The gold handle moved readily when she turned it. The condition of the cabinet almost made her pause, but anticipation of what she might find inside made Kalena forge ahead.
But when she eyed the contents, her hand shook so much that she dropped the torch on the stone floor.
Kalena could not scream. All she could do was step back, her eyes unable at first to tear away from the monstrous sight dangling before her.
The faces…
Born of a race of hunters, Kalena nonetheless turned and fled. She raced down the broken staircase without thinking. At the bottom, some of her sense returned and she looked around for the Gnor. Even more than Brom, the Gnor would keep her safe now.
Only one of the two downstairs doors was open and from within came a flicker of torchlight. With a relieved gasp, Kalena rushed inside. Guilt that she had chosen the Gnor before Brom washed over her, but the cat woman knew that in this case Brom would understand.
But barely within the chamber, Kalena screamed.
The Gnor—or what remained of him—lay sprawled in the middle of the chamber. She knew it to be the Gnor only because of the general shape and the ax that lay nearby. The blood-soaked body itself was almost unrecognizable, for something had, with utter precision, completely skinned the giant.
“Not possible…” she muttered. “Not possible…”
She backed out of the chamber… and into a pair of arms.
Before Kalena could speak, she heard a voice whisper, “Don’t scream. It’s only me.”
Although neither held a torch, her superior vision enabled her to make out Brom’s welcome face. The bearded human gazed solemnly at his companion.
“Brom! Brom… the Gnor! He’s… he’s…”
“It’s all right. I’m here.”
She felt some comfort in his arms, but still the image of the goliath’s corpse remained burnt in her memory. “Brom, let’s get away from here! Whatever killed the Gnor must still be here! We can’t stay!”
Despite his cool demeanor, he must have been almost as worried as her, for his body was covered in sweat, so much so that Kalena’s hands came away wet and sticky where she had touched him near the throat and shoulders.
A sound from the direction of the room where the Gnor had perished made them both pause. Kalena could not be certain, but she thought it a faint moan. Could it be possible that after suffering such horror their companion might still be alive? Gnor were said to be hard to kill, but still…
Disengaging himself from her, Brom headed toward the other room. “Stay here,” he ordered, drawing his sword. “I’ll see to it.”
As he vanished inside, the cat woman wiped her brow. As she did, for the first time Kalena noted a lingering scent. It smelled of Brom, but of something else. She sniffed her hands where she had touched him, then anxiously touched her tongue to one palm.
Blood. She knew the taste well. Her kind practically ate their meals raw.
Staring at her open hands, Kalena shook. What she had taken for sweat was instead blood… so much of it that her hands were covered. Her panic had made her not notice it earlier.
Brom’s had been covered in blood… but with such a wound, he could hardly have stood, much less be so calm.
Then Kalena thought of the Gnor and what she had discovered upstairs.
“By the Dream Lands!” she gasped.
Whirling, she fled out of the keep and into the starless night. The branches of the trees nearby seemed to clutch at her, hold her. From her fingers erupted sharp claws, which she used to slash her way through. The region was silent save her own frantic breathing. Kalena did not look back, fearful that what had taken the Gnor was right behind her.
Fearful that it would still wear the face of Brom.
II
“THIS PLACE GIVES me a chill,” Leonin grumbled. The wiry human rubbed his runny nose on his sleeve. “The battlefield was more inviting.”
“Always complaints, complaints always,” returned the red-feathered avian warrior riding beside him. Wide, pupilless eyes took in the dour landscape. “But this time agree.”
Ahead of them, Morgis hissed, his forked tongue darting in and out between sharp teeth. “You both had the chance to turn back. I told you I’d go alone.”
“And miss the reward for a live keeper?” sniffed Leonin.
Morgis hissed again, this time under his breath. He did not like being reminded of their quarry, one he felt responsible for letting pass. The Gryphon would have never made such an error. The Gryphon had been more than just a warrior… he had been a tactician and leader, the reason for the downfall of the Aramites.
