Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

XIII

A shiver ran through the sleepers. They did not wake, but something in the spell that had kept them under for so long had changed. What it was would have been hard to explain in any terms save perhaps to say that now they did not sleep so deep.

Not deep at all.

What are they doing down there with that blasted toy? Orril D’Marr stalked across the dark, fog-enshrouded camp trying to keep the men organized. Those who were supposed to be getting some precious sleep were still awake for the most part, the mist and rumors keeping many of them too wary to even lie down. The soldiers on night duty, meanwhile, were turning and slashing at shadows and ghosts in the fog. Sentries kept reporting sightings of creatures that did not, could not, exist.

All of this was taking him from his more important tasks. D’Marr had stolen a few precious hours of slumber for himself so that he would be alert for the project he had planned for this night. Tonight he had been planning to open the way to the hidden chamber and finally find out what it was that was so precious to the beasts that they were willing to suffer at his tender hands for it. The explosives were ready and he had chosen the blast points. There would be little damage to the areas nearby and none at all to his master’s precious chamber.

That was if he ever had the opportunity to set the explosives. With both his lordship and the blue devil down below, still working after all these hours, Orril D’Marr was the senior officer available. That meant that he had to maintain control, which amounted to running around and beating the other officers until they began acting as their ranks demanded. The officers were his duty and the men beneath them were their responsibility. He did not have time to go running from soldier to soldier.

Something is happening. The fog swirled about, a violent storm of shadow and light. Sometimes, the area was lit for several minutes, as if the sun had risen and finally managed to slice through the mist. At least it had thinned a bit, he thought. Even when it was properly dark it was possible to make out shapes several yards away. Whether that change was due to some success on Lord D’Farany’s part or was simply a natural occurrence, the young officer did not care. He was only glad it was happening.

D’Marr hated this place, but the damned heat and sunlight was preferable to this mess. So far this night, two men had simply disappeared and a third . . . well, there were some things that made even him queasy.

And that patrol scattered, more than a dozen men lost there, too. Oddly, that both irritated and excited him. The reports spoke of a huge dark stallion with a rider, the latter having a dozen different descriptions. The survivors all seemed to have been obsessed with the monstrous steed . . . no surprise, if it was what he thought it was. One of the spies from that kingdom, Zou or some such nonsense it was called, had reported trouble involving a mage on a large black horse.

The Gryphon had an ally in this realm who matched such a description, a demon called Darkhorse. D’Rance, of course, had been able to supply that tidbit of information.

Two sentries stumbled across his path and swiftly backed away. They saluted, but the young officer just waved them aside. He had no time for men doing their duties. It was the ones who were not who would feel his wrath if they were so unfortunate as to cross him. D’Marr wanted to be done with this task. Once he had the officers under control and they in turn the men, he could return to the tunnels.

His mind drifted back to the patrol’s encounter with the monster known as Darkhorse. The demon could not possibly have come across them by chance; he had to have specifically come here searching for the wolf raiders. Any notion that contradicted that was not acceptable to either Orril D’Marr or his lord. Even the blue man agreed with him on this matter.

The Gryphon had to be here. It fit. The black steed’s appearance had come too quickly after their landing. He had a rider with him. If the rider had not been the damned birdman, then it had to be one of his friends. Either way, they could only have known of the raiders’ presence through the Gryphon. It made sense to him.

Admittedly, there was some logic missing in the argument, but one other reason superseded all others in this matter. D’Marr recalled the attack on the port city. Lord D’Farany had hoped to accomplish two things there. One had been to steal a series of charts that would aid them in this venture and the other had been the hope that they would catch their greatest adversary off-guard.

They had been unable to kill the Gryphon that day, but his brat had paid for the deaths and defeats the empire had suffered. Not satisfactory, but it would do until the Gryphon’s head decorated a lance tip.

