His hands were bound so that he could do no harm to himself. He could not eat without aid. They kept him chained against the wall, with no light by which he could study his surroundings.
Even in the deep cell under the palace in which they had put him, Orril D’Marr could hear the faint sounds of the infant son of his enemy. In the dark, his face could not be seen, but for one of the rare times in his life, the Aramite wore a frown. That frown, along with eyes also hidden by the blackness, barely hinted at the intense venom he felt for those above.
They planned to come for him in the next day or two, using what methods at hand to pry knowledge from him. They would seek to find out more about what others like him intended, what others were doing to restore the glory of the empire and find their stolen god.
They would learn nothing from him. Nothing. He was loyal to the Ravager. He would not betray his god.
A sound, a so slight sound, reached his ears. He had heard it more than once since his recent incarceration.
The sound of claws digging at rock.
They had followed. Whether or not as allies, the Quel had followed him. He had learned that the creatures were very vengeful and they likely blamed him as much as the Gryphon for the debacle. Their leader certainly had no love for the Aramite, not after the injuries suffered because of D’Marr’s weapon.
Orril D’Marr welcomed them either way. They would keep him from the Gryphon’s interrogators and there stood a chance that, given the opportunity, he could convince them of his continued value alive.
If not . . .
Expression once more emotionless, the wolf raider set his head on the stones near where he heard the scratching. He shut his eyes and listened.
And waited . . .
A Game of Ghosts
The past will always catch up . . .
I
She watched the three drake warriors rummage through the remains of what had been some twenty-plus years ago a merchant’s grand home. The ruined estate—now enveloped by forest—lay on the outskirts of an even more vast ruin, that of the kingdom of Mito Pica. Outwardly, There was not much left of the once-stately house, mostly a scorched foundation and a crumbling, crushed roof. The rooms, the riches, the inhabitants, they were buried deep under that refuse, untouched even after so long.
There were few foolish enough to intrude into this accursed land and drakes were not among those Marilee Cord would have expected. Even more curious, they did not even seem all that interested in the burnt, overgrown rubble. It was as if they were just biding their time.
Marilee started to retreat to the others, only to hesitate when one of the drakes’ savage mounts let out a low hiss. The reptilian beasts peered behind them as the three armored figures held their long, sharp swords ready.
But the interruption proved to only be the arrival of a fourth warrior. While the helms of the first three drakes were dramatic enough with their savage, dragon head crests—crests that were, in fact, representative of their true natures—that of the fourth was startling in its intricacy. The blood of a Dragon King flowed through this one, even if by being here the egg from which he had hatched had clearly not borne the royal markings needed to become an heir.
A humorless smile played across her pale face. The hint of blue gray in their mail armor identified them for Marilee. She had something in common with this foursome, at least in respect to their all being refugees of a sort. What survivors of long-ravaged Clan Iron were doing so far west from either their former domain or the drake confederacy of which they were supposed to be part was a question that intrigued her, but not enough to risk herself.
As the last hint of sunlight faded, Marilee, her dagger ever held ready, backed away. She and the others would decide what to do about these intruders. True, their color might not be gold, as the slaughterers’ of Mito Pica’s innocents had been, but they were drakes. If there were only four, then the vote would very likely be for blood, no matter what the cost. It had been a long time since the band had shed drake blood.
It was far overdue.
A sharp crack to her right made her freeze. The branch she had been pushing aside broke off, creating more racket.
Hisses arose from the drakes. Marilee remained still, hoping that they would lose interest.
Instead, she heard the slight rustle of movement toward her location. Another brief hiss warned her that at least one of the warriors was already too near.
Marilee broke into a run.
Sharp hisses rose. The foliage behind her shook violently. Marilee wanted to stand her ground, but she could not face four drakes by herself.
Something huge crashed through the forest to her left. The panting hiss of a riding drake warned her that one of her pursuers—likely the leader—was mounted. The monstrous beast tore apart the young, bent trees between the reptilian warrior and his prey.
The others were on the far side of the ruined city and thus no help to her. Marilee believed that she could outrun the drakes on foot, but not the mounted one. The forest was not thick enough to slow his beast appreciably.
Marilee stumbled over an upturned root. She fell against the thick tree trunk and though the moment cost her only a second or two, it was long enough to enable her foremost foe to reach her.
The riding drake snapped at her, but missed. Its rider hissed and slashed at Marilee with a blade longer than her arm. The deadly edge scraped along the trunk where but the moment before the brown-haired woman had stood. Bits of bark flew at the diving Marilee.
“Human ssscum!” the rider rasped. “You’ll not be warning him!”
She paid his words no mind, more interested in survival. Her dagger was woefully inadequate against either his sword or his mount.
He swung again, but a thick branch Marilee could not recall seeing blocked his attack. The blade sank deep, but not deep enough to cut through the wood.
The drake’s mount lunged toward her, only to snag one forepaw on another upturned tree root. Marilee thanked her good luck, but doubted it would last unless she ran as hard as she could.
