The Gryphon shook his head. “No, Troia, he can’t get in again without my permission. He only passed the guardians the first time because he used his blood link to me. They now have different orders.” He considered. “Besides, the Librarian will not let him wander about there any more.”
The sole figure—perhaps figures, as the Gryphon had never been certain if each to whom he spoke was the same—was that of a bald, gnomish little man in voluminous robes who hid behind a sarcastic and condescending personality the knowledge of the workings of the Libraries. Each time someone entered, they were met by what seemed the same creature, this no matter what corridor it was.
On his one visit, Darot had slipped past the usually adept gnome and had run through the edifice, pulling out book after book to see what was in each. Unfortunately, unless one had a specific question and knew which book held the key, all the pages were blank.
Not realizing this unique fact, Darot had gone along looking for one that had something inside . . . in the process leaving a lengthy trail of scattered tomes behind him.
The queen suddenly grabbed for the headboard of her son’s bed, slipping onto the latter and gasping for breath. Despite the ease of the previous two births, Troia had been suffering during this last pregnancy, so much so that the Gryphon had ordered her to bed rest.
“It’s to be a son . . . ” he heard her whisper. “Another son . . . but not to replace the previous! Not like last time!”
The Gryphon came to her side, helped her sit. General Marner vanished from the room, returning with a mug of water.
As he leaned toward his mate, the Gryphon’s countenance changed again, reverting to the fearsome avian who has been the death of many Aramites before, including those who had slain his eldest, Demion. In a voice tinged with hatred for the ones who would perform such horrendous acts, he whispered to her and himself, “No . . . not like last time . . . ”
III
To reach the southwestern peninsula from Penacles by normal means took weeks and the Gryphon suspected that the kidnappers had not simply ridden off and hoped to be there before him. They were already at their destination, of that he was certain. The wolf raiders were warriors, true, but they, too, relied on magic at times. To travel such a long distance, they would need a simple but massive spell, one that could be utilized to enable a large force to ride through at once.
A blink hole.
Cold Styx hovered in the night sky as he raced along astride his favored beige steed, following a trail visible only to the object in his hand. The traces of magic would have been impossible to note even for many versed in the arts, but the Gryphon had picked up many tricks and secrets during his long, adventurous life. One of those now helped him see the faint trail of energy left by the artifact that the Aramites would have needed to create the hole.
He had ridden around the area of the city all evening, knowing that somewhere out here the villains had accepted their precious cargo from the traitor and had then departed. The spells protecting Penacles from Dragon Kings also worked against blink holes created by kidnappers. They would have been forced to enter physically through the city gates, which should have drawn some suspicion. Therefore, it was more likely that they had waited outside for their cohort to perform the actual deed, then bring Darot to them.
More than those who now held his young son prisoner, the Gryphon wanted the fiend who had betrayed an oath to accomplish the perfidious act. He hoped Marner would find the perpetrator by the time he returned—assuming he returned.
“No . . . ” the Gryphon muttered. “We will return.”
Even in a land filled with shapeshifting dragon lords, demonic steeds, and more, the Gryphon could not and would not ride out undisguised, even at night. Two hundred-plus years of seeking freedom for those oppressed by the Dragon Kings had made him nearly as legendary as the Bedlam family, the most renown line of wizards and sorcerers. In his role as monarch, he had ruled over more than five generations of humanity, which surely marked his appearance in the eyes of his subjects. Maintaining the transformation that he used when around Troia was more of a strain than even she knew, but for love of her he suffered through it. Away from the palace, though, the Gryphon instead relied on illusion. However, even such a spell demanded a constant stress on his magical abilities, meaning that he would have to rely most on his strength and battle skills should some new situation arise. But such a reliance bothered the Gryphon not in the least, for he was more a warrior than wizard, anyway, and it was those skills he would need most when confronting the wolf raiders.
On a wooded hillside barely a mile from the walls of the city, he abruptly reined his mount to a halt. The night wind ruffled his feathered mane. The Gryphon cocked his head, eyeing the path before him.
He extended his hand, letting sit on his open palm the object that had led him to this point.
In the dim moonlight, the crimson gem suddenly flared bright.
Ahead of the king, the empty air rippled as if due to the advent of a ghost.
The unsettling effect vanished almost the moment it appeared, but the Gryphon had seen enough. The image had been faint, but still a telltale sign that a blink hole had recently opened here. The portal had been removed, but the residual traces left were just enough for him to use.
Placing the crystal in the pouch at his side, the Gryphon used what limited magic remained to him to bind the residue to his power. He urged it to resume its past casting, become once more what its creator had desired.
And suddenly a gap opened up, a shimmering tear in the fabric of reality. It widened, not only large enough for horse and rider, but for a small force of soldiers.
“One or a hundred,” the Gryphon murmured. “I’ll take you all down if so much as a scratch mars my son . . . ”
With that, he urged his steed into the portal.
