Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

by Richard A. Knaak

  Cabe hesitated but a moment. As dire as the shadow steed’s situation was, there was no argument that the Gryphon faced the most immediate threat. For years, Aramite spies and assassins had tried to put an end to what they considered the empire’s chief foe. Now, that foe was in their clutches. It would be an inspiration to D’Farany’s forces and no doubt a way of wreaking vengeance for his own personal losses if the keeper was able to present the Gryphon’s battered and torn body to his followers.

  “Show me again the direction,” he finally whispered.

  Darkhorse dipped his head toward the unseen tent. “The camp is starting to stir. They have not slept well this last night. Go swiftly but go very cautiously.”

  Cabe faced his old friend. “I will be back for you.”

  “I have faith. Your being here gives me new strength with which to battle this thing of torture. Now go!”

  Slipping past the two sentries, the warlock again moved nigh invisible through the camp. He was pleased his spell still held true, but was aware that each moment made the chances of mishap greater. Cabe had to find the Gryphon, release him, and return to Darkhorse. With the Gryphon to aid him, they would surely be able to find some way to free the eternal. Darkhorse was also large enough to carry both of them, which would be a necessity once either escape was noticed.

  He had just sighted the tent when a minor tremor shook the area. It was short and mild, but its appearance raised a muttering among the soldiers nearby, including those who had been sleeping before the quake had begun. Cabe gritted his teeth as he pondered what could be done. Had D’Farany tried to halt the destruction and failed or had he simply abandoned the underworld under the mistaken impression that the violence would not affect the surface?

  Guessing was futile. Cabe set his mind on his present task. First the Gryphon, then Darkhorse, and finally escape. Once they were secure, then they could discuss their next move.

  Although he was positive that he had found the correct tent, the warlock nonetheless decided to risk reaching out with his mind to discover who or what was inside. It might be that the lionbird had been moved to another location. It also might be that Cabe had chosen the wrong tent. Surely there had to be more than one tent so designed. Moving over to another, much nearer tent . . . just to be on the safe side . . . the warlock probed.

  Gryphon? He sensed more than one being in the tent. There were several, in fact, and Cabe’s impression was that they were all prisoners of the wolf raiders. Cabe investigated one of the other minds, then immediately withdrew in disgust. Quel! They had put the Gryphon in with a band of Quel.

  At least I know that he’s in there, too. His probe had been able to verify that fact even though Cabe had not actually linked with his former comrade. Still, it would be a wise move to alert the Gryphon to his coming so that the lionbird would be ready when the time for escape arrived.

  Then, before he could act, a new presence invaded his senses. Cabe flung himself against the tent and tried to shield his own existence from the other. He prayed it was not too late. If he was discovered now, it was the end for all of them.

  Out of the mist came the tall, familiar figure of Lord D’Farany. The keeper strode across the camp accompanied by several men, including a much slighter but foreboding officer who carried on his belt a crystal-tipped scepter that radiated sorcery. The shorter raider was fitting his helm on his head and looked to have been only recently asleep. He was muttering something to Lord D’Farany, who nodded once but did not otherwise reply.

  The keeper suddenly came to a halt. As all but the slight officer looked at one another in confusion, the Aramite commander shifted his gaze toward the tent where Cabe hid. The talisman in his hand glowed, but no discernible spell was cast. At his side, the sinister aide also studied the spot where the warlock stood.

  Despite the years it seemed, only a handful of seconds passed before the raider commander turned away. The other Aramite continued to watch a moment longer, but when his master resumed his walk, the officer had to follow.

  It was not until the danger to his own person was past that Cabe noticed where the party was heading. His fists clenched in frustration and he silently swore in the name of his Vraadish ancestors.

  He was too late. The wolf raiders had come for the Gryphon.