And Morgis had ever been by his side. They had journeyed to this subjugated continent in secret, one a creature of myth—part man, part lion, part bird—and the other a drake warrior of the Blue clan, the son of the Dragon King who ruled from Irillian By the Sea. They had come as wary allies on a mission of discovery for the Gryphon and had become, through crisis and battle, comrades and friends.
But the Gryphon, his task nearly complete, had returned home to deal with other matters. Morgis, on the other hand, had found a purpose here among people and creatures who saw him as a savior.
To all appearances, he resembled a towering knight in green scale armor tinted with sea blue. The armor covered him from toe to shoulder, even down to gauntlets. Upon his head he wore a huge helm atop which a very lifelike dragon’s visage acted as crest. Through the curved opening of the helm a visage both reptilian and human could be glimpsed. Like his armor, Morgis’s skin was green in scale with hints of blue. His eyes were fiery red orbs and for a nose he had two meager slits.
Yet, all this was illusion, magic. The armor, the face, everything was false. What passed for mail was in truth skin, the skin of a dragon. The terrifying visage atop the helm was the true face of Morgis in his birth form. As a drake warrior, he wore two shapes. One was the almost-but-not-quite human one he now used… the other that of an immense, fire-breathing dragon.
The inherent magic of the drake race enabled them to go through such transformations almost from birth on. But despite the obvious impressiveness of a dragon’s size, most of Morgis’s kind not only preferred the smaller, more versatile humanoid form, but rarely ever changed back once they reached adulthood. Morgis himself had only transformed five times in the years since his arrival and only because of dire need. Ever he preferred good steel in his hand. It had reached the point that even the thought of resuming his birth shape proved painful.
Against the renegade keeper—the Aramite sorcerer—Morgis was aware that he might have to become a dragon. However, that would only happen if and when they confronted the wolf raider. Even when hunting such quarry, the drake found his present body more suitable. True, a dragon could see much from the sky, but the ground also presented many hiding places and minute clues. The sight of a dragon soaring among the clouds would also give the keeper much more warning.
Sniffing the foul air, Morgis did not wonder that the wolf raider had chosen this sorry path for escape. His power much diminished by the loss of the talisman that had bound him to his god, the lupine Ravager, the sorcerer was fortunate to have any spellwork available to him. Many of the keepers had perished from madness when the Gryphon had helped cut off their link. The few survivors had adapted in whatever way they could, but their resources were meager. Better to lose oneself in a blighted land such as this until some other magical source could be discovered.
They could not allow the sorcerer that time. Even one powerful keeper could mean the deaths of many innocents.
“It’ll be nightfall in an hour,” Leonin pointed out. “And with this overcast we can barely see as it is. Why don’t we stop?”
The avian—who reminded Morgis of the hawklike Seeker race of his own native land—nodded agreement. “Night is falling, falling it is. Better to face the quarry in light.”
“See? Even Awrak agrees.”
Morgis shook his head. “If the two of you can agree on something t
wice in one day, truly it mussst be a portent.” He gazed ahead, saw in the distance a structure atop a hill. “Perhaps we can find shelter there.”
“Looks abandoned.”
“A likely idea, consssidering our location.”
Leonin tugged on his short beard. “Maybe there’s some treasure left over.”
“We have come in search of the Aramite, not fool’s gold.”
“No harm in looking, looking is no harm,” commented Awrak with a tilt of his head. “We sleep there, anyway, yes?”
Yes, the bird man definitely reminded Morgis more of a Seeker than he did the Gryphon. Awrak was an opportunist just like the former. His people had fought their Aramite conquerors not so much out of a desire to be free, but because they had seen that the rebels already had the upper hand. Under the yoke of the wolf raiders, Awrak’s kind had supposedly not suffered as much as most.
