Legends of the Dragonrealm Page 9

  Two of the Quel abruptly bent down, thrusting their snouts into the earth and digging furiously. As they disappeared below, he noted them coming his direction. They hoped to undermine this rock as some had the last one.

  Without hesitation, the Gryphon jumped.

  But just as his feet left the rock, one of the remaining Quel did a peculiar thing. He bent low and turned his back to the Gryphon. The Quel curled, creating of himself a massive ball.

  And suddenly a glittering blaze of light completely blinded the Gryphon.

  His concentration lost, he tumbled earthward short of his target. He nearly broke his beak and his arm as he fell face first. Head pounding, the Gryphon struggled to regain his equilibrium.

  A heavy fist pounded him into the ground, followed by another and another . . .

  He managed to turn and swipe at the nearest. Claws rent flesh and fluids soaked his hand. A fierce gurgle gave indication of the harsh wound that he had dealt one of the Quel—

  But then the pounding increased and under the relentless onslaught the Gryphon finally faltered. He tried to roll himself into a ball, but even that brought no protection.

  A glaring, red orb broke through the swirling lights still assailing his eyes. It filled the Gryphon’s gaze.

  A force a thousand times harder than the blows he had suffered struck him...and the Gryphon knew no more.

  V

  Three more had been eliminated from his list, but the four remaining General Marner could not exonerate. They were all known to him, but he could not let that be a factor.

  One worked in the royal kitchens, another served in the house staff, and two were members of the palace guard. The latter pair had even contributed to the necklace that their queen wore.

  Marner had suggested that since Troia desired to be present, they should hold these final talks in the throne room. She had declined, stating that the general’s office would be sufficient. Yet, while the queen found no fault in the bare walls and simple oak furniture, the general felt as if he lived in squalor. He quickly ordered the guard stationed inside the door to start the interviews, hoping that doing so would take his mind off his shame.

  Syl Cordwain entered first, left leg dragging slightly. He acted as tutor for the young prince. The slight, balding man at first appeared incapable of any treachery, but Marner and the queen knew that his background included several years as a spy for the king. Syl had infiltrated nearly every major kingdom and Dragonrealm during his career and his knowledge of the known lands had made him the perfect teacher for one who would some day have to rule a place prized by every enemy.

  “My queen,” Syl whispered, kneeling.

  “Good Syl,” Troia returned, absently touching the gem.

  “We’ve some questions,” the general informed the tutor.

  “So I would imagine.”

  For the next hour, Troia and Marner delved into every aspect of Syl’s life, trying to draw clues as to his innocence. Their subject answered well, but ever it was on their minds that he had spent many a year in a career where twisting the truth meant life or death. It had only been the maiming of his leg that had forced Syl to shift to a new branch of service to his monarch.

  “Tell me about your leg,” the queen asked at one point. Marner glanced her direction, noticing that her nose twitched. When she had said that she could sniff out a wolf raider, she had in some ways meant it literally.

  Syl went into his tale and when he had finished, the queen rose and touched him gently on the shoulder. “You’ve paid much following the dictates of my husband.”

  “My father served him before. I consider it an honor.” His pinched face darkened. “Would that I had been near when the fiends took the prince.”

  He said it with such conviction that Marner desired to believe him, but again Syl’s background worked against him.

  Alone with the general, Troia remarked, “I sense no taint on him and he’s nearly given his life more than once for the kingdom...yet...”

  “Let us see the others.”

  In next came Henrik Bronzesmith and Juren of Taflur, two men Marner had, until this incident, considered among his best. The familiar scent of garlic pervaded Juren, who had a fondness for Penaclesean blood sausage. Henrik, broader of shoulder and a foot taller than his clean-shaven friend, tried to smooth his thick brown beard.

  Both men went down on one knee as a guard shut the door. Despite being clad in the familiar silver and blue armor most recently chosen for the palace guard, they carried no weapons. General Marner had wanted no potential threat near the pregnant queen.

