Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

by Richard A. Knaak

  Unable to collect his thoughts enough to control his beast, Lord D’Farany was finally thrown off his horse. The fall was not as harsh a one as Cabe had originally hoped, but the bucking stallion did manage to toss the keeper almost exactly where Cabe had wanted.

  Now he leapt.

  The determined spellcaster fell on top of his counterpart. D’Farany, still dazed by the fall, was unable to prevent Cabe from getting a grip on his wrists. Only when he realized that his precious talisman was no longer in his hand did the keeper truly begin to struggle. He did not even attempt a spell, although perhaps his kind needed their tokens on their person. The only magic that the warlock could recall D’Farany using on his own was when he had summoned the talisman to him and that might very well be only possible because of his link to the thing in the first place. There was too much that Cabe did not know about Aramite sorcerers.

  Cabe, searching while he fought, saw the object of both their quests only a yard or so away. To his dismay, it was inching its way toward the two. Recalling how the tooth had flown to the hands of the Aramite sorcerer, he realized that as long as the keeper could think, D’Farany could summon the talisman to him. Only the fact that he battled with Cabe kept him from already retrieving his cursed trinket. A minute or two and he would control it again.

  That time the warlock would not allow him. This close to each other, he, at least, knew how risky it was to cast any sort of potent spell. However, there was one more illusion he planned on trying. He only hoped that his imagination and the Gryphon’s descriptions in a long-ago letter would be enough.

  Cabe’s visage melted, becoming the dark, murky outline of a great and terrible lupine creature with burning eyes and a toothy maw capable of taking in whole a man’s head.

  Lord D’Farany’s face grew blank, then twisted into a horrific mask of reverence for the beast he saw above him.

  Releasing one of the keeper’s wrists, Cabe formed a fist and punched D’Farany in the jaw with as much force as he could muster. His hand ached for a time after, but the results were well worth the pain.

  “Sometimes the direct way is the best way,” he muttered to the unconscious keeper. Only against a man such as D’Farany would an illusion like the one Cabe had cast succeed. The Gryphon had described his meeting with the Aramites’ rabid deity, the lupine Ravager, spending some length on the ghostly image of the monster and the devotion the keepership displayed for their darksome god. D’Farany had reacted exactly as the warlock had calculated. A good thing, too; he would have been at a loss as to what to do next if his trick had failed.

  The talisman! said a sudden, familiar voice in his head. There is little time left to undo the damage!

  “If I’d had a little more help with this,” the warlock snarled, climbing over D’Farany, “I would’ve been done earlier.”

  I mussst conssserve my sssstrength!

  “What about mine?”

  The talisman! the inner voice roared.

  I have it! he sent back, more than a little bitter. Out loud, Cabe asked, “What now?”

  Now, came the oddly hesitant but unusually controlled voice of the Dragon King. Now you must hold it together at all costs. You must not allow it to shatter, lest all we manage to do is unleash further decay and chaos from the realm of my past!

  That sounded like nothing Cabe desired to be a part of, but he nonetheless held the talisman tight. “What are you going to do?”

  The keeper’s toy is the only thing still with a link to Nimth and the dark power of that wretched world. It is not one I would trust long to survive the effort, but it is all we have. I will take the power of Nimth and use it as only one born of the Vraad could. I will take that power and bring peace to my realm . . . peace or death.

  “But-” Cabe’s protest died on his lips as he felt the first surge of power flow into and then out of the talisman. Almost immediately he understood what the Dragon King had meant about holding the talisman together. There was so much energy, so much of the wrong magic being forced through it that the tooth was being stretched beyond its abilities. The Crystal Dragon was using it as more than just a receptacle or a focus or even both together and the strain was tearing it apart.

  The Crystal Dragon’s voice grew indifferent, distant. Let the power of Nimth at last do something worthy. Let Legar hear its power . . . and then let Nimth be silent forever!

  From all around, there came a sound, a piercing sound that suddenly simply was. It was powered from the great forces pouring through the hole between worlds, but it was transmitted from all around. The storms, the wind, and the wild, drifting magic gave way to a trembling. It was not a quake. Cabe could only think of it as the entire land vibrating and the faster the frequency of that vibration, the greater the intensity of the sound.

