so, for the Gryphon saw that they had reached the Aramite encampment. It was still night, he supposed, but there were many awake. He sensed a certain tension that permeated the area. The raiders were not at ease in this place. There was not much satisfaction in knowing that. His captors would be that much more anxious, that much more ready to kill him. Although he knew he faced potential agony at the hands of the Aramite inquisitor, the lionbird was determined to survive. He had given up part of his hand already and he was willing to give up much more if he was granted the deaths of Lord D’Farany and his men.

  His eyes little more than slits, the captive continued to survey his surroundings. One item of vast importance was missing. He could neither see nor hear Darkhorse. What had happened to the eternal? Surely he was aware that the raiders would kill the Gryphon no matter what? They would be searching for methods of binding the ebony stallion to their will. The Gryphon was fairly certain that the wolf raiders would find some adequate device. This batch had probably stolen whatever they could before they abandoned their fellows back in the empire. So much for the loyalty of the pack!

  He was dragged on and on, so long, in fact, that he almost believed they intended to drag him to death. It was not a very imaginative death, if that was the case. From D’Farany the Gryphon expected more. Something slow and agonizing.

  This was not how he had planned it.

  All at once, the Gryphon was dumped to the harsh earth. He suppressed a grunt and remained as still as possible.
/>
  “What is it now?” The voice was indifferent, almost bored.

  “Sir, a prize most wonderful! It’s-”

  “Don’t bother to tell me; show me.”

  “Y-yes, Commander D’Marr!”

  Ungentle hands rolled him onto his back.

  “Forget rolling him free. I have other things demanding my time, Captain. Cut him out of there.”

  Evidently in the darkness it was troublesome to make out anything more than his shape. A possible advantage? The Gryphon heard the sound of a dagger being drawn from its sheath. A blade flashed by his visage, but he did not flinch. With little care for his well-being, the soldier began to cut him loose. He tensed. If there was ever an opportunity for escape, it was when he was nearly free of the net. He was swift, far swifter than most of them would think. It was a slim hope, but if they bound him after this, his odds would shrivel to next to nothing.

  A heavy boot landed atop his throat. The Gryphon gasped. He felt the tip of a mace against his forehead. Around him was nothing but silence.

  “What are you gaping at, you fool? Finish releasing our friend here.” Was there just a tinge of excitement in the officer’s otherwise monotone voice? “He won’t be trying any tricks now.”

  When the last of the netting had been cut away, the Gryphon was seized by both his arms and his legs. Only when he was certain that his prisoner would not be able to free himself from the guards’ grips did D’Marr take his foot off of the lionbird’s throat. “You might as well open your eyes all the way, birdman.”

  The Gryphon did. Peering down at him was a round, clean-shaven countenance. At first glance, he almost wondered if the Aramites had been reduced to promoting children to the officers’ ranks. Then, as they tugged him to his feet, he was better able to glimpse the eyes. Young, D’Marr might be, but he was by no means a child. There was more death in his eyes than most men the Gryphon had ever faced.

  And is my son one of those deaths?

  The Aramite commander stepped closer. The Gryphon cocked his head in sudden amusement as he saw that D’Marr came up only to his chin.

  The head of the mace went deep into his stomach.

  His guards would not let him fall forward or clutch his stomach in pain. As he gasped, he heard the young commander say, “You’ve made an otherwise long and annoying night worthwhile, birdman. You have no idea how much I’ve waited for this confrontation.”

  “Shall I alert his lordship, sir?”

  D’Marr looked at his prisoner, then at the guards, and then at last at the man who had spoken. He never seemed to look at any one thing for very long, the Gryphon noted, not even the face of an adversary whose image had become synonymous with Aramite defeats. “No. Now would not be the best time. Lord D’Farany has only just retired and his victory over the fog has cost him.” The men looked confused over the last part of the statement, but D’Marr ignored them. He smiled ever so briefly at the lionbird. “I’m certain that we can find accommodations for our special guest until then. We need time to prepare the best welcome for him. We need time to properly plan his death. For that Lord D’Farany will want to be fully alert and able to enjoy his pain.”

  “I hope I will be a disappointment,” the Gryphon managed to respond. He was still in pain, but it had subsided enough so that he could pretend it had vanished.

  “You speak.” D’Marr raised the tip of the mace to the underside of the Gryphon’s beak. The lionbird could sense a spell of some sort, a strong, complicated spell, locked into the weapon. Judging from its owner, he was certain that the mace was a treacherous little device. “How entertaining. I’d begun to think you incapable. Don’t worry yourself, Your Majesty . . . you are supposed to be a king or some such dribble, aren’t you . . . my lord will hardly be disappointed. If you think that I’m eager for your company, you’ll be amazed at his enthusiasm. You are the cause of all his suffering. Years of suffering.”

  “Good.”

  A shock coursed through his body. He would have fallen if not for the guards. D’Marr waited for him to recover, then held the head of the mace close enough so that the Gryphon could see how it had been designed. “That was one of the low levels. You’ll be tasting the others-as many as you can take-when you’re brought before our master.”

