“I could care less whether he slew two or two dozen of you,” the speaker remarked. “You know the key is for him to live, for now. That’s why I punished the one in charge of the attack. He let fury override reason. There will be vengeance, but calculated, timed.”
As the Gryphon stirred to waking, the injuries caused by the Quel also awoke, nearly making him cry out. Only decades of life as a hardened mercenary enabled the Gryphon to keep still, pretend that he lay unconscious.
“He will reveal what I desire and lead you to what you desire. That was our agreement,” continued the voice. A Quel hooted, then the voice added, “Yes, he should be.”
The sound of footsteps echoed, growing nearer. The Gryphon did not move, did not alter his breathing. He had often fooled his adversaries into thinking he was unconscious. Perhaps again—
“Enough games,” murmured the uncaring voice.
Something touched the Gryphon on the shoulder. A horrific shock tore through him, one that made the injuries insignificant by comparison. This time, the king of Penacles could not keep from shouting. His roar of pain repeated endlessly in the glittering cavern.
And through tear-drenched eyes both avian and leonine, he beheld the bland face of a corpse.
Injury had weathered the shaven countenance more than the past few years had warranted, but there was no denying the emotionless expression, the burning eyes.
There was no denying that Orril D’Marr hovered over him.
In the one hand revealed by the figure’s dark cloak, Orril D’Marr wielded a frightening recreation of his favored weapon. The magical mace had been designed for both battle and torture and the Aramite had used it for the latter reason quite often. In a true moment of irony, he had been grabbing for a handhold during the final moments of Legar’s destruction and had instead gripped the head, at last suffering a taste of what his victims had endured.
But the mace had been destroyed, lost in the devastation. In fact, when last he had seen the Aramite officer, D’Marr, too, had been tumbling into the great crevice formed by the collapse of tons of earth upon the Quel’s stronghold. The wolf raider should have been mangled to a pulp, his body crushed under the earth and rock.
“My Lord Ravager watches over me,” D’Marr remarked, as if reading his prisoner’s thoughts. “I suffered some injury, but nothing that could not be healed . . . ” Just for a moment, a flicker of bitterness touched the mask that was his face. “ . . . nothing, save what you did to me.”
Handing the mace to, of all creatures, a Quel, he threw back the thick cloak he wore, revealing the twisted, maimed remnant of his other arm. The flesh was even more pale that that of the face. The hand, if it could still be called such, resembled a scaly set of skeletal talons.
“When the Quel found me, miraculously whole despite all, they chose, for reasons of their own, to allow me to live. For their needs, they required my health and so they used their magic . . . at the same time enhancing me where necessary.” He paused, as if expecting his captive audience to ask just how. When the Gryphon remained stonily silent, D’Marr shrugged and went on. “But they could do nothing for this.” With effort, he raised the arm slightly at the shoulder. “The full force of my power mace went through it, burning away most of the muscle, the nerve. The rest atrophied from inability to use it.” Utter hatred radiated in the eyes, a monstrous contrast to the rest of the frozen visage. “A few seconds longer gripping the head and I would’ve died.”
From behind him came a second, larger Quel. This one had a slight crest atop his elongated head and as he neared, the Gryphon noted how the creature holding D’Marr’s weapon moved respectfully aside.
The Quel leader hooted, the same call that the Gryphon had first heard upon awaking.
“You’re absolutely right,” Orril D’Marr replied to the beast, his gaze never leaving the Gryphon. “He is probably wondering.”
A cry burst from somewhere behind the king. The Gryphon immediately tried to turn, only then registering that his arms and legs were bound by thick, iron manacles. The manacles were attached to short chains nailed into the rock upon which he lay. Try as he might, he could not pull them free.
“You did come for your son, didn’t you?” mocked the wolf raider. “Your second son, that is?”
Another of the armored Quel carried a struggling bundle before the prisoner. Darot saw his father and both relief and fear filled his eyes. He had clearly been crying for some time, but the Gryphon could hardly fault the child for that.