  Keep your mind on the talisman! Let the ssssound drift away! I shall-

  The deafening noise sent the warlock to his knees, but he did not lose his control. It was not because of the knowledge that the spell would fade unfinished, but because he knew that to do so would mean his death. He only hoped the spell’s success would not mean the same.

  Then, coherent thought was no longer possible. There was only the sound. The damning sound.

  As Cabe fought against the verlok, the Gryphon’s own battle commenced. It began with circling, as the two wary opponents sized up each other. The lionbird did so in silence; Orril D’Marr was the opposite.

  “When I found the tent in ruins and the bodies of the beasts and guards lying there-but not yours-I was furious. To have caught you at last and then have you slip away . . . it was just too much. I’ve waited too long!”

  The Gryphon glanced over D’Marr’s back at Darkhorse, who remained motionless. There would be no help there, not that he wanted any. D’Marr was his and his alone. As much as the young officer wanted him, the Gryphon wanted the wolf raider more. Even though practicality was screaming that escape was the only option for either of them, neither would have stepped back now.

  D’Marr’s scepter glistened as Legar once had. The Aramite made two jabs with it, always withdrawing before the Gryphon had a chance to grab the deadly little tool by its handle. He was aware of how useless his power was against the wolf raider while D’Marr carried the mace. That was not a great disappointment to the Gryphon. Demion’s death demanded a more personal struggle. Orril D’Marr had to be made to know what it meant to kill one of the Gryphon’s own. Besides, he did not want to trust to sorcery too much in this place. A thing like the scepter might work here, but spells cast might kill the caster instead.

  Around them, the earth shook and crevices opened. Green lightning still played with the plain. Neither fighter cared in the least. They had come almost to the point where interference by anyone, be it Quel, wolf raider, or one of the Gryphon’s allies, would result in a bizarre alliance between the duelists against those interlopers. Only the rampages of the realm itself stood any chance at all of coming between them.

  “Would you like your sword, birdman? Perhaps asking for it politely will gain you something.” The Aramite’s visage was still damningly indifferent. His eyes were not.

  The Gryphon displayed his talons. “I have these. They are all I need for you.”

  “Well have the sword, anyway,” D’Marr remarked, kicking it toward his foe.

  Puzzled and wary, but knowing the sword would cancel out the advantage of length the wolf raider presently had, the former mercenary retrieved the blade. There was no lunge from D’Marr, merely that shadow of a smile. The lionbird had met few men who could unbalance him the way that this one did. Nothing about the Aramite could be trusted, not even the way he breathed. Still, now the Gryphon had a weapon he could make use of without coming dangerously close to the scepter.

  “Whenever you are ready, D’Marr.”

  The wolf raider laughed . . . and brought his mace into play while the Gryphon was still marveling over the peculiar reaction from the normally diffident officer. He only discovered the reason f
or that laugh when his blade came up to parry the attack. As the two weapons struck each other, Orril D’Marr pulled his back, bringing the head of the scepter into contact with the metal blade.

  The Gryphon was unable to stifle his scream.

  He dropped the sword and stumbled away as quickly as he could, all the while keeping blurred eyes on the position of the Aramite. D’Marr was not pursuing him, however. He was simply smiling at the Gryphon’s misfortune and at the success of his trick.

  Compared to this present attack, the blow he had taken while engrossed in the effort of freeing Darkhorse had been only a bee sting. The lionbird could not stop shaking. His head pounded and his legs threatened to fold.

  “That’s a setting somewhere in the middle, birdman,” smirked the raider officer. The true Orril D’Marr was coming to the surface at last. “Didn’t you know that all I have to do is touch something you’re touching? Could be metal. Could be cloth. If you wear it or carry it, you’ll feel the mace’s bite. My predecessor was wonderful with detail like that.”

  “What-what happened to him?”

