Yet, as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Darkhorse peeled away slowly, reforming, rather unsteadily, his favored shape.
The torches had been destroyed, but bits of dragon flame illuminated the chamber, revealing the carnage. Of the ancient throne and the columns, only shattered bits remained. The rotting corpse of the other dragon had been nearly reduced to blackened bone. The stench of burnt and decaying flesh forced Cabe to cover his nose with a cloth.
Of Sssorak, there was no trace. Only a few fragments of bronze left any indication of his past presence and only one of those was still recognizable as part of the mask.
The twisted bit of smile gleamed dully in the light of the dying flames.
“And so it ends,” declared Darkhorse, snorting. “So much for new Dragon Masters! Imagine! A drake, of all things! He must have have been mad! I knew it was not Tragaro! I knew he was dead all along!”
“Yes, Darkhorse, you were right.”
They had returned to Gordag-Ai, returned to the court of King Edrik. The young monarch had taken the ensorcelled students into his house and promised that they would be cared for until they could be sent to their respective homelands. Any who wished to study with his own wizards could, of course, remain. The king was happy to provide them with whatever they needed.
Edrik was young, but not stupid.
However, one of Sssorak’s puppets had already chosen to leave. Hala had not even come back with the group, instead riding south, toward Zuu. She had other family there, she had said, who would welcome her.
Cabe had noted Majjin speaking with her earlier. Whether or not the general had actually encouraged her departure, he did not seem disappointed with the choice. It meant a likely end to the king’s infatuation with her and nothing would please Majjin more. The situation bothered Cabe and he made a note to check on Hala as soon as possible. She had been no more guilty than the rest and did not deserve such treatment, but as he could prove nothing, Cabe had to let it stand as it was for the time being.
He and Darkhorse now left laden with gifts from the king for the entire Bedlam clan. The eternal was in fine spirits; not a creature of material things, Edrik’s gratitude had been his present and Darkhorse savored it. More than anything, he enjoyed the friendship of others, possibly because there was no other being like him in all the land.
“At least this was a situation nipped well in the bud! Who knows what would have happened if he had been able to make true use of the Twin’s ascension! True, there were some deaths—and I mourn Den’s most of all—but if things had continued on, the entire western half of the continent might have been thrown into chaos and war within only a few days! We were fortunate!”
“Yes, fortunate.”
The shadow steed mistook his mood. “We could not save everyone, Cabe! Den, the soldiers, and those other young spellcasters who perished in the name of this false Tragaro have all been avenged, at least! All the wrongs have been righted!”
The wizard nodded and from there on pretended his mood was lighter, but for the rest of the journey, he thought of the one victim who could never be avenged.
Sssorak. The drake had lived for over two hundred years as the twisted, hate-blinded pawn of a man obsessed beyond reason—a dead man. Tragaro had nearly created a worse threat than the drakes he had so hated and in the process he had tortured his servant well beyond the point of madness, a crime Cabe could not forgive, whatever Sssorak’s race.
No, Sssorak could never be avenged . . . but perhaps now, so the wizard hoped, he could be at peace at last.
A Wolf in the Fold
Suffer not the children . . .
I
The cavern glittered, its walls encrusted with a multitude of crystals of varying proportion. The flames from the two torches set in niches on opposites ends of the chamber were all that were needed to create the dazzling light that filled his surroundings.
He fidgeted, but not because the constantly-shifting illumination bothered his wide, feline eyes. No, the young, brown-furred figure fidgeted for a far better reason—to try to escape the black ropes which bound him from head to foot.
Although only a small child, the captive tried his best to hide his deep fear. His father and his mother were the bravest people he knew and he tried to emulate them, but it was so, so difficult. They knew everything, could defeat any enemy.
But they were back home and he . . . he had no idea where he was, save that it was a place worthy of any nightmare.
As if to accentuate that thought, a fearsome figure suddenly filled his gaze. Immediately he ceased his fidgeting.