“You’ll note that he’s quite well and almost untouched. You may wonder why that is.”
The Gryphon eyed his nemesis, but said nothing.
“The Quel and I . . . we came to an understanding. Thanks to you and that wizard, Bedlam, you accomplished what their mortal foes, the Seekers, never could.” The Seekers were an avian race that had supplanted the underdwellers as rulers of the land before the coming of the Dragon Kings. The two races had battled long and hard against one another. “You destroyed their world.”
The Crystal Dragon had actually done that, but the Gryphon, Cabe Bedlam, and the enigmatic Darkhorse had contributed to the chaos, if not by choice. Of course, neither the Aramites nor the Quel would see it that way.
“My armored friends, they would finally rid themselves of the Dragon King, but with their numbers reduced and their home in . . . shall we say ‘disarray’? . . . they lack the strength.”
“And they think to gain it from you?” the captive finally said. Despite the situation, he eyed the wolf raider with disdain. “A squalid pack of mongrels with barely a place to call their den? What strength could you add that could deal with a Dragon King, especially the Lord of Legar?”
Orril D’Marr almost reached for his mace, but then evidently thought better of it. To the Gryphon, he quietly replied, “The strength of a god.”
The fur and feathers on the back of the Gryphon’s neck stiffened. It had been more than vengeance that had sent the Aramite after him.
“You were there.” D’Marr snapped his fingers and the Quel brought Darot closer. “You were there when our Lord Ravager was tricked into imprisonment. You know where he is kept . . . ”
“And where he’ll stay for eternity.”
Darot suddenly cried out through his gag. The Gryphon’s eyes burned red as he watched the creature holding his son rake huge claws ever so lightly over the youth’s cheek. A hint of blood trickled down.
The Gryphon tried to draw upon his magic, but immediately sensed a dulling of his powers. At the same time, he noticed many of the gems filling the cavern flicker as if alive.
“No wizardry here, misfit. Not unless it falls into Quel wizardry.”
“My son has no part in this. Release him.”
The frost-haired figure glanced at the child. “I can do that, misfit. I can let this son live, where the other didn’t.”
Memories of the limp body of Demion filled the Gryphon’s thoughts. Darot’s brother had been older, old enough to see battle. His parents had kept him secreted as well as they could, but the Aramites had come across him.
And without compunction, Orril D’Marr had killed him.
He would do the same to Darot. The Gryphon could not imagine losing a second child, not even with a third on the way. “I won’t fight you, wolf, You and your grotesque friends can do with me as you please. The boy deserves better.”
“You know what we want. Give us that and I promise your get will be sent to his mother.”
Something about the way D’Marr said it, as devoid of emotion as it was, set the Gryphon even more on edge. “What do you mean by that?”
The Aramite looked at his Quel comrades. “They are creature directly to the point. They would torture your child or you right now, using straightforward methods.” D’Marr gave him an empty smile. “I, being civilized, prefer a more mentally-debilitating method first.”
“That burrower touches my son again and they’ll find nothing left of him but a scraped-out shell .
. . ” He eyed the creature hold Darot, letting the Quel read his meaning.
The huge beast drew ever so slightly into his shell.
“Look at him . . . ” Orril D’Marr commented to the Quel leader. “Even now he can make one of your minions cringe. You see why we do it my way?”
The Quel nodded, responding with a slight, drawn-out hoot.
“Oh, yes, it will work. He just has to decide how much he values his family and who, if necessary, he wishes to lose less.”
Darot whimpered.
“Speak plainly . . . if you can, cur!” snapped the Gryphon.
This time, D’Marr did reach for the mace. The head flared as he brought it toward the Gryphon. The latter did not flinch, knowing that that was exactly what the Aramite desired.
Finally retracting the sinister weapon, D’Marr whispered, “Speak plainly? Very well, I’ll speak very plainly.” He pointed the mace to the left, where the grim figure of another wolf raider materialized from the darkness. Dust still covered the ebony armor. Here was one of those who had transported Darot.