  “He was slow to realize my potential, but then the accident took care of that oversight.” Even if the raider’s words had not been clear enough in their meaning, the Gryphon would have understood what D’Marr was saying. The path to promotion in the Aramite empire was littered with the bodies of those not quick enough to know which of their brethren wanted their throats. It was encouraged; after all, it was the law of the Pack. The better officers would weed out the lessers.

  Before him stood a prime example of the former. The tradition of blind obedience was for the lower ranks, the line soldiers, and those you feared enough to serve.

  D’Marr gave his scepter a lazy swing. “Shall we have another go at it?”

  The Aramite thrust with the mace, a maneuver that would have been foolish if not for the horrific ability of the head. Dodging aside, the Gryphon utilized his exceptional reflexes and slashed out at his adversary’s weapon arm. Talons tore at ebony armor to no avail. The officer’s armor was of a grade much higher than that of a common guard. Nonetheless, D’Marr backed away, aware that he was growing just a bit too careless.

  Still, under the oncoming pressure of the scepter, the Gryphon was pushed farther and farther back. Each step was a precarious venture in itself, for not only was the ground increasingly uneven, but the intensity of the tremor had become so great that even on the flattest surface it would have been a challenge to maintain his footing. Even Orril D’Marr, working with a vast advantage over the lionbird, was finding it difficult to keep steady.

  “Why don’t you come to me, bird? Are you part chicken? Is that what all those feathers mean?” The Aramite officer pretended to lunge. “Are you going to prove as much a coward as that stripling of yours?”

  If he hoped to goad the Gryphon into a frenzy as he had nearly succeeded in doing the last time he had mentioned Demion, the wolf raider was mistaken. For the memory of his son, the lionbird was trying his best to keep his instincts in check. They would have their uses when the moment came, but they could not be allowed control.

  At that moment, his foot came down upon a small crack in the earth, a crack just wide enough to catch the heel. The Gryphon weaved back and forth, trying to regain his balance. Orril D’Marr charged at him, the scepter ablaze in hideous glory.

  It was not the Gryphon who ended up falling. By dropping to a crouch, he managed to just barely stabilize himself. The eager raider, on the other hand, stepped on a portion of ground that that tremor had loosened but not broken up. D’Marr’s heavy boot was more than enough impetus; a good piece of earth gave way, scattering about, and the Aramite went sliding down on his back.

  It was all the feathered fury needed. He turned his crouch into a leap at the throat of the murderer of his son. Gasping, D’Marr twisted away, but not quite enough to escape untouched. The Gryphon went crashing into the harsh soil, but the claws of his maimed hand caught the side of the raider’s neck. D’Marr shouted out in agony. The smell of blood reached the Gryphon and he felt the wetness spread down his fingers.

  There was no time to savor the strike, for the Aramite was far from dead. Orril D’Marr continued to roll until he was facing his adversary again. Despite the fall, he had kept hold of the scepter, which he immediately swung at the sprawled figure beside him. The Gryphon blocked it with his arm, careful to meet the scepter at the handle. He tried to twist his hand around and grab hold, but D’Marr was having none of that. The wolf raider scrambled back, then rose to his feet. Blood was seeping from twin scars running along the side of his throat. The smile had been replaced by growing fury and perhaps a hint of fear.

  Standing, the lionbird showed the raider officer his bloodsoaked fingers. “The first taste, D’Marr. The first taste of my revenge. I will not stop until the skin on your face has been peeled away the same way one would peel away the hide off of a dead wolf. I doubt if there will be as much call for your hide, but I know two, counting myself, who will prize the experience.”

  “I’ll see your head mounted on a wall first, birdman!” The wolf raider came at him again.

  The Gryphon ducked the initial swing, then slashed at D’Marr as the raider’s arm went by. Again, his talons caught on the armor, but he pulled away before the Aramite could swing the scepter back. D’Marr managed to kick him in the leg. The Aramite underestimated the lionbird’s strength, however, and instead of sending his foe to the ground, he almost lost his own balance.