And that time is coming soon. True to form, the bird had followed them across the seas. D’Marr had predicted he would and for once he had outdone the blue devil in that respect. You’re coming to me, Gryphon, coming to join your brat!

His hand touched the pommel of the scepter. When he had finished the Gryphon, there would remain only the cat woman. She would follow after her mate, being as predictable in her way as he was when it came to revenge. Then I will have taken all three.

No one would deny his greatness then.

His course took him around the camp until he returned to the mouth of the tunnel leading to the Quel city. The camp was at last in order. The officers were now in line and they, in turn, had the men under rein. D’Marr had done as best as was possible. Now it was time to-

A tall figure emerged from the tunnel. From his walk and his manner, D’Marr had no trouble identifying the northerner. The man looked bedraggled, exhausted. The young officer smiled briefly, then once more fixed his expression into one of detachment.

D’Rance saw him and did not bother to hide his own distaste. He tried to walk past his shorter counterpart, but D’Marr was having none of that. To know that the northerner had been put through the paces made his own tedious day more palatable. “Tired already?”

“You will play no games with me, Orril D’Marr. Our lord has struggled long and I was forced to help maintain him, yes?”

“And what could you do for him, blue? Wipe his brow when he sweated?”

D’Rance sneered. “The knowledge of a scholar is a greater weapon at times than the sword of a simple soldier, yes? You would have pounded on the crystal device with that toy on your belt, I think, as you did to the walls. Such effort, but so little result.”

“You’re a scholar of magic?”

The blue man suddenly lost interest in the battle of words. “I have given my all for our effort, little man, yes, and our Lord D’Farany knows this. I have been given leave to rest and rest I shall.”

The exhausted northerner turned and stalked into the fog. D’Marr watched him disappear, then glanced at the tunnel mouth. All the blue devil’s efforts would amount to little before this night had ended. Whatever favor he had curried with Lord D’Farany would fade when D’Marr revealed the secret cavern.

He started down the tunnel, finalizing his plans. He would need four or five men, just to be on the safe side. They could plant the explosives in the proper locations and light the fuses. There would be rubble to clear away, too, which meant that five or six men would work better. The most important task D’Marr would save for himself, however. It was he who would be the first to enter the unknown, he, the discoverer. And whatever secret, whatever treasure lies behind there, I will be the first to know it.

“Sir!”

Although his expression remained bland when he turned back toward the mouth of the tunnel, inside, Orril D’Marr was seething. What do they want now? “Yes?”

An understandably nervous officer even younger than he stood at attention at the edge of the entrance. No doubt he had been volunteered by his superiors for this mission. That way, if D’Marr chose to take out his wrath on someone, it would not be them. “Sir, I have been ordered to report that there is some confusion in the eastern flank. Several men have reported a roving light. Two went out to investigate and have not returned. Another man reports . . .”

He waited, but the other officer did not go on. “Reports what?”

“Someone laughing . . . from above him.”

The corners of D’Marr’s mouth edged downward. His work was already falling apart. If this was an example of the situation being under Lord D’Farany’s control, then it was no improvement. Success was supposed to mean that the fog would either vanish or obey the commands of his master. It had, so far, done neither as far as D’Marr could see. If anything, this latest report indicated things had turned worse.

He returned to the surface and looked around. How he was supposed to keep this rabble organized was beyond him, but it was his function. That meant chasing down those incompetent officers and uncovering the truth about things that went bump in the fog. He was growing tired of this. There would have to be some changes made in the ranks.

“What’s your name?”

“Squad Leader, Base Level, R’Jerek, sir.”

The man’s superiors had picked the lowest officer they could find. He still bore the R’ caste designation. Anything above him would have the D’ like D’Marr’s name bore. His estimation of the value of R’Jerek’s superiors dropped further. “Your immediate officer?”

“Captain D’Lee, sir.”

“Lead me to him, D’Jerek.”

“Yes, sir . . .” The younger officer paused. “It’s R’Jerek, sir.”

