Legends of the Dragonrealm

by Richard A. Knaak

  “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 did 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.

  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 ro
om 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.