The sentries at the entrance snapped to attention, but Marner quickly put a finger to his lips. He had no desire to awaken his men. With stealth commendable for a human—no one could match the king or queen—he headed toward the late Henrik’s cot.
Marner seized a candle from the short table next to the cot, then lit it with the tinder left behind by the late resident. At his order, nothing had been disturbed since last he had inspected the place. Putting the candle aside, the general quietly turned over the blankets and inspected the rails. As before, he found nothing. Marner searched under the table, studied every personal item . . . and yet again he found nothing.
Some minutes later, the bulky fighter straightened. He stared down in disgust at the objects before him. With one last grunt, Marner doused the candle with his fingertips and started out.
Force of habit made him check on the slumbering figures as he walked past. Each of them he considered good men, which had been in part why Henrik’s betrayal had struck him so hard. Like their commander, the sleeping men would have given their lives for their king and queen. The Gryphon and his mate did not rule by power alone; they also ruled by common sense and compassion. Marner could think of no better master and mistress to have.
Some of the beds lay empty, those men on duty. The general absently acknowledged each, knowing those on night activity often had the riskiest tasks. The kidnapping of the prince proved that.
Still frustrated, Marner headed for the exit. He thanked the heavens that none of the slumbering soldiers had noticed his search. They might have thought that their commander had lost his wits—
Hand on the door, Marner suddenly looked back into the darkened chamber.
With the same stealth that had enabled him to already once cross a room full of crack troops without waking any, the general hurried along. His narrowed gaze rapidly shifted from left to right and back again, studying each individual section.
And then he came across the one he sought.
The bed should have been occupied. He had been here long enough for the soldier who used it to return from any necessities. The palace guard lived by strict rules. No one went wandering aimlessly about the building.
So where had Juren gone?
VIII
Orril D’Marr had not tried any physical torture on either father or son. He had even fed Darot and allowed the child to deal with nature, then had bound the boy again. The Gryphon had been provided with some water, but no one had even suggested that he be released for even a moment. Still, overall the Gryphon had been treated far worse by captors over the decades, including other Aramites.
He knew it was not because of any civil streak. Orril D’Marr was simply letting him see that the wolf raider controlled entirely the situation. The lives of both were his. That, in turn, made it clear that the lives of Troia and the unborn infant were just as much D’Marr’s to save or execute.
It was typical of the wolf raider. Orril D’Marr did everything with a mask of indifference draped across his face. Only the results revealed his true, monstrous self.
A slight clatter set every nerve in the Gryphon afire. Two stones remaining. When the next dropped, they would come for Darot.
He eyed the two Aramites left guarding him. One had always been watching him, which had made any plans of escape futile. Of late, however, the two men had become bored. Now they spent more time playing some secretive game of wager than paying attention to their captive. The glances toward the Gryphon had grown less frequent.
The noise made both men look up. One smiled maliciously at him, then both resumed their game.
He had to act now. Surely this time they would forget him long enough . . .
The Gryphon began contorting his legs.
When they had brought him here, his captors had chained his wrists and ankles. They had left his boots on, securing the bonds tight enough to make it impossible for a normal man to slip free his feet. The Gryphon had to assume that the Quel had been the ones to do that, for surely if the Aramites had done it, they would have realized the error in doing so.
His muscles ached and his bones felt ready to crack, but still he silently twisted his legs, trying to slip his feet free. The long, avian-leonine appendages were narrower than human feet. The special boots kept them set so that he lost no mobility even though he nearly stood on his toes. When transforming to a more human shape, the Gryphon even often left his lower limbs unchanged, since those were not visible. Only around his family did he generally make a full transformation and usually when the occasion allowed him to make use of other, more mundane footwear.
Now that habit offered him his only hope.
The braces squeezed tight against his flesh as he pulled upward. The task was made all the more difficult by his having to keep the chains from rattling.
Darot watched his father, but whether or not he understood what was happening, the Gryphon could not say. To his credit, the child remained silent, drawing no attention to them.
Suddenly, one foot slipped free. The chain rattled slightly as the boot shifted, but the Gryphon managed to keep it from doing enough to attract the guards’ attention. His foot remained inside, his toes bent to keep the boot from falling free.
A moment later, the second slipped free. Again the metal links rattled.
One of the Aramites looked up. He tapped his comrade on the shoulder and pointed at the Gryphon.
The two black-armored figures approached, the first drawing his blade. Neither appeared overly-concerned, but both were veteran fighters.
“My son could use water. So could I.”
“He’ll live without it, if he lives at all,” smirked the first. “And we’ve orders to give you nothing more unless you tell us what we want.”
“I’ll be happy to tell you mongrels where to go . . . ”
“Beast!” The second moved to slap the Gryphon hard with his gauntleted hand. “You’ll learn your place!”
The hand flew toward the captive’s face.
The Gryphon pulled both feet free, using the rock and the chains on his wrists to swiftly fold his body upward. As he moved, the claws of each toe extended to their full length.