“Not after I’m through with your superior, Captain.”

His guide said nothing more after that.

Orril D’Marr gave the tunnel one last glance. Tomorrow, he swore to himself. It’ll hold until tomorrow.

So much power! Kanaan D’Rance stumbled toward his tent, which was, not by chance, away from the rest. As much as he would have been happier to sleep among the fascinating Quel artifacts, that was not allowed. Still, he had smuggled a few of the items into his tent, where he tried to understand and make use of them. His skills were growing; he had even managed to heal his hand without anyone ever discovering the truth. The streak in his hair was becoming a problem, however. He was certain that the Aramite leader suspected.

The secrets the trinkets held paled in comparison to the struggle that had gone on tonight, a struggle in which Lord D’Farany had all but triumphed. The mysterious adversary was vanquished; now, the Aramite commander only had to bind the magical fog to his control. Lord D’Farany was already talking of making use of the deadly mist, an idea contrary to his first inclination. Despite the wrongness of the sorcery tied into the fog, or perhaps because of it, the keeper now saw great potential in it as a weapon for the raiders.

Kanaan D’Rance agreed for the most part, but he differed with his master in one respect. He wanted control of the mist for himself. There is a power there, yes? A different, alien magic! It had repelled him at first, but now it attracted. The blue man felt he could accomplish great things with it once he learned how it had come to be. He needed time, though, time alone in that chamber. Time alone to study.

Thrusting aside the flap of his tent, the tall figure darted inside. It was not until the flap had closed behind him that he noticed something was amiss. Something that only his burgeoning magical senses could note.

With no effort at all, he created a small ball of light brilliant enough to illuminate most of the interior.

Lord D’Farany’s work? Was he now toying with the blue man? He did not like the thought of ending up as one of the martinet’s playthings. Orril D’Marr excelled at slow death, yes.

It was then he noticed that his carefully hidden collection of Quel artifacts had been taken out and scattered over his worktable.

Who would dare? This was not the way of Lord D’Farany. D’Marr, then? One of his spies? It made no sense; they could learn nothing from his collection save that he had palmed some pieces. The little martinet would know that such efforts would be a waste of everyone’s time.

Somehow, he knew that this could not be the work of the Aramites . . . yet, who did that leave?

One of the figurines on the table, a small crystal bear, leapt up from the table and past his shoulder.

Stunned, he spun around, trying to keep track of it. The Quel talisman stood on the ground behind him, as motionless as it had been before its extraordinary leap into momentary life. With great caution, Kanaan D’Rance reached down for it.

The tiny bear sprang away from him, flying into the dark shadows in the corner of his tent. The blue man snarled and started for the spot. Although he could not see the artifact, he knew that it could go no farther. The tent would impede its progress. Now it was a simple matter of searching those shadows. The scholar in him took over. Once he found the peculiar little piece, he intended to study it thoroughly until he discovered the reason for its sudden animation.

A laugh from within the shadows made him pull back his questing hand.

A grotesque, round figure who could have not been hiding all this time squatted in the shadows. He could see nothing of the face except the long, narrow chin and the slash of mouth. The creature raised a spindly arm to the huge, broad-rimmed hat he wore and lifted it just enough to reveal the rest of the unholy visage. It was all D’Rance could do to keep from shouting. He stood there, petrified.

“A fascinating struggle; a struggle fascinating to me,” said the intruder. “Especially to me.”

“Who . . . ?”

The mouth shaped into a mischievous grin. A bony hand formed a fist, then opened again. In the palm of the hand was the elusive figurine. “Plool I am; I am Plool . . .” The grin grew wider. The eyes, the ungodly, crystalline eyes, glittered merrily. “A friend.”

“Something has definitely changed, Lord Gryphon, and not necessarily for the better!”

The Gryphon noticed it, too. There was indeed a change in the air, or rather the fog. He shivered and was not exactly certain why. The change might have been for the better; they had no way of knowing otherwise.