  XVI

  As the day began, soldiers all around the encampment noticed changes from the previous days. The fog moved with renewed violence and this time with a virile wind behind it. There were tremors now and then, each a little stronger than the last. Some also left in their wake peculiar humps of earth almost resembling the upturned dirt left by the underground passage of a mole or gopher, only larger. That started muttering about the need for fresh meat, which was quickly quelled by officers, who secretly agreed.

  No one paid too much attention to the changes. There was nothing that the army could do about them and rumor had it that the expedition was at last going to be moving on to better climes. That sort of rumor was more welcome and soon became the only topic of importance.

  Meanwhile, the tremors increased and the mounds, sometimes appearing even when there was no quake, soon crisscrossed the entire camp.

  The gryphon ceased struggling with his bonds the moment he became aware of the sounds of armored men approaching the tent. Much to his dismay, the Gryphon had made very little headway in his attempt to free himself. D’Marr’s men had performed a practiced effort upon him; try as he might the bonds had not loosened one bit. That he had less than a full complement of fingers on one hand did not help matters.

  Both he and the Quel looked up as a soldier pulled the tent flap aside. A column of six men entered the tent, the last two being D’Marr and a tall, scarred figure who could only be Lord Ivon D’Farany.

  One of the guards removed the gag around the Gryphon’s beak. The lionbird opened and closed his mouth a few times to see if it still worked.

  “You have not changed much after all these years, Gryphon,” the Aramite commander commented in quite polite tones. He reminded the captive of D’Rak, the senior keeper at the time of his arrival on the other continent. The same tone was there, although in this case, it was tinged with borderline madness. The Gryphon did not have to look into D’Farany’s unholy eyes to recognize the sickness.

  “So, we have met before,” he replied.

  The keeper toyed with his talisman, one of the largest of the so-called Ravager’s Teeth that the prisoner could ever recall seeing. “Under the streets of Canisargos, in the days when the true Pack Master still ruled, the Lord God Ravager smiled down upon his children, and I was chosen to be my Lord D’Rak’s successor.”

  “Under the streets?” The Gryphon recalled battles and flight as he and the drake Morgis, the latter in humanoid form, were pursued by the minions of the empire. The keepers in particular had been avid hunters. That hunt had ended in chaos and destruction, however, when the spell that had prevented Morgis from transforming into a dragon had been broken. Bursting upward through the very streets of the massive city, the dragon, with the lionbird on his back, had flown off, leaving behind him ruin.

  A lipless smile crossed the drawn countenance of the raider leader. “I led that patrol that fought you. When the dragon brought the city down upon the catacombs beneath, I was nearly crushed. I did survive though . . . only to suffer much greater later on, when our Lord Ravager’s gift was withdrawn.”

  The Gryphon could still not recall D’Farany’s features, but that had been almost twenty years ago and humans tended to change more with time. Sorcerers, even keepers, lived longer, but the Aramite commander had also suffered withdrawal from the addictive power of his dark master. That had probably done more to twist his features than the entire war.

  Glancing about, D’Marr dared interrupt his commander. “Lord D’Farany, you said that we must have the camp ready to move as soon as possible. While the order has just gone out, we don’t have much time.”

  “I am aware of what I said, Orril. I am. A pity,
though.” The eyes suddenly focused. “It is a pity, Gryphon, that we cannot make a grand ceremony of your death. I, for one, would have found it inspiring. I was thinking of first giving my verlok a few moments of your time and then allowing Orril to show us his prowess in the art of lingering pain.”

  “Death by vermin. My apologies for the disappointment.” There was no great visible reaction from D’Marr, although his eyes might have flashed in anger for an instant. The lionbird tried to judge the distance between himself and Lord D’Farany. Even bound as he was, he was almost certain that a good push would send him rolling into D’Farany. It was a desperate venture, but if he was meant to die now he at least wanted one last chance at one of his foes. After what the Gryphon had learned from D’Marr about his son’s death, he would have preferred the young officer’s throat, but D’Marr was too far away to even consider.