He had not wanted to be saddled with any companions, but the Master Guardians, the only true form of leadership in the freed lands, had insisted. Leonin, for all his sniffling, was a skilled swordsman, while Awrak’s kind were immune to the magical mind tricks this keeper might still be able to use, something the drake could not claim. In fact, it was supposedly because Morgis had been magically distracted that the Aramite had managed his desperate flight out of the city of Luperion.
Everyone, from the simple forest dwellers to the Master Guardians, had come to depend upon him for so much after the Gryphon’s departure that this failure ate at Morgis. He had led armies, seized cities, freed realms. Several times his father had sent missives demanding his return, but Morgis had ignored them. He had no desire to become a Dragon King, no matter the power his father wielded. The drakes were losing their control over that part of the world. Here… here he could carve out a new destiny for himself.
Here he could avoid certain matters.
The keeper could not be far ahead of them and, in truth, even Morgis felt fatigued. Besides, something about this land made him uneasy. Better to traverse it in what laughingly passed for day than to go wandering into some Aramite trap in the dark.
It was nearly night by the time they reached the old building, a once-formidable keep. Judging by what little he could see, the drake guessed that it even preceded the wolf raiders’ empire. A good portion of it had collapsed, but the central building was in surprisingly excellent shape, even with an intact stairway.
The main chamber was clearly empty, but two closed doors at the rear piqued the curiosity of the newcomers. While Awrak and Leonin went to check the one on the right, Morgis investigated the other.
Sword in one hand and torch in the other, the drake kicked open the half-rotted door. A new gust of decay enveloped him. Hissing, Morgis strode in, ready for an ambush.
He found no wolf raiders, but an unsettling sight on the floor set every nerve taut.
Splatters of dried blood decorated the center of the floor, almost as if someone had just died there. Sniffing, Morgis noticed the blood was still fresh enough to have a scent. The battle had been a recent one, anywhere from a week or two to even the previous night.
“Where are you, keeper?” he muttered to the air. Had he found the Aramite’s most recent lair? Some of the other sorcerers’ attempts to regain what they had lost had to do with sacrifices, both animal and otherwise.
A raucous noise above made Morgis look up. Something dropped to the floor just before his face.
The blood-soaked leg of a large rat.
Two cat-sized carrion crows perched atop the rafters, ripping apart the unlucky rodent. A bit of fur wafted its way to the floor, following by a couple of crimson drops.
Sheathing his weapon, the drake grimaced. All he had found was the birds’ feeding place. A life of war had made him almost miss the obvious. He was thankful neither of his companions had seen his reaction. Awrak and Leonin would not have let him hear the end of it.
“The great warrior,” Morgis hissed. “The great fool.”
The Gryphon would have made no such mistake. The Gryphon would have immediately recognized the situation for what it was, not what he expected it to be.
Small wonder that she had fallen for him so completely. How could a monstrous, scaled creature such as himself compare with the ultimate champion?
Retreating from the room, the reptilian knight sought out the rest of his party. To his dismay, however, they were not where they were suppose to be.
With a snarl, Morgis drew his blade again, then stepped to the center of the main chamber. “Leonin! Awrak!”
His shout echoed throughout the keep. He almost called out again, when suddenly he heard movement above and caught a glimpse of torchlight.
Awrak stood atop the stairway, his curved sword ready. From such a view, Morgis could make out the avian’s backward-bending legs and taloned feet, yet another similarity to the Gryphon or the Seekers.
“Will bring down the roof, dragon, the roof you will bring down.”
“What are you doing up there? Isss Leonin there, too?”
The slim form of his other comrade materialized next to the bird man. “No need to shout, Morgis. We and every critter for miles around can hear your booming voice.”
“If you were where you were meant to be, I would not have to shout out your namesss!” He glared at the duo. “Find your treasssure?”
The human’s sour expression gave Morgis some satisfaction. “Just a dress cabinet too big for us to drag along. Nothin’ in it.”