In the Aramite’s hands sat a peculiar-looking and ominous crystal arrangement about the size of a small cat. Ten, small blue stones hovered magically above a crimson one that fit snugly in an oval, bronze tray set in the human’s palms. As the Gryphon studied the blue gems, he noticed that they slowly shifted position, creating a descending spiral.
“Set it directly between the two of them.”
Another soldier, also covered in dust, brought forth a wooden stand, which he placed several yards before the Gryphon. At the same time, the Quel holding Darot positioned the child on a rock across from his father. With impressive efficiency, the armored beast used its huge clawed digits to bind the Gryphon’s son to the rock.
Meanwhile, the first wolf raider put the arrangement on the stand. The Quel that had been identified as the leader of the underdwellers stepped up and adjusted the crystals, not only turning them so that the Gryphon could see them better, but setting the blue ones into a pattern that moved more rapidly than the previous.
The massive creature hooted at Orril D’Marr.
“Yes, that should do.” The frost-haired villain turned again to his adversary. “Here it is, misfit, in plain words. At a pace of roughly two hours each, one of those blue stones will cease to glow. It’ll drop. You have until only the last one remains to tell us where the caverns are and prove that you don’t lie. If there’s any doubt, or you think that you can hold off from answering . . . ” He looked over his shoulder at Darot.
The Gryphon could guess the rest. At the end of that time, if he did not give them the truth, they would harm his son. His gaze fixed on Darot and he wondered if the boy understood that threat.
“Aah . . . you make the logical, if incomplete, conclusion.” Stepping between the king and Darot, Orril D’Marr held up another crystal, this one emerald in color. “But there remains one more element, a further enticement. You are a warrior born. The life of your son might be something you’d be willing to sacrifice. Therefore, I’ve added a further incentive.”
The emerald flared. As it did, a foot-tall image materialized.
An image of Troia.
The barest ghost of a smile traced D’Marr’s lipless mouth.
“Before the last stone drops, when your son is already dead by your choice, you have one last opportunity to give us the information. If not . . . with the final gem’s fall, your mate . . . and your coming child . . . will also die.”
VII
General Marner entered the royal chambers, going down on one knee before the queen. “Forgive this intrusion, your majesty.”
Troia sat in a simple chair, a goblet in one hand. Next to her, a small, elegant marble table held a pitcher of spring water. Behind her, almost shadowed, two slim female forms stood watch. They were clad as ladies-in-waiting, but their expressions were hardly those of soft aristocrats. Toos had chosen both women with care. The younger, blond one could
match the best dagger tossers at fifty paces. The older, more attractive brunette knew how to handle a sword better than many of his men.
Even still, both were not nearly as deadly as their mistress.
“Your visit is hardly that, general. You’ve some news for me?”
“Aye. We made a thorough search of Henrik’s chambers. At first we found nothing out of the ordinary.”
The queen fingered her pendant. “You said ‘at first’ . . . ” Marner reached into a pouch on his belt, cautiously removing the contents. A black cloth surrounded them. He peeled it open, then showed the items to the queen. “In a space carved out of the wall and hidden with a false front, we found these.” As she leaned close to inspect them, he warned, “No nearer, majesty! The vial contains the same poison as tipped the blade.”
The black, opaque bottle was tiny, barely half the length of her thumb. That spoke much for the potency of the foul liquid within.
Tearing her gaze from the vial, Troia hissed.
The ring was as black as the bottle and instead of a stone, a metal image decorated it. Both could clearly see the savage, lupine head.
“The final damning evidence,” she muttered. “No clue as to his efforts?”
“None, but I hardly expected any. He would’ve destroyed such things. The only reason he kept the vial was due to necessity and, as for the ring . . . I chalk that down to obsession with his god.”
Troia nodded. “I’m rather glad that you found the rest of the poison. I’ve been wondering where it might be.”