Pessimism? More likely experience and common sense. The lionbird had been in too many dire situations not to expect the worst. Usually, through no effort of his own, he was proven correct in that assumption.

“What do you make of it, Darkhorse?”

The shadow steed snorted. “Nothing! I make absolutely nothing out of it. It is from Nimth and as far as I am concerned, that which is Nimthian is a threat to all!”

“Like Shade?” he could not help asking the eternal.

Darkhorse was prevented from answering by what sounded like a crack of thunder. He stumbled. The entire area was suddenly aglow even though it was still night. The Gryphon heard a rumbling, glanced down, and, with the aid of the mysterious light, saw the earth opening up before them. He started to point it out to his companion, but the stallion was already backing away. The chasm began to widen and from it poured forth a grayish substance much like clay.

“Can you leap over it?” He had seen Darkhorse clear gaps far wider than this one.

“I will do so once I am certain that it is safe to do so! Do not trust appearances in this place; there is usually more to come!”

That was when the molten clay turned toward them.

From the center of the bubbling mass burst forth a crude, thick tentacle. At the same time, the Gryphon felt his own body twist. He stared in horror as his arms began to lengthen and his torso started to turn sideways.

“Darkhorse!” The Gryphon struggled to maintain control of his fingers, which were trying to bend backward of their own accord.

“Hold . . . hold on to . . . me!”

He did. As best as his distorted form would allow, he held on to the dark stallion. His fingers still struggled for independence, but his will was stronger.

The lionbird felt a surge of movement from the eternal, then the rush of air, foul air, as Darkhorse leapt.

It took forever to land, at least in the Gryphon’s mind, and when they did, Darkhorse did not stop. He continued to run. Over hill and flat earth, the terrain did not matter. All the while, the light remained with them. They raced on for what had to be several miles before the Gryphon recovered enough to demand that his companion come to a halt. Darkhorse did not acknowledge his words, but he nonetheless came to a reluctant halt some few moments later.

The Gryphon looked himself over, wary of what he might find but determined to see what terrible changes might have been wrought on him. To his astonishment and relief, he saw that he was just as he had always been. Leaving the vicinity of the chasm had restored him to normal.

“Grrryppphhonnn?”

“Darkhorse?” In his relief at finding he had survived intact, the lionbird had nearly forgotten the one who had saved him. It had not occurred to him that the eternal might also have suffered some monstrous alteration. “Darkhorse! What is it?”

There was no response from the shadow steed, but he was shivering noticeably. The Gryphon glanced at the rocky ground beneath them, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and gingerly dismounted. Darkhorse continued to shiver. He did not even look back at his rider, simply stared ahead.

“Darkhorse?”

“I . . . cannot . . . fight it this time!” The shivering grew worse yet. The shadow steed stumbled back a step.

“Fight what?” How could he help the eternal?

“Fight . . . what almost took . . . control . . . when I was . . . with Cabe!”

The last word ended in a scream.

Darkhorse melted.

He was quicksilver, flowing in all directions. A black pool with vague equine touches to him. The lionbird danced away from him, aghast. “Darkhorse! What do I do? What can I do?”

“Urra . . .” From the horrific mass rose a figure the color of ink. Cold, blue orbs stared out from a face that was and was not a copy of the Gryphon’s own. Every detail of the Gryphon’s own form was copied, yet it was a flawed reproduction. He raised one clawed hand toward what his companion had become.

The shape melted, but re-formed almost instantly. A thing of many arms and eyes, the latter all blue, sprouted before the Gryphon. He did not back away, although experience should have demanded otherwise.

As quickly as it had formed, this shape, too, melted. A new one, another humanoid figure, coalesced.

This one the Gryphon also recognized. “Shade!”