General Marner drew a line through the second name on his list of suspects. He had nine in all, those whose alibis had not been available at the time of the initial investigation. The second and eighth now had cleared themselves of possible wrongdoing.
He lifted up the parchment, eyeing the rest. One or more of them had aided in the kidnapping.
“Well?” asked a voice from the door. “Did you find the vermin?”
Quickly rising, the general rasped, “Your majesty! The king specifically ordered you back to bed—”
“My son is missing.” Troia said it in such a way that Marner could think of no further reprimand. Had he been in her situation, would he have simply let everyone else take charge?
“I want to help you,” the cat woman muttered. “I need to help you.”
He frowned. “My lady, your infant—”
“Is due in another month. Don’t worry yourself, Marner. I don’t plan armed combat. I just want to offer . . . my senses.”
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
She maneuvered herself to a chair in his spartan quarters. Marner, still feeling like an interloper, had only a few personal items in the chambers that had served the indomitable Toos for generations. In the back of his mind, Marner kept expecting the fiery-haired, foxlike mercenary to return to his post even despite the small matter of his death.
The queen’s deep eyes drew the officer to her. Like many of the soldiers directly serving the palace, Marner was infatuated by his mistress. It was a respectful infatuation, of course, everyone knowing their proper place. The pendant she wore had actually been presented by Marner and some of the soldiers under him on her last birth anniversary. To a man, each would have given their life for the queen.
Correction. There was one who likely would have preferred to give the life of the queen for his own.
“I grew up fighting the Aramites, Marner. For all the history my husband shares with them, mine was, in many ways, a more intense, more personal struggle.”
“Your majesty, I still don’t know—”
She raised a hand to silence him. “My people are hunters, creatures of the forest. We liv
e by scent as much as anything else.”
The general blinked. “Are you trying to tell me—”
The veiled eyes drew him nearer. Marner stirred in discomfort, improper emotions stirring. “Yes. I know the stench of wolf raider. It’s very unique. I’ve been distracted, but that’s changed. Send each of them before me, general.” Troia smiled grimly, revealing an entrancing set of teeth—pointed teeth. “I’ll do whatever I have to to sniff our traitor out.”
IV
The blink hole had deposited the Gryphon in the midst of a grass-filled landscape. In the dark of night, he could not at first get his bearings, but after a short ride, it became obvious just where the kidnappers had exited.
He could not see the city itself, but the gradually ripening equine smell wafting from the south was enough to identify the region as near the kingdom of Zuu, famous for its horses. His illusory visage twisted into an expression of frustration; Penacles and Zuu, while not enemies, were also not on friendly terms. The latter was one of the few kingdoms employing wizards of its own and while none approached even the Gryphon’s level of mastery, any notice of his presence by one could cause a costly delay.
The kidnappers would have faced the same risk, which made him wonder why they had chosen to open the portal so far from their obvious destination. One explanation could have been a lack of magic upon which to call; the Aramites likely had no true sorcerers among them. Most of the keepers, as they were called, had perished during the war when suddenly cut off from the seductive power of their god.
But one had survived, albeit touched by madness. He it had been who had first led the wolf raiders to Legar, to what they had hoped a new base and a new source of magic. That keeper had died, as had most of the Aramites, when the Crystal Dragon, lord of Legar, had unleashed a spell that had shaken the earth, bringing it down on both the invaders and the subterranean Quel infesting the region.
Legar had been quiet since then, even its enigmatic master silent. The Gryphon’s spies and secretive spells had revealed nothing. It had been as if the land had become a complete wasteland, devoid of life.
The perfect domain for a wolf raider.
He rode for as long as he could during the night, finally forced to stop for the sake of his horse. Secreting himself in a small valley, the Gryphon rested as best he could. Each time he shut his eyes, the images of his sons filled his thoughts. Darot was almost the exact image of his elder brother, which only served to remind the Gryphon of how much the first loss had touched him.
It had taken years, but he had gained his vengeance. The Aramite officer who had been responsible had died in the destruction of Legar. That had not erased the pain, but it had given some sense of justice. Few times had the Gryphon lost control of himself, but few adversaries had touched him the way Orril D’Marr had.
His eyes shot open. “Orril D’Marr . . . ”
No . . . that path led to insanity. The cold, calculating young wolf raider lay crushed under tons of rock and earth. He could have no more survived than the scores of other Aramites who had fallen prey to the Dragon King’s desperate act.
It had to be someone else . . .
With dawn, he raced off to the southwest, aware that his destination lay not all that far ahead. The Gryphon began steeling himself for the journey into the uninviting realm. The Legar Peninsula had always been an inhospitable land. The heat rose to unspeakable levels and the ever-present sunlight combined with the natural crystal deposits to make travel during daylight all but blinding. Wildlife consisted of the typical desert dwellers. The dragon clan itself had always been small and, like their lord, seldom seen. They likely would be no trouble, if they still even existed.