  “I will live with it . . .” Lord D’Farany gingerly shifted his grip on the glimmering talisman. “I made the brief acquaintance of a friend of yours, by the way. A dark-haired warlock . . . Cabe Bedlam was his name.”

  The Gryphon tensed.

  “It would have been so cozy to bring such old friends back together, but he didn’t want to come . . . so I left him buried beneath the rubble from a collapsed cavern.”

  Cocking his head to one side, the lionbird carefully studied his captor. The drawn face, the constantly moving hands, and the stiff body told him more than the keeper’s words. Cabe might be dead, but that death had been costly for the Aramite commander. He began to ponder the sudden decision to break camp when it was obvious that the Quel city could hardly be stripped of all its prizes. Cabe or Cabe’s death had instigated something that bothered Lord D’Farany enough to make him uproot his entire force without warning.

  D’Farany took his silence the wrong way. “I thought you cared about your friends more. You are little more than an animal, birdman. It would be best if we just put you out of your misery.”

  By the side, Orril D’Marr removed the scepter from his belt.

  A hand stayed the raider officer. “He does not die this morning. Have him readied for the journey. His death will entertain us on the morrow.”

  Looking somewhat disappointed, D’Marr nodded. He glanced at the Quel, who stared back with unreadable expressions. The Gryphon thought that they looked a bit too calm considering their situation. “What about these little beasts?”

  Lord D’Farany did not even give them a glance. “Kill them before we leave, Orril.” To his prisoner, the Aramite softly added, “I want to spend a little time with you before your death, birdman. I want you to know the pain and suffering you caused me all those years ago . . . and I know it was you. It had to be. I have never been whole since the day the gifts of the keepership were stripped from my soul.” He stroked the talisman and again smiled that lipless smile. “But here I have come close.”

  With that, the keeper turned and departed the tent. His aides, with the exception of Orril D’Marr, hurried after. Only the young officer and the guards remained. The former studied the bound captives and scratched his chin in contemplation.

  “I should do this all myself, but I’ve not the time. Too bad; it would’ve been fun.” He swung the tip of the scepter around until it was pointed at the lionbird. “At least I’ll have the pleasure of dealing with you later. Let’s see if you can scream as long as your son did.”

  Holding back the rage that boiled up within him, the Gryphon calmly and quietly responded, “My son did not scream.”

  It was not merely his belief. He knew Demion had not screamed. Demion would never have screamed. The Gryphon was also aware that his son had died quickly and in the heat of battle. D’Marr had never had time to torture him.

  That in no way released the wolf raider from the lionbird’s vengeance. Somehow, he would take the little man down.

  Seeing that his attempt to ruffle the feathers of his adversary had failed, Orril D’Marr replaced the mace on his belt and summoned the two guards. “Bind his mouth and kill those obnoxious beasts. Do you think the two of you are capable of executing those orders? I mean, they are bound hand and foot.”

  The soldiers nodded. D’Marr turned to go, then stopped to stare at the Quel again. He reached into a pouch and removed something too small for the Gryphon to make out. Crouching, the Aramite spoke to one of the Quel males. “I have decided to give you one final chance to save your miserable lives. What’s in that cavern? What were you hiding? Speak to me!”

  The Gryphon guessed that the unseen object in D’Marr’s tightly clenched fist had to be a magical creation similar to the crystals that the subterranean race used to communicate with those not of their kind. Talk of a hidden cavern interested him, especially the cold silence it brought forth from the Quel that D’Marr had questioned.

  “It’s buried forever! There’s no use keeping it a secret any longer! I want to know!”

  It was interesting to see the bland mask of the young officer slip away. He had obviously become obsessed with this cavern.

  “Bah!” The Aramite rose, then turned toward the lionbird. “Stupid beasts won’t talk even to save their useless lives.”

  Likely because they know what your promise is worth. At least they can die knowing they’ve frustrated you in this. Aloud, he wryly remarked, “You seem a bit put out. What won’t they tell you?”