To her relief, the path ahead opened up just enough for her to push on. Behind her, Marilee heard the drake hiss in frustration as he chopped at the branch. His monstrous mount let out a roar that echoed his master’s fury.
Then, the rider let out an odd gasp that caused Marilee to dare look back. Her eyes widened to saucers as she witnessed the armored figure hefted up like a tiny infant by a branch curled around his throat. The snarling drake struggled as he rose out of sight.
Bereft of its master’s control, the hulking mount snapped futilely at more and more roots and branches that gathered around it. Already, two legs were entangled.
And somewhere farther back, one of the other drake warriors suddenly shrieked.
Shaking, Marilee spun away from the riding drake and resumed running. The path ahead continued to offer her just enough of a gap to allow Marilee to keep her pace up. Behind her, shouts arose among the drakes and one of the mounts hissed sharply. Fortunately for Marilee, the sounds grew fainter, as if the gap between her and her foes was growing. Yet, still she ran.
Only when the lithe woman finally ran out of breath, only when her heart threatened to explode, did she finally come to a halt. By this time, it was very dark. Marilee planted herself against a tree trunk and while she fought for air, she listened for pursuit.
All was silence. Stepping out, Marilee squinted, but saw nothing but black forest.
Common sense said to keep fleeing, but instead Marilee—as she too often had in her life—found herself choosing to dive back into potential danger. She headed to where the drakes had last been. The more the chilling silence dominated the region before her, the quicker her pace became. She had to see what had happened—
And then, just as abruptly, Marilee came to a horrified halt.
The tableau before her so shook the woman to her soul that she dropped her dagger without noticing. She stared at the grotesquely twisted corpse and how it re
mained posed as it did.
Marilee’s mouth gaped, but no cry escaped.
She whirled around and ran even as she had not when pursued by the drakes. Marilee ran and when she could run no more, she stumbled on a step at a time. Behind her, there was only silence . . . but that was enough in itself to keep her going.
II
A chill ran through the wizard Cabe Bedlam as he materialized. It was not that the wind was particularly cold or strong, but rather the spellcaster’s instinctive reaction to these surroundings. Even though he had been raised here, Mito Pica held nothing but guilt for him. After all, the city had been razed, many of its people slain, all because of him.
If not for his blue wizard’s robes and the great, tell-tale streak of silver in his otherwise black hair, most who had met him would not have immediately taken the youthful figure for arguably the most powerful mage in all the land. With his strong jaw and crooked nose, he looked more like a farmer, something which had caused more than one rival to underestimate him. Cabe could have altered his features, but was quite satisfied with them. They reminded him of who he truly was, not who almost everyone believed him.
Cabe fought back a sneeze. Even after more than two decades, he could still smell scorched land, the burning bodies. Each and every one of those who had perished remained a black spot on his soul, for the servants of the Dragon Emperor had been seeking him when they had torn asunder the city that had unknowingly given the grandson of the legendary Nathan Bedlam succor. Nathan Bedlam had led the Dragon Masters—a group of mages dedicated to freeing humanity from the harsh rule of the drakes—into what had come to be known as the Turning War. The mages had lost as much from treachery in their own ranks as they had the power of the Dragon Kings, but at least they had dealt the drakes a terrible blow.
Nathan himself had perished in part due to seeking to save his dying grandchild, then only an infant. He had also put Cabe in the hands of his most trusted friend, the half-elf Hadeen. Hadeen had been the only parent Cabe had ever known, a good thing since the wizard’s father had been the mad sorcerer, Azran.
Hadeen . . . the tall, slim half-elf had looked no older than Cabe did now, but had actually been more than two hundred years old. Indeed, Cabe’s own youth had lasted almost as long, Hadeen keeping him magically hidden for two centuries in the ill-fated belief that doing so would gradually make the Dragon Kings forget that a grandson might exist.
Cabe peered at the forest, noting the new growth and that which had survived the razing. So much life in a place of so much death. A shame the main city itself is still a blackened skeleton..
It was still two hours before sunset, more than enough time for what he planned here. Cabe had no desire to remain in Mito Pica come the night. Even more than most, the spellcaster saw Mito Pica as place of tortured spirits, ghosts. Ghosts that condemned him each and every moment of his life.
Cabe slowly strode through the woods toward his intended destination. Even Gwen, his wife and a powerful enchantress, did not suspect the depths of his guilt. Cabe Bedlam heard the cries of the dead day and night . . . and that was what had brought him back here this day, the very anniversary of Mito Pica’s destruction.
He peered up at some of the taller trees, recognizing a few giants. Cabe never liked to materialize at his final location; it was as much out of respect as it was guilt.
The forest remained quiet save for the occasional call of a crow. There always seemed to be crows here, Cabe noted dourly, as if they were hoping for some great bounty such as upon which their ancestors had feasted. The wizard was tempted to cast some sudden noise in order to scare them away, but held back out of respect for the long-dead.
He passed a few bits of rubble—the foundation of some farmer’s home—and paused for a moment to see if he could recall who had lived there. That Cabe could not remember either a name or even a face troubled him. Time was gradually blurring his memory and of all those who had survived—not a great number and mostly children—it was he who should have done his utmost to remember all he could.