The monster stared down at his him with narrow, red orbs. It had a long, slim snout that ended in a tiny but toothy mouth. The snout constantly shifted up and down, as if the behemoth sought to absorb every scent.
A scaled arm as thick as the child’s torso reached forward to test the bonds with heavy claws designed for digging through mountains of rock and earth. The monster shook him as it tested the ropes.
“The ropes will hold,” said a toneless, seemingly disinterested voice.
The beast turned to its right, giving the captive a glimpse of the layered armor that covered its backside. Embedded between the various plates were yet more crystals, their purpose unknown. They gave the monster a yet more surreal appearance.
It unleashed a shrill, hooting sound in response to the distant speaker. The beast’s peculiar voice echoed through the massive cavern.
“He is unlikely to free himself,” answered the voice to what apparently had been a question from the creature. “He lacks yet his father’s frustrating tenacity to survive, not to mention his mother’s grace.”
The creature the child had seen twice before, but the speaker was a new thing. His eyes could not help but be drawn to the voice—human if not containing a touch of humanity.
The gargantuan watch dog shuffled aside as the other drew near. To the captive’s momentary relief, the newcomer was indeed human, although of an unnerving appearance.
Beneath a shocking head of utter white hair—hair that clearly had not turned so pale due to age—could be found a plain visage utterly devoid of identifying feature or emotion. In truth, the human’s countenance might have seemed a dead one if not for the scathing hatred boiling over in the eyes.
Under a tattered but serviceable traveling cloak could be seen clear evidence of armor and arms. As the figure approached, the tell-tale squeak of metal followed, reminding Darot of his father’s soldiers.
From within the cloak, an arm shelled in midnight black stretched forth. Unlike the monstrous giant, though, the human reached for the straps binding his prisoner’s mouth tight.
The cloak slipped back as the arm moved, revealing the other limb.
Darot’s feline eyes widened further. What he could see of that arm revealed a twisted, withered appendage, one long dead. Armor hid most of the effect, but near the shoulder and the hand, the horror lay unveiled. The arm looked as if something had burned it away, leaving but a mockery behind.
The cloaked human noticed his eyes. The good hand swiftly retreated—the better to push aside the garment and give the child a good look at the travesty.
“A pretty sight,” Darot’s captor remarked with the same unsettling lack of interest. He might as well have been commenting on some insect he had found wandering near his foot.
His scaled companion hooted loudly.
The icy-haired man did not look at the beast. “The Quel, he thinks it’s dangerous to keep you breathing. He’s for skinning you and wearing your fur for a trophy.”
If he hoped to put more fear in the heart of the child, he readily succeeded. Despite wanting so desperately to be like his father, Darot sniffed and tears dripped down his cheeks.
His plight did nothing to touch the cold heart of the soldier. “I, on the other hand, want to keep you alive long enough for you to see your damned parents flayed and made into a new cloak for me.”
The constantly-shifting glitter only a
dded to the human’s horrific aspect as he leaned closer. Even the animalistic Quel was preferable to the evil that young Darot could sense in the man.
“By now, the note is delivered, the stage is set. Your father will come running, knowing it to be a trap . . . but still he will come running.” He straightened, absently touching the twisted limb with the good. “And I will pay him back a hundredfold for this and other indignities.”
From the same shadowed entrance through which the human had emerged came a second towering Quel. This one hooted in a slightly deeper tone, clearly relating something of importance.
The cloaked figure nodded, then said to the beast, “The tunnel’s ready, then?”
The second Quel responded with a different, higher note.
“Then have the others to keep an eye on the master of Legar. He likely will not stir himself from his seclusion . . . but we must be certain of no interference.”
With a final note, the armored behemoth departed. Darot’s captor allowed himself the first sign of emotion, a thin, almost nonexistent smile.