Shade, but with the definite outline of a face. Quick as the lionbird was in attempting to see those blackened features, he was not quick enough. Shade, the shape of Shade, rather, poured to the earth before the Gryphon could make out the details of his visage. The Gryphon watched the melting with some disappointment despite the circumstances. For all the years that he had known the warlock, he had never discerned the true features of the man. Not even Shade had been able to recall what he had once looked like.

Yet a new form grew, but this one, it turned out, was to be Darkhorse again. It was a slower shaping than the others, possibly because it looked as though the eternal was forcibly willing himself back into existence much the way the Gryphon had struggled with control of his fingers.

When at last he was fully formed, the ebony stallion shook his head and eyed his companion. “I had thought I had beaten the urge when last I was here, but the fog, Nimth, is stronger still.”

“What happened to you?”

Darkhorse took an unsteady step. His form rippled. “Still not completely safe! You will have to give me a little time. What happened to me? I am even more susceptible to the wild powers of Nimth than you are! Ha! I am worse than wet clay in the hands of those powers! When I was here with Cabe, it almost happened. I fought back and succeeded then, but not this time! I failed! I was twisted into whatever shape it could derive from my memories. Any memory.”

“Including Shade?”

The eternal steadied himself. “He will haunt me forever! I had forgotten that I had ever known his true visage. It was in the last days . . . or . . . was it long, long ago?”

That was all that his companion wanted to say on the subject, so the Gryphon turned to studying their surroundings. The odd light-where is its source?-enabled him to see maybe five yards away from them in any direction. He had no idea where they were save that they had gone farther west. Darkhorse had not thought about his course. If not for the Gryphon, they might still be racing through the fog. He was glad he had managed to speak out or else they might have kept on racing until they ended up in the middle of the Aramite camp itself. The lionbird did not want to confront his adversaries until he knew the advantage would be his.

He wondered how close they were. Close enough that his claws unsheathed in anticipation. The peninsula was very, very long, but Darkhorse moved swifter than the wind. What would take a true steed days to reach could take him only hours. The Gryphon was aware that his mount had paid no attention to his speed, so there was no satisfactory method of calculating where they were.

The mysterious illumination at last began to dim. Nothing remained constant here. From what the shadow steed had related to him about this foul mist, the lionbird was surprised the light had lasted this long. He was not sorry to see it go. Despite the temporary increase in visibility it had created, it made the Gryphon more anxious. Night was supposed to be dark. He was more comfortable with that. In the night, his reflexes and senses were an advantage over most foes. Hunting the wolf raiders was best done at night.

The Gryphon stared into the darkening fog. He could imagine the scene. Lone soldiers wandering in the night, unable to see much save with torches that marked them for him. If the warlock was their prisoner, they would lead the Gryphon to him. If Cabe was not at their mercy, then that would simplify matters for the lionbird. He would not have to hold back.

The images became so real that the Gryphon could almost see the shadowy forms and hear the clink of metal upon metal. His good hand clutched the grip of his sword.

He was jolted by a strange, whistling sound . . . then it became impossible to breathe as something thin and tight wrapped itself snugly around his throat.

“Gryphon! Beware!”

Ignoring the belated warning, the Gryphon reached down and drew his sword. He knew that it was a whip that encircled his throat and knew very well who was at the other end. What he counted on was the other underestimating his strength. The lionbird was stronger than most humans, even despite his three-fingered grip. He took hold of the whip and pulled, at the same time bringing his sword into play. His attacker had no chance to react; the Gryphon’s blade ran him through in the neck.

Pulling his sword free before the soldier could even fall, the Gryphon whirled about. No figment of his imagination were these men. He had seen shapes and heard sounds, but like a senile fool, he had paid them no mind. Perhaps it was time for him to die. When one grew old and careless, that was what was supposed to happen.

No, for your sake, Troia, and for the memory of our Demion, I will not!