“Then come and help ssset up camp. Can I trussst you pair to deal with the horsesss while I gather wood?”
Leonin nodded. Satisfied, the drake sheathed his sword once more and went outside. He hooked the torch into a hole in the outside wall, then started rummaging around the overgrown foliage nearby.
Whatever else one could say for this misbegotten land, it certainly offered up enough firewood. All Morgis had to do was walk along, tearing off branch after branch. All the trees near the keep had died, some of them long, long ago. After only a few minutes, he had an armful, nearly enough for the entire night.
But as he reached for another branch, something amidst the foliage caught his eye. Squinting in the dark, Morgis thought he made out a rather large shape. It almost looked like—
Then a gasp from further down the hilly path made him forget all about wood and sinister shapes. Morgis threw the firewood aside and peered in the direction of the sound.
A cloaked form ducked into the woods nearby.
Weapon unsheathed, the drake darted to where he had last seen the figure. He found no sign at first, but then the rustling of leaves and branches to the west alerted him. Again he noted the dark outline of someone in a travel cloak.
“Halt! Ssstop where you are!”
The figure hesitated, then hurried on. Slashing his way through the woods, Morgis gave pursuit. The dry limbs readily fell to his massive blade while ahead of him the figure seemed caught by every twig. Nearer and nearer Morgis drew.
As another gasp escaped his quarry, he realized that he pursued a female. She stood as tall as a human, but moved more lithely even despite being slowed constantly by the trees.
But then Morgis had troubles of his own. Catching his foot on an exposed root, the drake found himself falling forward, his blade flying from his grip. He struck the harsh ground with a grunt.
Rather than make use of his blunder, the figure hesitated again. To Morgis’s surprise, she turned back, slowly making her way to him.
Distrustful of this change of heart, he pushed himself up as best he could. His blade lay out of reach, but Morgis had other skills. Not as adept at magic as his sire, he nonetheless could cast a defensive spell in an emergency. It was a secret very few of those he battled beside knew.
But instead of attacking, the cloaked female carefully took his sword up by the point and reached the weapon back to him. Morgis cautiously accepted it, then waited.
“You—you’re real, then,” the shadowed figure uttered.
�
�Do I ssseem like some figment of your imagination?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s not what I mean. What I mean to say is—is that you’re you. You’re… alive.”
“A trait we share in common.” He held back from any other retorts, though, seeing the fear in her expression. She bundled the cloak tight around her. “You are one of the cat people. One of Troia’sss kind.”
Her large, feline eyes blinked. Of course she did not know Troia, who had become mate to the Gryphon and mother to his children. Troia had stayed in the background, but she had been every bit as much a part of the downfall of the empire as the Gryphon had. With the grace and swiftness of her people, she had leapt into every battle, a true warrior queen in the eyes of many.
And so much more in the eyes of one drake.
“Never mind. Who are you? Why are you here? Thisss is certainly not a place for you.”
She glanced back at the distant keep. “I had nowhere to go. I ran and got lost. I seemed to be running in circles during the day. I feared I wouldn’t survive a second night… and then I saw you three come—”
Morgis was not the patient sort. He held up a hand to quiet her. “Let usss begin again. This time with more order. Who are you?”
“My name… my name is Kalena.”
“Kalena. Your kind do not live in these lands. I must assume you have a reassson to be here where few would find you. A thief, perhaps?”
He saw that he had struck true. “Not a thief,” she murmured. “A smuggler… at least I was.”
“Not alone?”
“No. There was Brom,” Kalena said his name with a fondness that informed the drake that the two had been more than business partners. “And, of course, the Gnor.”
The Gnor. Morgis had fought alongside the ursine creatures during the height of the rebellion. Fearsome warriors, as worthy as any drake in battle. “Where are your companionsss now?”
She drew the cloak closer, leaving only her face open to the night. Morgis had to squint to see her worsening expression. “Dead. Both of them. In the keep.”
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II Page 101
