Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

XV

Bound and tossed among the captive Quel, the Gryphon felt the terrible change in the air. The fog began to move with more violence, at times becoming a veritable maelstrom. A chill ran down his spine. He stared at his fellow captives who, as one, looked up and then at each other.

The lionbird studied the other prisoners closely. They almost seemed to be anticipating something. The Quel were excited, almost . . . hopeful?

He renewed his efforts to free himself. The collar he wore around his throat prevented him from conceiving any spells, but that did not mean he did not try. Whatever was happening, the Gryphon did not want to be bound and gagged when it reached its climax. What could possibly make them so-

The Gryphon let loose a muffled squawk. There could be only one thing that so interested his fellow prisoners, but . . . could it be true? Was there a chance that the spell had been broken?

Had the wolf raiders, in their arrogant ignorance, woken the sleepers?

He struggled even harder. Dawn was fast approaching and the Gryphon had a suspicion that this was to be a day of reckoning.

For everyone.

They woke.

There was no preamble, no slow stirring. Eyes simply opened and took in the dark. Stiffened forms slowly shifted, trying to make muscles work after thousands of years of ensorcelled sleep.

None of the sleepers were aware of how much time had passed. They only knew that they were all awake. They only knew that being awake meant it was time to reclaim what had once been theirs.

It was time to reclaim their world.

In the tunnels, a weary Cabe came to a halt as the first sensations of change washed over him. The warlock gasped at both the intensity and the source of those emanations. By now, he recognized the touch of Nimth too well. Something had caused a resurgence in the fog, a terrible growth. It was as if Nimth were trying to intrude farther upon the Dragonrealm.

The wolf raiders! It had to be them. They had control of the sorcerous mist. The Crystal Dragon would not have dared try opening a new doorway to foul Nimth. The Aramites, experimenting, must have done so themselves. Perhaps they had tried to discover the source or perhaps they had hoped to strengthen the fog’s power.

What the reason was did not truly matter. What did was that everyone-everything-might be in danger. This felt almost uncontrolled. The Aramites, even if they had a sorcerer of their own, might not understand what it was they played with.

Cabe could sense in what direction the magical ripples originated from, but he was still hesistant to try to teleport. It was because of that hesitation that he had spent so much valuable time wandering in what he hoped was the right direction. Teleportation had not worked the first time he had tried it in the fog and even if it succeeded now, he might find himself far from his intended destination. Yet there was no way of telling whether it would be possible to trace a path through the tunnels. For all he knew, they might lead him away from the danger.

The last was a tempting thought, but the dour mage knew he could not avoid the threat any more than he had avoided the rest of his mission. The magic was growing wilder by the moment. It could not possibly be under the guidance of anyone with the skill and knowledge needed. Cabe was not certain that even he had such knowledge, but there was no one else. The Crystal Dragon had made it emphatically clear that he wanted nothing more to do with the outside world.

“I’ve got to try,” Cabe finally muttered. There seemed to be times between the ripples of newly released power when things almost became normal. If he attempted a spell, then . . .

He cringed as the next wave of sorcerous energy washed over him. So far, nothing had changed. No hands grew out of the walls. No creatures materialized from the ether. It appeared that Nimth did not immediately affect its surroundings, but that bit of good fortune could not last much longer.

The wave passed and an area of calm surrounded him.

Cabe teleported . . .

. . . and found himself staring into the dead eyes of a soldier who had been pinned to the wall like some gruesome decoration. Cabe bit back a yell and turned his gaze away, only to confront a similar grisly sight. He surveyed the walls in morbid fascination. There was no doubt in his mind who was responsible for this. Even the wolf raiders would not tolerate such insanity from their commanders. The Quel would not have killed in such a way; the damage to the chamber was extensive.

Plool had left his mark here. Only the Vraad would kill in such a manner.

Belatedly, the warlock saw the hole.

A black, oval space surrounded by a halo of wild light, the hole floated high in the center of the chamber. It was a small thing, but its simple presence here was danger enough. Cabe could sense the same malevolent power that permeated the fog, the power of ancient Nimth. As the hole pulsated, that power seeped into the Dragonrealm, adding to the foulness already admitted by the Crystal Dragon. There was a faint hint of mist in the chamber, but nothing approaching conditions on the surface.

He did not have to ask how it had come to be here. Cabe recognized the thing in the center as a creation of the Quel. It was a new creation, for he could not recall it being here during a previous encounter with the subterranean race. What its original purpose had been was impossible to say, although the warlock had some suspicions. The wolf raiders had usurped it for their own desires, obviously recognizing the potential power but not respecting the likely danger of trying to use the device.

By its side lay another body, but this one was different from the rest.