They swarmed toward him. Darkhorse had described in detail his first encounter with the patrol and so the Gryphon knew that this second patrol was much larger and better prepared than its predecessor had been. Someone understood too well what they might be hunting and had supplied the soldiers with tools designed just for the likes of Darkhorse and him.

Even as he took down a swordsman, the Gryphon knew that he alone would not be able to escape the Aramites. They must have heard us; they must have heard Darkhorse as he struggled. There would be little aid from Darkhorse. The shadow steed was situated but a few yards to his left and already struggling against more than half a dozen attackers. Darkhorse and his opponents seemed at an impasse; they could not reach him, but he was still too weakened from his inner battle to do them any harm.

Already three swordsmen fought him from different angles. He was able to keep them more or less in front of him long enough to disable one in the leg, but others were already gathering. Four men with a net worked toward his back. A lancer and yet another swordsman joined his attackers. A pattern developed, a lance thrust followed by one or more sword attacks, generally together. The Gryphon fought them off, but he was forced to back up each time.

When the net came down on him, the lionbird knew that he had allowed himself to be played like a puppet. That there had been no other choice in no way assuaged his anger at himself.

His sword was yanked from his grip, but he had the satisfaction of severely clawing one of his captors before they wrapped the net tight around him. When they were done, he was trussed up like a piece of game . . . and to the wolf raiders he probably was. The Gryphon heard one of the Aramites call out to Darkhorse.

“Hold, demon, or we will fillet your friend here and now!”

He would have urged the shadow steed to ignore the threat, but someone rapped him on the side of the head, dazing him for several seconds. By the time his head cleared, Darkhorse had already surrendered.

“Watch him!” ordered the same voice, likely the patrol leader. “Commander D’Marr will want him in good shape for questioning!”

The Gryphon could not see his captors’ eyes, but he noted that a couple of the men who were handling him stiffened at the mention of the name. D’Farany’s torturer.

“Bind his mouth.”

Someone shifted him around so that another guard could wrap thick cloth around his beak. In the darkness of reborn night, the lionbird could make out the outline of the demon steed. Darkhorse had lowered his head. Two Aramites were looping something around the eternal’s neck. It could not be a rope noose. Something as simple as that would never hold Darkhorse. No, it had to be a magical bond of some sort, a bond whose power they trusted to work despite the tricks of the fog. The Gryphon was not certain he would trust any sorcery or sorcerous artifact while lost in this mist. He hoped their faith would come back to haunt the wolf raiders before this was all over. If not and their toys worked as they should . . . then it was all over already.

Unless Cabe was not a prisoner . . .

If not, where was he?

A pair of boots crossed his limited field of vision. They paused before him. “Make him docile for the trip. That’ll keep the demon in line.”

The Gryphon knew what was coming and braced himself for it. The blow to the back of his head was a good one, he was just barely able to note, for alone it was enough to send him spinning into unconsciousness. He would have only one fist-sized lump when he woke.

Provided the Gryphon woke at all.

Wake he did, but it was no relief to do so, for the Gryphon saw that they had reached the Aramite encampment. It was still night, he supposed, but there were many awake. He sensed a certain tension that permeated the area. The raiders were not at ease in this place. There was not much satisfaction in knowing that. His captors would be that much more anxious, that much more ready to kill him. Although he knew he faced potential agony at the hands of the Aramite inquisitor, the lionbird was determined to survive. He had given up part of his hand already and he was willing to give up much more if he was granted the deaths of Lord D’Farany and his men.

His eyes little more than slits, the captive continued to survey his surroundings. One item of vast importance was missing. He could neither see nor hear Darkhorse. What had happened to the eternal? Surely he was aware that the raiders would kill the Gryphon no matter what? They would be searching for methods of binding the ebony stallion to their will. The Gryphon was fairly certain that the wolf raiders would find some adequate device. This batch had probably stolen whatever they could before they abandoned their fellows back in the empire. So much for the loyalty of the pack!