  D’Marr’s face returned to its more common banality. “You. You might know about it.” He leaned over the prisoner. “Far beneath the surface, past the Quel city, there was a chamber with some sort of great magical device.”

  “Fascinating.”

  The Aramite looked ready to strike him, but held back. “It’s what lies beyond, what I alone of the camp knows lies beyond, that interests me more. The beasties used sorcery-I witnessed the very end of that spell-to change the entrance to solid wall. There is something so valuable in there that they willingly die to preserve the secret. I was planning to set some explosives against one of the outer walls, but circumstances worked against me. Something always worked against me. Now Lord D’Farany says the passage is gone and we must leave here, but I still need to know what was in there.” While he had been talking, Orril D’Marr had put away the tiny talisman and once more removed the scepter from his belt. He began poking the head into the lionbird’s chest, but, fortunately for the Gryphon, did not make use of the weapon’s more devilish aspect. “Do you know what secret they hide from me?”

  Certain as he was of the cavern’s contents, the Gryphon had no intention of passing that information on to the wolf raider. D’Marr could offer him nothing. The Gryphon had no love for the Quel and they certainly cared little for him, but here, for the moment, was a common foe. Let D’Marr’s curiosity eat at him. It was a small, petty bit of revenge, but at least it was something.

  “I have never been to the domain of the Quel.”

  It was an honest statement, as far as it went. The raider officer looked ready to strike him, but their discourse was shattered by another tremor, this one more violent than its predecessors. D’Marr almost fell on the Gryphon, who would have gladly snapped off the Aramite’s throat with his powerful beak if given the opportunity. One of the Quel did seek to roll into a guard, but the soldier backed out of the way and, without ceremony, thrust a good length of his blade into the creature’s unprotected throat. The armored beastman gave a muffled squeal and died. His companions rocked madly back and forth, but there was little they could do.

  The tremor took long to settle. Now, the Gryphon had a better understanding of why the wolf raiders were beginning to break camp. This portion of Legar was no longer stable. That should not have been so, unless . . . The fools must have played too much with things they did not understand!

  Collecting himself, D’Marr stepped back to the tent opening. He looked from his adversary to the sentries, his frustration revealed only in his eyes. “Finish the rest of those beasts and make him ready for travel. I want this tent struck immediately after. We ma
rch in one half hour. Anything or anyone not ready by then will be left behind.”

  With one last glance at the Gryphon, D’Marr vanished through the tent flaps. The two soldiers matched gazes, consulted among themselves for about half a minute as to how best to dispose of the bodies, then turned with grim purpose toward the captured Quel.

  The Gryphon felt the ground beneath him rise and braced himself for another tremor. When that did not immediately happen, he looked down and saw that he now sat on one end of a spreading rise of dirt much like a mole’s trail. The width of the rise spread as it neared the soldiers and their victims, in the end becoming twice as wide as either man.

  Throwing himself to one side, the lionbird braced himself.

  His sudden and peculiar action caught the attention of the two raiders just as they were about to dispatch a pair of the Quel. One of the guards sheathed his sword and started after the Gryphon.

  The Aramite was thrown screaming into the ceiling of the tent as the ground before him burst skyward and several hundred pounds of armored destruction erupted from the depths of the earth.

  The Quel was huge, even by the standards of the race. In one massive paw he carried a wicked, double-bladed ax that somehow he had managed to drag with him even while tunneling. The first soldier had still not recovered, but the second was already attacking. Much to the raider’s misfortune, though, he thrust his blade too low and it shattered off of the rocklike shell of the newcomer. The Quel, completely silent throughout all, brought the ax around and proceeded to nearly cleave the armored soldier in two. Blood and much too much more decorated the interior of the tent, but only the Gryphon seemed to care.

  Turning, the armed creature stalked toward the remaining raider and buried one edge of his deadly weapon in the chest of the still dazed man, who managed another short scream before he died.