  “Henrik,” he began, not bothering to read through the notes he had earlier written. “Three years good service. Juren...nearly the same.” Part of the case against the pair had to do with their recent addition to the ranks. They were less known to the general’s staff despite their clean records and sterling behavior. Still, that alone could not condemn them.

  “Taflur,” Troia murmured. “Where is that?”

  “N-north of Penacles, my lady,” Juren sputtered. “Toward the Dagora Forest. A s-small village, if you please.”

  Both men had served in the kingdom’s army prior to joining the palace guard. Their commanders had recommended them highly. Yet, Syl Cordwain was an example of how cleverly someone could infiltrate another realm and be thought of as a loyal member...he had spent some three and a half years in the service of the human administrator who ran the affairs of Irillian By the Sea for the Blue Dragon.

  “You were not born in Taflur,” Marner reminded the young soldier.

  “No, sir. My family were refugees from Mito Pica. I was born just after they escaped its razing.”

  The general grunted his sympathies. Mito Pica, once a proud, shining example of human civilization, had been destroyed by the forces of the present Dragon Emperor’s sire. They had been searching for Cabe Bedlam, grandson of the notorious Nathan Bedlam. The grandfather had been responsible for gathering mages to fight the Dragon Kings some two centuries prior and while the spellcasters had failed, their legacy remained burned in the drakes’ memories. Yet, in trying to destroy Cabe, they had set in motion a sequence of events that now left half the continent free of their domination.

  But for many of those in Mito Pica, that freedom had come at the cost of their lives. The ruins still lay untouched, the tales of bloodshed so terrible that few journeyed there.

  Gazing through draped eyes, Troia looked at the larger of the two. “Master Henrik. You were born in Penacles?”

  “Aye, my queen.”

  “You have family here still?” Her nose twitched once, twice.

  “None, my queen. I was a lone child and my parents died from disease when I was young.”

  “No distant relations?”

  He shrugged. “None to my knowledge.”

  Seeing her interest in Henrik, Marner recalled what he could of the man. Again, a sterling record, but...

  “Henrik...you went away as a youth, seeking your fortune. That’s what you told me once.”

  The bearded soldier’s brow furrowed, but he answered, “Aye. Fool boy wanted to see what he could make of himself.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Zuu. Talak. Grandion. Wenslis. Morgare—”

  The queen straightened. Only Marner noted the slight tensing of her form as she did so. “I don’t recognize the last one.”

  “Obscure little region southeast of here, my lady,” the commander informed Troia. “Near the realm of the Black Dragon.”

  “Oh?” Troia’s claws extended ever so slightly. Her nose twitched more actively. “Really? Henrik...did you ever enter the mist lands—”

  She got no further. Without warning, Henrik leapt from his position, coming at the queen with such ferocity that even she was caught unaware. From out of his sleeve slid a razor-thin blade of ebony barely l
arger than his palm.

  General Marner stood, stunned by the action. Battle-trained reflexes finally took over and he threw himself in front of Troia.

  But he needn’t have bothered. A pair of hands caught Henrik’s wrist, twisting it violently. The blade flew harmlessly away. The traitorous guard snarled and threw a heavy fist at his own attacker.

  Juren ducked his blow, but lost his grip on Henrik’s wrist. The larger guard used the moment to shove his comrade away and start for the door.

  “Stop him!” roared Marner.

  The guards near the exit moved to block Henrik’s path. At the same time, Juren reached down and seized the fallen blade.

  With a roar, Henrik rammed his way into the other soldiers. The three collided against the door, cracking it. One guard fell. The other struggled with the much larger Henrik.

  Juren threw the blade.

  Troia rose. “No! We want him alive!”

  The blade caught its target in the back of the neck, leaving a long, bloody gash. It then slipped onto Henrik’s armored shoulder, finally dropping to the floor.

  The wound, while serious, startled the assassin more than it injured him. That, however, proved to be enough. Marner and the second guard joined the first, finally overpowering Henrik.

  Arms secured, the prisoner was turned to face his would-be victim and his former commanding officer.