He was dragged on and on, so long, in fact, that he almost believed they intended to drag him to death. It was not a very imaginative death, if that was the case. From D’Farany the Gryphon expected more. Something slow and agonizing.

This was not how he had planned it.

All at once, the Gryphon was dumped to the harsh earth. He suppressed a grunt and remained as still as possible.

“What is it now?” The voice was indifferent, almost bored.

“Sir, a prize most wonderful! It’s-”

“Don’t bother to tell me; show me.”

“Y-yes, Commander D’Marr!”

Ungentle hands rolled him onto his back.

“Forget rolling him free. I have other things demanding my time, Captain. Cut him out of there.”

Evidently in the darkness it was troublesome to make out anything more than his shape. A possible advantage? The Gryphon heard the sound of a dagger being drawn from its sheath. A blade flashed by his visage, but he did not flinch. With little care for his well-being, the soldier began to cut him loose. He tensed. If there was ever an opportunity for escape, it was when he was nearly free of the net. He was swift, far swifter than most of them would think. It was a slim hope, but if they bound him after this, his odds would shrivel to next to nothing.

A heavy boot landed atop his throat. The Gryphon gasped. He felt the tip of a mace against his forehead. Around him was nothing but silence.

“What are you gaping at, you fool? Finish releasing our friend here.” Was there just a tinge of excitement in the officer’s otherwise monotone voice? “He won’t be trying any tricks now.”

When the last of the netting had been cut away, the Gryphon was seized by both his arms and his legs. Only when he was certain that his prisoner would not be able to free himself from the guards’ grips did D’Marr take his foot off of the lionbird’s throat. “You might as well open your eyes all the way, birdman.”

The Gryphon did. Peering down at him was a round, clean-shaven countenance. At first glance, he almost wondered if the Aramites had been reduced to promoting children to the officers’ ranks. Then, as they tugged him to his feet, he was better able to glimpse the eyes. Young, D’Marr might be, but he was by no means a child. There was more death in his eyes than most men the Gryphon had ever faced.

And is my son one of those deaths?

The Aramite commander stepped closer. The Gryphon cocked his head in sudden amusement as he saw that D’Marr came up only to his chin.

The head of the mace went deep into his stomach.

His guards would not let him fall forward or clutch his stomach in pain. As he gasped, he heard the young commander say, “You’ve made an otherwise long and annoying night worthwhile, birdman. You have no idea how much I’ve waited for this confrontation.”

“Shall I alert his lordship, sir?”

D’Marr looked at his prisoner, then at the guards, and then at last at the man who had spoken. He never seemed to look at any one thing for very long, the Gryphon noted, not even the face of an adversary whose image had become synonymous with Aramite defeats. “No. Now would not be the best time. Lord D’Farany has only just retired and his victory over the fog has cost him.” The men looked confused over the last part of the statement, but D’Marr ignored them. He smiled ever so briefly at the lionbird. “I’m certain that we can find accommodations for our special guest until then. We need time to prepare the best welcome for him. We need time to properly plan his death. For that Lord D’Farany will want to be fully alert and able to enjoy his pain.”

“I hope I will be a disappointment,” the Gryphon managed to respond. He was still in pain, but it had subsided enough so that he could pretend it had vanished.

“You speak.” D’Marr raised the tip of the mace to the underside of the Gryphon’s beak. The lionbird could sense a spell of some sort, a strong, complicated spell, locked into the weapon. Judging from its owner, he was certain that the mace was a treacherous little device. “How entertaining. I’d begun to think you incapable. Don’t worry yourself, Your Majesty . . . you are supposed to be a king or some such dribble, aren’t you . . . my lord will hardly be disappointed. If you think that I’m eager for your company, you’ll be amazed at his enthusiasm. You are the cause of all his suffering. Years of suffering.”

“Good.”