“Everything falls into place . . . ” The smile faded, almost as if it had never been. “But I must be careful. He is a tricky one. He may suspect that what is on the surface is not the only act. He may yet realize the full extent of my vengeance . . . ”
The first Quel uttered a sound. The human glanced at him, nodding. “Yes, I’ll be along in a moment. I’ve just one more thing to say to the boy.”
With his good hand, he reached within his cloak, going behind him. From there he removed a weapon that Darot had not noticed despite its size.
The mace had a crystalline head shaped like a jagged diamond, a head that, as its wielder brought it forward, began to glow as crimson as the Quel’s orbs. The handle had been crafted from what seemed platinum.
“To replace the one lost,” he explained cryptically. “Mark it well, child. You see it? You understand it can hurt just with a touch? Nod, if you do.”
Darot quickly did.
Lowering the arcane weapon, the pale figure thrust his face within inches of his captive’s. Up close, the darkness in the eyes grew staggering. Darot wanted to look away, but knew that if he did, the man would hurt him.
“Try nothing foolish. I won’t hesitate to punish you.” The human’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Your father would vouch for that. He knows of what I’m capable.” A hint of a frown graced his pale features. “Perhaps he’s even mentioned me. Orril D’Marr? You might want to remember that name, child . . . after all . . . I killed your brother.”
II
The missive had but two parts to it, both simple but dire in their implications. The first was one word, a location.
Legar.
The second, perhaps more ominous than the remote peninsula, was a symbol, a black, stylized beast’s head.
“Looks like a hound,” General Marner finally decided. The burly, mustached soldier had officially served as chief officer of the kingdom of Penacles for the past three years, a position in which he still did not feel comfortable despite having more or less filled it for several more years. To him, to many in the fabled City of Knowledge, his role should have belonged to the lanky, red-haired Toos. Toos had been the long-time companion of the king, taking on the role of regent on what he had considered a temporary basis when his lord had sailed overseas to discover his lost origins. During that time, Marner had taken over his commander’s position. When the king had returned, Toos had gladly stepped down and so had Marner.
But shortly thereafter, Toos had died, the victim of an assassination attempt on another. The king had naturally chosen the one with the most experience to replace his old friend and Marner had tried to live up to the reputation of his predecessor.
At the moment, he was dearly wishing that Toos still lived.
Someone had kidnapped the prince from under his prodigious nose.
“The sign is that of a wolf,” his monarch responded in a tone which Marner had not heard since the loss of General Toos. Claws swiftly darted forward, shredding the parchment adhered to the door of Darot’s chamber by the curved dagger. “To be more specific . . . the wolf god of the Aramites.”
“The Ravager? Wolf raiders? In Penacles?”
The king cocked his head toward Marner in a manner akin to a bird of prey eyeing its next meal. The movement was not accidental; the lord of Penacles, after all, resembled much a hawk in appearance.
He was not human, at least, not for the most part. To those who saw him, the king was a cross between man, bird, and lion. He had the visage of the bird, but a regal mane both of feathers and a hair. His arms, when visible, were covered in a downy fur somewhat golden brown in color, although of late a hint of gray had finally touched it. His hands were almost human, but ended in slightly curved fingers from which claws stretched and retracted at his will.
The loose garments he wore—red robe, golden jerkin and pants—gave the pretense of a form wholly manlike. In truth, although the torso was mostly so, save for the fur and the nubs of what would have been wings, the legs were bent backward at the knees. In addition, the specially-made leather boots hid the fact that his feet were both birdlike and feline in design—long, slender, and clawed.
Human, avian, leonine . . . small wonder, when he had washed up near dead and totally devoid of memory on the eastern shores of the vast land called the Dragonrealm that he had taken as his name the most descriptive term for what he was.
The Gryphon.
As the tattered remnants of the note dropped to the carpeted floor, he looked down on his commander. “The room has been searched?”
“From top to bottom. No sign of forcible entry, my lord.” Marner glared at two cloth-covered forms. The guards who had been assigned to the prince. “The poor lads were stabbed with their own blades.”