“As to that, young Juren leant his aid there. He’s tried to recall any peculiar behavior Henrik ever showed. This came from one memory.” Marner grunted. “Lad feels worse than the rest of us. He considered Henrik a friend.”
“How is he faring?”
“I’ve done my best to show him he’s done well, but he still thinks he nearly got you killed through his ignorance.”
Troia’s feline eyes became mere slits. “I’ll talk to him. Let him know how grateful I and my mate are.”
Her last words suddenly darkened the mood further. Troia gazed toward a window, staring, not by coincidence, to the southwest.
“Gryph must be in Legar by now,” the queen said. “I should be with him. Darot needs me.”
“With all due respect, the king was correct. As capable as your majesty is, you are nearly ready to bear your child . . . perhaps the heir to the throne.”
She gave him a sharp look. Her claws extended fully and Marner momentarily expected to earn new scars on his face.
Then, Troia retracted her claws and nodded. “You’re right, but I’ll be damned if I like it.”
“He’ll bring Darot back. He will.”
“I have to believe that, general . . . just as I have to believe he’ll be coming back himself.”
Marner departed the presence of the queen feeling less satisfaction than he had hoped from the encounter. They had their assassin, their traitor in their midst, and now all they needed to do was pray that the king would find the other villains and rescue the prince. It had to work out that way. The Gryphon had ruled Penacles all Marner’s life . . . even the life of Marner’s father and grandfather. The king had battled demons, Dragon Kings, and sorcerers. Surely the outcome of this sordid episode would be no different.
And yet . . . how many of those past adversaries had actually infiltrated the kingdom? The general had studied the records of his predecessor enough to know that very few had managed such a feat and none had managed anything as outrageous as this.
Which gave him the uneasy feeling that his end of the matter had not yet been settled.
But what had he missed? Nothing, so far as he could see. Henrik had been the man inside, the one who had tricked the guards, murdered them, then stolen the young prince away. From there, it had been in the hands of those waiting beyond the walls.
All of this had been validated by Henrik’s last, foolish act. There could be no doubt as to his guilt.
Then why di
d ghosts of doubt still haunt Marner?
He went about his duties constantly at war with himself over the situation. Toos would have no doubt tied up the matter simply and cleanly. Yet, on the surface, things concerning the present situation seemed just as simple and clean to the general. Had his predecessor lived with such ridiculous doubts after each case? The indomitable Toos?
“Of course not,” Marner chided himself.
As night drew near and the palace settled down, he removed his helm and went to his quarters. The commanding general of Penacles’s armed forces had a varied and unusual list of duties far different at times from that of most of his counterparts. He acted as major domo for the king, saw to the personal running of the palace guard, and still had to deal with the military might protecting the kingdom. If Marner had any grudge against the late Toos, it was that his predecessor had set such high standards that no one could possibly match him.
Yet, the general tried.
As he entered his room, he uncoupled his sword sheath and set the weapon aside. Seating himself at the table and planting his booted feet atop it, he drank some ale. When forced to attend formal functions, Marner drank the elegant wines, but for his own personal consumption he enjoyed the heavy ale popular among the troops. The thick brew provided nourishment and increased the stamina. A good soldier just had to know his limits.
Still the question of Henrik plagued him, tempting Marner to drink more than was his wont. He finally shoved the flagon away and brooded. Perhaps if he once more inspected the traitor’s trail he would finally be able to rest.
He almost left his sword, but force of habit made him latch it on again before stepping out. Only a few torches lit the hallways at night. Accustomed to the shadows, the veteran officer strode determinedly down the corridors, nodding to the occasional sentry.
After some time, he came to section where the palace guard itself was quartered. The sprawling complex that was the palace enabled the king to keep a good-sized contingent of ready soldiers nearby. Built to accommodate the Dragon King who had once ruled here, most of the rooms were immense. This enabled each member of the palace guard to even have their own individual spaces, divided from those of their comrades by tall partitions.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04 Page 79