The Quel were another story. They lived deep beneath the earth there, burrowing through rock and creating vast, underground chambers. Until the wolf raiders, all but a handful had been caught in a perpetual sleep, the product of a spell gone awry centuries before. The Aramites had awakened the rest by chance and only the destruction of Legar had prevented further catastrophe. Still, the odds were better that some of the huge, armored diggers had survived. The Gryphon knew that he would have to keep an eye on the ground, watch for any sudden shifting that could not be explained by one of the realm’s incessant tremors.
Late in the afternoon, his surroundings changed, becoming more and more akin to what he expected of Legar. His only moment of danger during the trek so far had been a small patrol to the south. The huge, blonde riders in leather jerkin and pants had clearly been from Zuu and, as was the kingdom’s way, some of the warriors had been women. Zuu made very little distinction between the sexes when it came to work and war.
Fortunately for him, the patrol had turned back to the east without noticing the stranger in their land. That had not been due to lack of effort, but rather the Gryphon’s own superior experience. More than two centuries as a mercenary and warrior had, at least, benefited him in some way.
At last, he reached Legar.
The high, rocky hills glittered even from more than a mile away. The clouds that had earlier threatened some rain stopped almost exactly at the recognized border, giving way to a relentless sun. A dry, harsh wind blew from the peninsula, offering the newcomer a taste of what to expect.
Without hesitation, the Gryphon entered.
At first, the trek seemed a simple one. While uneven and rocky, the path was not the worst, especially for a horse as well-versed as his. That enabled the Gryphon to focus his attention on the seeking signs of the kidnappers. Near Zuu, the effort had not been so difficult; a party of riders left much of a trail in grasslands and fields. However, here in this dry, hard region, the clues required a more cautious, expert eye.
Several times he reined the horse to a halt so that he could investigate marks. By now the Gryphon knew that there had been five riders, one of them likely his son. The party had stayed close together and had ridden as if the demon Yureel had been at their backs. They feared something . . . but not pursuit.
Their leader?
Still mulling over that question, the Gryphon directed his mount through a narrow, winding pass. The hills rose high and foreboding around him, then finally opened up just as the sun set.
And beyond them at last he witnessed the ravages of the Crystal Dragon’s attack.
It looked as if the entire world before him had been literally raised up in the air, turned upside down, then dropped. No inch had been left untouched. Legar for as far as the eye could see was a realm torn asunder.
The horse snorted uneasily, stamping its front hoof at the same time. The Gryphon also hesitated, recalling the actual devastation. In many ways, what had happened here reminded him of the events during the desperate war against the Dragon Kings by the wizard Nathan Bedlam and his allies that had culminated in calling the struggle the Turning War. Then, the area of destruction had been elsewhere and the results had finally made the bickering drakes ally themselves long enough to deal with the upstart humans.
Rocks as huge as some of the hills through which he had ridden lay as if tossed about by some giant child. Sudden gaps plummeted deep into the earth, the pebbles that the Gryphon threw into one never making a sound to indicate that they had reached the bottom. Even after years, many areas had not yet settled, the groan of shifting earth assailing him as he traveled cautiously along.
His quarry aided his journey now. By careful study, the Gryphon located their path, the safest through Legar. Even still, he knew that the land could be treacherous and so he finally walked the horse, hoping eventually that he would find smoother ground ahead.
The Gryphon did not realize just how dangerous the peninsula still was until a short time later, when he discovered the bodies.
Initially, he had mistaken the glitter for just more crystal. Only as he drew near did he recognize the glint as from metal.
The Aramite and his horse had died together, crushed into one almost pastelike substance by the rock fall. The familiar black armor that had put fear into a contine
nt for centuries had served as much of a buffer against the tons of stone as silk. Blood stained much of the area, the sun already drying it to a faint crimson chalk.
For several terrifying moments, the Gryphon searched around, trying to discover whether or not Darot had suffered a like fate. Eventually, it became clear that only the one horse and rider had perished. Scratch marks revealed that the others had continued on. Like him, they were now on foot.
The descending sun brought some relief in terms of temperature, but mounting frustration in terms of the pursuing father. The Gryphon dared not travel at night; one false step could quickly end his life. He did not fear for himself, but what the wolf raiders would do to his son if he did not make it to Darot. There would be no use for a young child, then.
Just before the last rays of sun vanished, the Gryphon came across what appeared the most stable patch of ground so far. More or less flat, it was flanked to the north by several jagged plates of baked earth rising yards into the sky and on the south by a gaping ravine.
Alone and feeling as dry as his surroundings, the Gryphon removed the illusion, returning to his true form. In preparation to entering Legar, he had filled several sacks brought with him with water. Already a third of those sacks had been emptied. The Gryphon took one, then held it so that his horse could drink. The animal eagerly swallowed the contents, licking at the empty bag until its master finally pulled it away.
Satisfied that the horse had been watered, he led it to where a few gaunt, skeletal shrubs somehow had managed to grow. The fare was not the best, but it would keep the steed alive.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04 Page 77