  “My life, my soul, belongs to the Ravager,” he uttered.

  “What’s that?” snarled Marner.

  Standing, the cat woman eyed Henrik with loathing. “An old Aramite oath. They all swear it in the name of the creature they think a god.”

  Henrik spat her direction, his shot falling just short. General Marner rewarded his behavior with a slap across the prisoner’s rough face.

  Henrik shook his head as if dizzied by the blow, then smiled savagely at his captors.

  “So now we have our wolf in the fold.” The commander studied

  Henrik’s wound. “Deep, but not too deep. You’ll stay alive long enough to be questioned.”

  The Aramite continued to grin.

  Turning to his queen, Marner bent his head. “Your majesty, this is my failure. I should’ve delved deeper into his past, discovered whether he was the true Henrik.”

  “The raiders are very devious, general. They pattern themselves after their so-called deity.”

  “Our Lord Ravager will smite you down!” Henrik rasped. “Your blasphemy will be punished!”

  Daring a step closer, Troia replied, “How strong is your god? He seems to have left you bereft of an empire, Aramite.”

  The prisoner growled and shook his head. Sweat covered his brow and his skin went pale.

  “I think you’re undermining his faith a bit, my lady,” remarked General Marner. “He’s not looking all that confident now.”

  Despite having already been spat at, Troia moved yet closer. Her large eyes narrowed abruptly and her nose twitched as she sniffed at Henrik. “He’s not looking well at all,” she announced suddenly. “General, I think I detect—”

  Henrik suddenly roared in obvious agony. His eyes widened and flecks of foam spilled from his mouth.

  “A healer!” shouted Marner. “Get a—”

  But it was already too late. With one tremendous convulsion, the wolf raider folded over. He shivered once, twice...and then fell limp in the guards’ hands.

  Quickly looking around, Troia cried, “Juren! Leave that be!”

  The other soldier, just about to pick up the assassin’s blade, hesitated. “Your majesty?”

  “The blade! It carries the Bite of the Ravager! It’s poisoned!”

  Juren withdrew, staring with dismay at the hand which had wielded the weapon earlier.

  Moving lithely for one very pregnant, the queen stepped over to him. She took the hand and inspected palm and back very carefully.

  “No cuts,” she informed them. “No scratches.” Her gaze went to Juren’s. “You are safe.”

  “Likely all that garlic he eats would’ve killed the poison, anyway,” the general commented. Still, he was relieved that Henrik had not managed to take another victim with him. He patted Juren on the back. “You did your job well, lad.”

  “Thank you, sir...but...never I thought it’d be Henrik...”

  “None of us, lad...” To the queen, Marner said, “I’ll see that the palace guard’s tightened up from here on, your majesty. There’ll be no more of these curs among us!”

  Touching the gem in her pendant, Troia nodded. Her mind was clearly on the assassin. “I was still probing. There was a chance he could have passed questioning. He had no reason to commit himself so quickly.”

  “Likely he thought he’d never get a better chance to do you in, my lady. Fanatics, that’s how you and the king’ve described them before.”

  “Yes. Willing to do anything for a would-be god who would just as well eat them. Thank goodness, at least the Ravager can do no more harm.”

  “Why’s that, your majesty?” Juren piped up.

  “Because, thanks to my husband and other powers, the Aramites’ lord is sealed in a hidden place, never to be released. Only the king and those who imprisoned the Ravager there know its location.”

  General Marner glared at Henrik’s prone form. “Well, there’s one less who’ll try to avenge that beast. That’ll be a lesson to the rest, mark me.”

  Troia nodded, but her eyes disagreed with the commander’s evaluation. “Let us hope so. Let us hope so.”

  VI

  Voices. They were the first thing to penetrate the darkness that had swallowed the Gryphon. Most of them were incomprehensible but recognizable, the savage hoots of the hulking Quel.

  The lone human voice barely rose above a whisper, but its toneless quality immediately set his nerves on edge. He knew that voice, a voice of the dead.

  “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 office
r, 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.