Razor-sharp nails tore out the throats of both men.
Neither had even a chance to gasp out a warning cry. They froze for a moment, then one slumped toward the Gryphon while the other fell back.
With one foot he caught the second, pulling him forward. Both corpses fell on the Gryphon. He heard a muffled gasp from Darot, but after that his son quieted.
Slowly the Gryphon let the body on his right slip to the ground. The second he held near. With his free foot, he reached toward the guard’s belt.
The keys jangled as he removed them. The body shifted, almost causing the Gryphon to lose the precious items. He quickly compensated, managing to keep the keys snagged on one one claw.
Lowering the second raider, the Gryphon twisted his legs upward, nearly folding himself in half. His back strained and the keys slipped to one side. With a silent curse, he brought them around so that the other foot could seize the one he needed.
Each second he feared either one of the Aramites or a Quel would come in to check on the guards, but the shadowed entrances remained empty. Before him, the cursed clock that D’Marr had wrought with Quel magic continued to shift, the next stone already dimming. The minutes raced by as the Gryphon struggled to get the key into the lock and turn it enough to open the cuff.
The harshness of the click so startled him that he lost his grip on all the keys. They dropped to the hard cavern ground, their crash echoing even more than the opening of the cuff had.
Darot shifted nervously, but the Gryphon stilled him with a shake of his head. Turning his wrist, the king freed his hand, then tugged on the other.
In the tunnels leading to the cavern there came the sounds of hooting.
Grabbing at the keys with his foot, the Gryphon brought them up to his hand. He thrust the principal one in the lock and quickly turned it
.
Darot made a soft sound through his gag.
The Gryphon looked toward the tunnels.
A hulking Quel wielding a spear emerged from the darkness, its gem-encrusted, segmented shell glittering in the light of the cavern’s own crystals. The narrow red eyes took in the two bodies and the struggling captive . . . then the creature let out a loud cry of warning and charged.
Despite the key, the manacle would not yet open. The Gryphon tugged hard at it as his attacker approached, but still it did not give.
The Quel thrust. The point of the lance came at the Gryphon’s chest.
He twisted around, using the remaining chain to enable him to swing out of the weapon’s range. The point smashed against the rock, breaking off.
Ignoring the metal cutting into his wrist, the Gryphon propelled
himself around the rock, swinging quickly toward his attacker’s blind side.
The Quel started to turn, but in comparison to the Gryphon, he moved as if in slow motion. The prisoner wrapped his legs around the broad neck and squeezed.
Its breath cut off, the snouted beast instinctively pulled away.
The half-open manacle could not hold up to the strain. It snapped in two.
Pulling himself up, the Gryphon sank his hands into one of the ridges that divided each segment of the shell. He buried his claws in the tender flesh within.
Shrieking, the Quel abruptly fell back.
Before his adversary’s massive weight could crush him against the floor, the Gryphon squirmed free. The Quel’s desperate attempt proved a costly one for the underdweller, for, having failed to grind his foe into the ground, he now had to push himself up.
The Gryphon did not allow him that chance. Seizing the broken lance shaft, he jammed it into the open area under the snout.
With a last hissing squeal, the creature stilled.
But other cries already filled the tunnels, some of them human. The Gryphon hurried to his son, slicing Darot’s bonds with one action.
“Come!” He led the child into the corridor that offered the least
echoes of threat. Whether it also offered entrance to the surface, the Gryphon could not say, but he thought he sensed a slight hint of air current indicating so.
The clink of armor warned him of their approach before the wolf raiders could strike. Shoving Darot against the far wall, the Gryphon ducked under a sword blade. He slammed his fist against the armored chest and although the action pained him greatly, he had the satisfaction of watching the Aramite stumble back.
Claws out, the Gryphon slashed at the sword arm. One nail dug deep in the wrist where the armor by necessity ended. The wolf raider cursed, dropping his weapon and falling back as he he tried to bind the deadly cut.
As the second marauder drove forward, the king seized the fallen blade. The two battled for several precious seconds. At last, the Gryphon came under the other’s guard, then caught him along the nose.
With a cry, the Aramite dropped to the ground, face crimson. Without compunction, the Gryphon ran him through, then turned to confront the first. However, the other Aramite had already fled, a trail of blood indicating that he would not likely live long despite his retreat.
His son in tow, the Gryphon continued on. A short distance later, he paused at a crossroads in the tunnels. By now, Darot had removed his gag, but he remained silent, trusting in his father.
Sniffing the air, the Gryphon chose the passage on the right. After only a few steps, he grew certain of his choice. Pausing to make an inspection of the walls, the Gryphon finally looked down at his son.
“Listen, Darot. You’ll do exactly as I say?”
“Yes, father,” the child whispered.
“Can you crawl up to that gap there? That one there. See it?”
Darot finally nodded. His eyes were as good as his father’s when it came to the dark, but he lacked the latter’s experience in ferreting out hiding places.