  The Gryphon leapt once more. Orril D’Marr was not able to bring the mace down in time. The two collided and fell, locked in mortal combat. D’Marr would not release the scepter and the Gryphon had to put all his effort into maintaining a three-fingered grip on that arm. They rolled on for several yards with first the lionbird on top, then D’Marr, and so on.

  It was the sound that almost put an end to the battle for both of them. A high, agonizing sound that cut through the ear and the mind. The duo separated, each seeking only to cover their ears and save their sanity. The Gryphon barely noticed that the earth no longer shook, but rather vibrated, a somewhat different and puzzling movement.

  Orril D’Marr had thrown off his helmet and was rummaging in his belt pouches for something. He had dropped the mace, but the Gryphon was at first unable to act. It was all he could do to stand. A part of his mind pushed him on, though, reminding him that if he died Troia would come next. She would face Orril D’Marr on her own. For her and the sake of the child yet unborn, he could not allow that.

  He took a step forward . . . and almost lost his life. Cracked and broken by the tremors, the cavern-riddled earth of Legar could little stand up to the constant vibration now occurring. Whole areas of the surface began to collapse into the underground system the Quel had established over the centuries. The ground before him gave way just as his foot came down. Only his reflexes saved him. As it was, the Gryphon lost his balance and slipped. His legs dangled over the new ravine for a time, but with effort he was able to pull himself back up.

  A hard boot struck him in the side.

  Orril D’Marr stood above him, a peculiar set of coverings over his ears. The Gryphon recalled the wolf raider speaking of working with explosive powders; D’Marr must have designed the coverings for his projects. It was clear that they did not completely filter out the sound, but they worked well enough for the Aramite to move about without having to hold his ears.

  Unable to concentrate enough to shapeshift, the lionbird could do nothing about his own predicament. It was a wonder he was not deaf by now. Part of his magical makeup, no doubt. Still, deafness was the least of his worries. The greatest was that D’Marr once more had his foul toy in hand and this time he looked ready to try its strongest touch.

  Knowing he could not be heard over the horrible sound, the wolf raider leaned over his shaking adversary and mouthed out an arrogant farewell. That proved to be his fatal mistake. Despite his knowledge of the Gryphon, Orril D’Marr was evidently unaware o
f the stamina and resilience of the lionbird. He thought the Gryphon too overwhelmed to have any fight left in him.

  That was just the way the Gryphon wanted it.

  His spinning roll caught the wolf raider’s legs. The Aramite officer went down under him, but did not lose the magical mace. The Gryphon easily caught the awkward strike that D’Marr tried, then began to bend the raider’s arm back, bringing the scepter toward its master’s face. Although he felt he must soon black out, the former mercenary pushed with all his might. It was time for Orril D’Marr to understand what his victims had gone through.

  The ground shifted, sinking lower on one side of the duelists.

  Cursing, the weakening lionbird tried one last effort. Throwing his full weight into it, he forced the scepter into the wolf raider’s snarling visage. D’Marr, however, twisted aside and the jeweled head went past his face. The snarl became a smile.

  The tip of the scepter grazed the raider’s shoulder.

  Lying as he was half on his adversary, a prick of pain coursed through the lionbird, but it was little compared to what D’Marr must have felt. So very close, the Gryphon could not help but hear the scream. The Aramite had said that armor would be of no help and he had been all too correct.

  Fueled by his agony, the wolf raider managed to throw the Gryphon off of him. He also succeeded in dropping the scepter as well. The ground tipped even more, but Orril D’Marr hardly noticed. He was still hunched together, trying to recover.

  The lionbird had given his all, but now he realized it was time to get away. The area was collapsing and it would do no good to die here if he could ensure otherwise. Half stumbling and half crawling, he abandoned the Aramite to his fate. If they both survived, the Gryphon would be more than happy to renew the struggle. Staying here was simple foolishness.

  Behind him, d’Marr recovered enough to realize his danger. He searched for the mace, found it, and hobbled after his enemy. When he had seen that the tip was coming toward him, he had tried to lower the weapon’s intensity. It was all that had saved him. Now, though, D’Marr let the full power of the scepter rise again. One way or another, he would kill the birdman. He would.