A shock coursed through his body. He would have fallen if not for the guards. D’Marr waited for him to recover, then held the head of the mace close enough so that the Gryphon could see how it had been designed. “That was one of the low levels. You’ll be tasting the others-as many as you can take-when you’re brought before our master.”

“I am always eager to meet the men I want to kill. It has been a pleasure meeting you, in fact.”

D’Marr started to smile again, but then he stared at the avian visage before him and the smile faded. “The only one you’ll have the pleasure of meeting will be that brat of yours. The one who died much too quickly.”

Demion . . . It was as if his heart had suddenly been wrenched from his chest. Blood madness took him. The Gryphon’s world shrank. It was a world large enough to contain only two. One was himself and the other . . . the other was the beast who had killed his son.

No, two was still too many. He would not be satisfied until there was only one.

“Demion . . .” Nothing would keep him from the beast. He felt some sort of resistance holding him in place, but with a twist of his arms he freed himself. The monster backed away from him, eyes wary and prepared for struggle. Good, it would make his death that much better.

The Gryphon felt something pull at his arms again and this time he lashed out, striking flesh and bone. Not once did he look to see what the source of that interference was; his eyes could only see the black figure before him. The jackal.

He leapt, but the beast struck him with the scepter, sending him through a new crescendo of agony. Still the enraged Gryphon would not accept defeat. The pain gave way to his anger, his bitterness. He slashed at his adversary, but his claws caught only the hard metal of the beast’s armor.

The net came down on him before he could strike again. Still fighting, the maddened lionbird was pulled to the ground. A blow to his head finally succeeded in lessening some of the blood lust.

“Don’t kill him. Keep him bound.” The beast stood where he knew the Gryphon could not help but look. His placid face broke into that brief smile again. “You are a feisty one, aren’t you?”

“I will have you, D’Marr,” the prisoner replied in much calmer tones. He was furious at himself for allowing his base instincts to take over like that. He had not served the memory of his son nor the love of his mate in any way by becoming the animal. There was a line between animal and humanity that the Gryphon had always walked. Now, he had allowed himself to fall prey to the unthinking side. It was never right to allow one side or the other complete control. Only with both sides in balance could he triumph. “I will have you and your master.”

D’Marr squatted and pointed the tip of the mace at him. The top just barely flicked against the side of the Gryphon’s face, who flinched before realizing that there was no pain this time. “No, that’s for later, birdman. That and so much more.” The Aramite officer rose. “Bind him properly this time and take him to the other beasts. They can stare at each other until he’s needed for the festivities. Is the demon under control?”

“We’ve bound it as you’ve instructed,” responded the patrol leader. “It doesn’t seem to be able to free itself.”

“Watch it. Make certain of that.” The youthful raider yawned in the Gryphon’s direction. “Now that we have things settled, you’ll excuse me if I retire. I have so much to do tomorr-excuse me, later today.” He pointed at the guards with his scepter. “These men will see to your discomfort. If you have need of anything, please ask.”

“Just your head.”

D’Marr tapped the side of the weapon against his palm. He stared thoughtfully at the captive, then politely asked, “And how long do you think before we might be graced with the presence of your cat? I’m looking forward to completing the set.”

This time, the Gryphon did not respond. D’Marr was working hard to keep his mind in turmoil and he was achieving that goal all too well. As desperate as his situation was, the only hope that the Gryphon had was in retaining his calm.

“Well, I suspect she’ll be here soon enough. I will be certain to greet her with open, loving arms.” His countenance once more a bland mask, the young officer gave the tangled lionbird a mock salute and departed.

Watching him walk off, the Gryphon knew that he had to somehow free himself despite the odds. If he did not, then Troia would follow, as D’Marr had predicted. The thought of her in the hands of someone like the sadistic Aramite made him shiver.

I’m looking forward to completing the set, D’Marr had mocked. If the Gryphon did not find some way to escape his fate, without the aid of Darkhorse, apparently, it was all too possible that the deadly raider would do just that.