Please forgive me, he asked the fading memories. I’ve tried to make amends . . .
A young woman giggled.
Cabe spun. He saw no one, but there was no doubt in his mind that he had not imagined the sound. Wary, the spellcaster stepped forward—and then stumbled to a halt as a glowing figure suddenly formed among the trees ahead.
A woman with long, flowing black hair leaned down as if seeking to pick up something. The hair obscured her face. She moved with gentleness, as if the burden she sought was precious. Her gown was elegant, but of a style he could not place.
The wizard started toward her, only to be distracted by the clatter of metal against metal coming from his right. Cabe had been involved in too many wars over the years to not recognize the distinctive shifting of armor.
To the naked eye, the wizard acted instantly. To Cabe’s eye, he reached out to the crisscrossing lines of energy invisibly covering the world and used some of that energy to cast his spell. The area he pointed at exploded in light, not only giving Cabe a view of whatever threat might be there, but also hopefully stunning that threat.
But what the wizard saw instead staggered him for its horror.
Arms outstretched, the drake warrior first appeared to float above him. That illusion quickly gave way to another, that the drake had been bound to the branches of the nearest tree.
But what the gaping mouth, the ghastly rips in the limbs and torso, the drying blood and the milky, staring eyes actually revealed was that the branches of the tree coursed through the drake’s body. Two branches thrust out from the mouth, others from the wrists and ankles. A huge limb impaled the warrior through the chest, but Cabe doubted that it had been what killed the drake. Indeed, from the contorted expression, the victim had suffered horribly before finally being granted death.
Leaving some illumination, the wizard approached. As stunning as the sight was, Cabe remained attentive enough to note the drake’s coloring. He had not seen a warrior of Clan Iron for decades, though he knew that that the survivors were part of a confederacy in the northwest. This drake had no business being here.
Yet what other force had also not only thought as Cabe, but acted on that belief?
Even so close, Cabe could not sense the spellwork used to slay the intruder. Not for a moment did the wizard assume that this force would be benevolent toward him; experience had taught him just the opposite.
The drake had been dead at least a day. Blackbirds had already picked at the corpse, though they appeared to find the scaled form not much to their liking. Cabe studied the drake for a moment more, then finally decided to move on. Curious as he was about the warrior’s demise, it behooved the wizard to stay as far away as possible from the situation.
But barely had Cabe taken more than a dozen steps when he came upon the next and much larger victim. The riding drake’s macabre pose made that of its presumed master seem gentle by comparison. The savage mount had obviously struggled longer and more desperately than the warrior, but the results had been the same. A large branch thrust out of its huge maw and another through its barrel chest. Each of its limbs were stretched wide, smaller but no less sturdy branches sprouting near the paws. Despite its immense girth, the riding drake hovered several feet off the ground. Dried blood stained the earth beneath.
Cabe swore. As he maneuvered the light for a better view, he was rewarded with another dark form hanging from a tree farther on.
The second rider had suffered no less than the first and not far from him hung his own mount. Cabe shuddered. He did not know if there were more victims, but what he had seen thus far was enough to warn him that he had better move on by more efficient methods.
With little effort, the wizard vanished from the grotesque displays, appearing a breath later at a more familiar, if also personally saddening, tableau. Barely visible within a great sprouting of vegetation was what had been a small, unremarkable cabin. While it seemed no different tha
n a number of other tiny ruins surrounding the devastated city, this one in particular touched Cabe.
After all, it had been the only home had had known for far longer than he had even realized.
Cabe turned his attention to a towering tree only a few short yards from the cabin. Stepping closer, he bent down on one knee, then shut his eyes in contemplation—
Something very hard struck him on the back of the head. As Cabe toppled forward, his last fading thought did not concern the failure of the protective spell he generally kept around him, but rather that perhaps Mito Pica had finally chosen to claim the one responsible for its destruction.
Marilee and the four other ragged figures eyed the unconscious spellcaster with some surprise. She looked at the short, onyx staff she had used to hit the wizard and finally grinned. “It worked!”
The nearest trees suddenly shivered, as if some strong wind blew through them. That there was not the hint of a breeze was not lost on the five.
“Bertran! Silas! Grab the wizard! Quickly!” As an afterthought, she handed the staff to Silas. “Take this and use it as I did if he stirs at all! Now hurry!”
The two larger men did not need further encouragement. They dragged the limp form between them as Marilee and the other pair guarded the rear. What exactly they guarded against, they could not say for certain.
When Bertran, Silas, and their burden were far enough away, Marilee jerked her head back. Obeying her signal, her remaining companions gratefully raced after the others.
Marilee waited a breath more, then turned to follow.
A woman’s shriek filled her ears. It was followed by sobbing.
Reacting instinctively, Marilee looked back.
A dark-haired woman in an elegant and archaic gown the color of honey lay sobbing. Even though Marilee knew that there should be no such person in the forest, no such living person, she could not help hesitating.
Legends of the Dragonrealm: Volume 04 Page 82