“Their attacker was known to them, then.” They both knew what that meant, but the Gryphon stated it nonetheless. “One of the curs is in our midst.”
“Aye, my lord.” Marner removed his hawkcrest helmet and went down on one knee. “I am guilty for my failure in protecting your son. My position . . . my life . . . is forfeit to you, your majesty.”
The lionbird waved away his words. “I am growing old when I cannot sniff out a wolf raider. You want to redeem yourself in your own eyes, find the traitor in our midst. I rely on you while I am away.”
“Away?” purred a feminine voice from down the corridor. “Away where?”
The Gryphon bit back a curse. He had hoped to be gone before she heard the news. “You shouldn’t be up. The healers said—”
“I bore one son on the battlefield, the other during the storm that tore the roof from the eastern half of the palace. I suffered a miscarriage the next time after, but I swear that this child will be born!”
She moved with a natural grace only slightly hindered by her bulging belly. The silken emerald robe played off her tawny, feline fur. A matching pendant on a silver chain rested on her chest. She walked barefooted—as was her way—on slim, tapered feet ending in short, curved claws. Similarly, her hands, lightly furred, ended in longer, sharper ones that, like her mate’s, retracted.
Under short brown locks two mildly-pointed ears rose erect. The feline visage was both human enough and exotic enough to have made her one of the most alluring women in the fabled kingdom.
Veiled, catlike eyes narrowed further as she approached the Gryphon. “The staff’s been trying to keep me in seclusion. I finally had to threaten my nurse with the promise of a quick trim of her fine long hair . . . ” Her claws stretched forth in emphasis. “What’s going on, Gryph? Where is our son?”
“Troia—”
“I fought an empire at your side! Don’t play games!”
He sighed, never able to hold out against her. “Troia . . . Darot is missing. He’s been kidnapped . . . ” As he spoke, the Gryphon’s form shifted. Gone was the creature of legend, in its place a handsome, regal figure with flowing hair, cleft chin, and an aquiline nos
e. Around his mate, the king tended toward such a form. “The mark of the letter is that of the wolf raiders . . . ”
Few times had he seen the cat woman lose her composure. When she had been forced to slay her treacherous mentor, Lord Petrac, she had broken up after the act. The second, more tragic time, had been when Troia had discovered the murder of her first born.
Then, as now, the act had been that of the Aramites, the dread wolf raiders.
“How? How?” She burst past them, racing into Darot’s chambers. The Gryphon and Marner quickly followed after. Troia threw aside the hand-crafted bed sheets, shoved aside the elfwood frame. She flung open and charged into the vast closet.
“Troia!” roared the king.
“He only recently received his life name, too!” Among Troia’s people, infants were given a name at birth, then a new one when they had survived at least four years. She had chosen the name ‘Darot’, after a hero of her race. Darot had gone around proudly for months after being receiving his new name, pretending he was the legendary figure and doing mock battle with amused soldiers.
“Your majesty!” echoed the general.
“Nothing’s been touched! The room is as calm as if he still sleeps!” She pointed at the nearby wall, where Darot’s favored bow and practice sword hung. To the right, an ebony statue of a shadowy stallion stood, a gift from the king and queen of Talak, who knew that Darot found the subject fascinating. The statue represented the ethereal creature called Darkhorse, an immortal who was ally and friend of sorts to the youth’s
parents. “Perhaps he’s simply wandered off on one of his explorations!” Troia desperately suggested. “Like the time he managed to enter the Libraries!”
The Libraries of Penacleshad existed before the City of Knowledge had risen up around it. There were many legends concerning the Libraries’ origins, including the notion that the complex had been built by the ancestors of the modern humans, the Vraad sorcerers. The Libraries were magical and could only be entered through the vast tapestry hanging in the king’s personal chambers and guarded by golems. The tapestry, a masterpiece of magic itself, revealed Penacles as it was up to the moment. Whatever alterations took place, the tapestry added them instantaneously.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04 Page 76