“Can you climb up there?”
At three years of age, Darot had been found climbing up the high walls of the palace. Rather than be frightened, as the servitors had been, his parents had watched him with pride—and then gone up to retrieve him. Some day, he would surpass both in his skills, but only if he survived now.
“Yes, father,” the youth declared.
“Do so. I’ll go to the entrance, lead those there deep in the tunnels. Wait until we’re all past, then climb down and leave. Head toward the east . . . you recall which direction is east?”
“Yes, father.” Most human children would have been unable to do what the Gryphon hoped of his son, but like any predatory creature, the offspring of the king and his mate matured at a quicker rate. Theoretically, Darot could reach home.
Realistically, it was the only hope the Gryphon had.
“I have to go find the human with the snowy hair. You understand that?” His son nodded, shivering at the same time. The Gryphon could hardly blame him. There were few humans who had filled him with the dread that Orril D’Marr did now. The Gryphon had no illusions that he would readily defeat the maimed Aramite. “He wants to hurt your mother. I have to stop him.”
“I know, father.”
Ducking down, the king gave Darot a quick, strong hug. He then guided the child up as Darot climbed toward the hiding place.
Pressed against the back, the boy was nearly invisible even to his father. The Gryphon nodded grim satisfaction, then headed toward the exit to freedom.
Just within sight of the night-enshrouded surface, the Quel came for him.
He immediately turned and fled back into the cavern complex, leading them away from his son just as he had planned. The three massive creatures crowded the corridor, their gem-encrusted shells radiating a dim light as they pursued him.
As the Gryphon spun around a corner, he nearly collided with another of the beasts. Fortunately, the Quel was as startled as him. The Gryphon used the Aramite blade to sever the head while the Quel still gaped.
Those pursuing unleashed harsh hoots of warning, which were immediately picked up by others deeper in the complex. A human voice—Orril D’Marr’s—loudly but emotionlessly commanded them to close in on their prey from the very walls. The Gryphon was well aware that D’Marr expected him to hear that command and react accordingly, but he hoped that instead he would do what neither the underdwellers or D’Marr had in mind.
It was the only way he could hope to save Troia and the infant.
IX
General Marner could have summoned the entire guard, but instead he chose to seek Juren himself. It could be that he was wrong—he prayed he was wrong—but, if not, a troop of soldiers tramping around the building would only alert the other soldier to his suspicions.
Marner ran over the details again. On the surface, nothing proved that Juren was anything other than what he claimed. Still, he had been the one to react swiftest and his first action had been to toss the dagger at Henrik. What had seemed a survivable wound had become a death sentence thanks to the poison.
But that did not mean that Juren had known his strike would slay his comrade. Neither did the fact that he had been trying to pick up the dagger afterward indicate anything other than a soldier doing his duty. There was no reason for General Marner to be wary of the missing man.
And yet . . .
Without at first realizing it, he headed in the direction of the royal chambers. If his concerns had any merit, it behooved him to check on the security of the pregnant queen. She was well protected, but the kidnapping of the prince proved that even the best protections did not always work.
That thought came back to haunt him but a moment later when he noticed the slumped forms near the gilded doors.
Sword ready, he moved with stealth to the dead men’s sides. Like the other guards, they had been killed with their own blades. One wore an expression of outright astonishment, as if he could not believe the identity of his killer.
Small wonder when it had been one of his own comrades.
Marner noticed then that one door was ajar. Cautiously, he nudged it open with the tip of his blade.
A single lamp remained lit within. It offered just enough illumination to reveal two more corpses . . . the female companions of the queen.
As he neared them, the general noticed a significant difference in their deaths. Blood splattered everything. The women’s throats had been ripped apart. It looked more the work of an animal than a human being.
But then, in his opinion, wolf raiders were less than either.
At first he saw no sign of the queen, but then a faint blood trail from one of the women led him back to the doorway. Stepping over the dead guards, Marner searched for more telltale spots.
They led him toward the rear of the palace, toward where one of the huge balconies open during grand balls overlooked the ceremonial gardens. Below the balcony in question, Marner recalled, a huge fountain with a pointed spire had recently been constructed, a gift from the mountain kingdom of Talak.
Marner hurried his pace.
As he neared his destination, he suddenly noticed that all the torches ahead had been doused. Swearing silently, the commander planted himself against one wall and felt his way to down the vast corridor. His vision adjusted some as he went, enabling him to make out shapes.
And as the balcony came into view, he made out one shape in particular. Pregnant or not, there was no mistaking the queen. She stood as if frozen, her gaze turned toward the outside.
Marner started forward—and pulled back a second later when he noticed the other figure nearby.
His suspicions that it was Juren were verified when the figure raised a tiny, glowing emerald up, staring at it as if awaiting something from it. Juren wore an expression far different from his humble, youthful one. Marner recognized the fanaticism, the utter obsession Juren had to his cause.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04 Page 80