  “I am always eager to meet the men I want to kill. It has been a pleasure meeting you, in fact.”

  D’Marr started to smile again, but then he stared at the avian visage before him and the smile faded. “The only one you’ll have the pleasure of meeting will be that brat of yours. The one who died much too quickly.”

  Demion . . . It was as if his heart had suddenly been wrenched from his chest. Blood madness took him. The Gryphon’s world shrank. It was a world large enough to contain only two. One was himself and the other . . . the other was the beast who had killed his son.

  No, two was still too many. He would not be satisfied until there was only one.

  “Demion . . .” Nothing would keep him from the beast. He felt some sort of resistance holding him in place, but with a twist of his arms he freed himself. The monster backed away from him, eyes wary and prepared for struggle. Good, it would make his death that much better.

  The Gryphon felt something pull at his arms again and this time he lashed out, striking flesh and bone. Not once did he look to see what the source of that interference was; his eyes could only see the black figure before him. The jackal.

  He leapt, but the beast struck him with the scepter, sending him through a new crescendo of agony. Still the enraged Gryphon would not accept defeat. The pain gave way to his anger, his bitterness. He slashed at his adversary, but his claws caught only the hard metal of the beast’s armor.

  The net came down on him before he could strike again. Still fighting, the maddened lionbird was pulled to the ground. A blow to his head finally succeeded in lessening some of the blood lust.

  “Don’t kill him. Keep him bound.” The beast stood where he knew the Gryphon could not help but look. His placid face broke into that brief smile again. “You are a feisty one, aren’t you?”

  “I will have you, D’Marr,” the prisoner replied in much calmer tones. He was furious at himself for allowing his base instincts to take over like that. He had not served the memory of his son nor the love of his mate in any way by becoming the animal. There was a line between animal and humanity that the Gryphon had always walked. Now, he had allowed himself to fall prey to the unthinking side. It was never right to allow one side or the other complete control. Only with both sides in balance could he triumph. “I will have you and your master.”

  D’Marr squatted and pointed the tip of the mace at him. The top just barely flicked against the side of the Gryphon’s face, who flinched before realizing that there was no pain this time. “No, that’s for later, birdman. That and so much more.” The Aramite officer rose. “Bind him properly this time and take him to the other beasts. They can stare at each other until he’s needed for the festivities. Is the demon under control?”

  “We’ve bound it as you’ve instructed,” responded the patrol leader. “It doesn’t seem to be able to free itself.”

  “Watch it. Make certain of that.” The youthful raider yawned in the Gryphon’s direction. “Now that we have things settled, you’ll excuse me if I retire. I have so much to do tomorr-excuse me, later today.” He pointed at the guards with his scepter. “These men will see to your discomfort. If you have need of anything, please ask.”

  “Just your head.”

  D’Marr tapped the side of the weapon against his palm. He stared thoughtfully at the captive, then politely asked, “And how long do you think before we might be graced with the presence of your cat? I’m looking forward to completing the set.”

  This time, the Gryphon did not respond. D’Marr was working hard to keep his mind in turmoil and he was achieving that goal all too well. As desperate as his situation was, the only hope that the Gryphon had was in retaining his calm.

  “Well, I
suspect she’ll be here soon enough. I will be certain to greet her with open, loving arms.” His countenance once more a bland mask, the young officer gave the tangled lionbird a mock salute and departed.

  Watching him walk off, the Gryphon knew that he had to somehow free himself despite the odds. If he did not, then Troia would follow, as D’Marr had predicted. The thought of her in the hands of someone like the sadistic Aramite made him shiver.

  I’m looking forward to completing the set, D’Marr had mocked. If the Gryphon did not find some way to escape his fate, without the aid of Darkhorse, apparently, it was all too possible that the deadly raider would do just that.

  XIV

  “Rise, Cabe Bedlam.”

  The voice sounded familiar, yet it also did not. Cabe, his body responding as if it had long ago given way to rigor mortis, managed to rise to a sitting position. He found himself staring at the blurred images of one countenance, a countenance that every facet of every reflective crystal repeated. It was the face of a man much like the one the warlock had seen in the visions, but despite the blurriness, he could see that this one was a younger, varied copy. A son, perhaps. Until the detail became much more focused, he could guess no more.

  “You are resilient, warlock.”

  He turned to the source of the voice and only then discovered that it was not the images that were blurred, but rather his own vision. Not really a shock, considering what had happened.

  Dragon Kings will be the death of me yet . . . even when they are not purposely trying to achieve that result.

  “Your-Your Majesty?” He blinked several times, but to no discernible effect.

  “Wait a moment. Your vision should clear. You were not, fortunately for you, struck in the eyes. I did what I could for you otherwise.”

  What did that mean? Cabe started to reach up with his left hand and was wracked by dagger strikes of pain. He quickly lowered the arm and clutched it with his other hand, which thankfully did not hurt. “What-what happened?”