Cabe had never seen a blue man, although they had been mentioned briefly in one or two of the Gryphon’s dispatches. Moving to the corpse’s side, he inspected the body. The hood of the man’s outfit had fallen away, revealing the silver mark of the warlock in his hair. His one hand was a burnt and ravaged horror that made Cabe greatly desire to look elsewhere. Shock and blood loss had likely killed him. Judging by the trail he saw, the foreign sorcerer had walked toward one of the tunnel mouths and then back again, as if he had not even noticed his life ebbing from him. Evidently, his dead counterpart had overestimated his skill in manipulating the power and had paid with his life . . . or perhaps Plool had overestimated it. Glancing up at the hole again, he began to have some idea of what the Vraad might have wanted and what the blue man might have been offered.

Where was the Vraad? Cabe could not sense him nearby, but with Plool that did not mean much. Plool was like nothing he had ever come across before; it might be that the Nimthian sorcerer was invisible to his senses most of the time.

Rising, he studied the damage to the device. Crystal sorcery was not Cabe Bedlam’s forte, but he understood the basics. Much to his regret, however, what he knew in no way aided him in deciphering the scattered array before him. In his death throes the blue sorcerer had pushed almost everything aside. Cabe had no idea how to even begin re-creating the original design.

Yet, as he touched some of the crystals, certain images played in his mind. He picked up one piece, wincing briefly in pain when he raised his arm too high, and positioned it. Once that was done, the warlock chose another piece and placed that in a position on an angle from the first. Around him, blue lightning crackled to life, but as it was high above him, he paid it little mind. After assuring himself that the piece was in its proper place, Cabe searched the pile again. It almost seemed logical that the next two crystals that he chose went where they did. So did the two after them.

Before his eyes, he watched the arrangement take place. Everything he picked up had its niche. There were some crystals that interested him not at all, no matter how many times Cabe tried to find a spot for them. He felt as if his hands were being guided, but not by any source without. Rather, the sorcerer felt he was being guided by some force within.

Had his grandfather, Nathan, known crystal sorcery? Was that what guided the warlock’s hands? The thought that he might be drawing upon Nathan’s past did not at all surprise Cabe. Nathan Bedlam had known something about everything and had tried to pass on as much of himself to his grandson as was magically possible. There seemed no end to the skills the elder Bedlam had possessed. If he lived to be three hundred, the warlock wondered if he would ever feel he had lived up to his grandfather’s legacy.

As Cabe re-created the pattern, he noticed that the hole’s pulsations decreased. The lightning, which had played about the chamber throughout his work, now ceased. Encouraged, Cabe worked faster, trying to align everything. He soon depleted his supply of usable crystals, but still the array was not complete. Searching the floor, the warlock located several pieces around the body of the blue man. He reached down to gather them up, then paused. Just noticeable under the body and arm of the corpse was something that was not a crystal but still cried out to him to be used. Cabe gingerly moved the body to one side.

It was a carved object. A talisman. Whoever had carved it had fashioned it into the shape of a jagged tooth reminiscent of a hound’s or a . . . a wolf’s.

An Aramite talisman. To be more precise, a keeper’s talisman. The thing radiated such power that he almost pulled his hand away. Yet, a feeling inside insisted that the warlock add it to his collection. The pattern would not be complete without it.

Cabe reached forward and started to wrap his fingers around the carving.

It flew backward from his grasp, heading in the direction of one of the cavern mouths behind him. Cabe turned, intending to give chase.

A hand caught the talisman. An elegant figure clad in the black armor of the wolf raider empire stepped forward. Despite his aristocratic features, there was a definite hint of insanity in his eyes. Sometimes the eyes focused, more times they did not. It almost seemed as if the newcomer were uncertain about which direction in life he preferred. Cold sanity or even colder madness. Cabe recognized the scarred visage from glimpses in the Crystal Dragon’s sanctum during the battle of wills. Here was the victor of that battle.

“My precious . . . prize! My treasure! What . . . have . . . you done . . . to my . . . prize?”

He pointed the talisman at Cabe.

With but a thought, the warlock shielded himself. Tendrils sought to snare his arms and legs in a viselike grip, but his own spell held. The tendrils could find no grip on his person and slipped off. They tried again with the same result, then faded away.

The Aramite sorcerer did not even pause before striking with a quick, swordlike slash. Cabe parried a long, gleaming blade that formed from nothing with a magical blade of his own. The two traded blows for several seconds before the wolf raider withdrew. Cabe, his head and heart pounding and his arm in agony, did not try to seize the advantage. There was too knowing a look on the raider’s marred face. He wanted Cabe to come to him.

The Aramite caressed the carving. “Who are you, warlock? I felt the tooth call to me, for we are bound together as two halves of a soul. Did you think that I would not notice? Kanaan should have known better, but I see that does not matter any longer. A pity for him.”

He did not bother to answer the wolf raider. Cabe debated his chances of teleporting safely while continuing to fend off the attacks of the Aramite. From their brief exchange of spells, he could already see that his opponent was quick and a master of power. Cabe doubted his chances of simultaneously escaping and defending himself against the sorcerer. That meant it was to his benefit to take the offensive.

A shower of rock struck the Aramite sorcerer from behind. As he moved to defend himself, Cabe unleashed the second half of his assault. It materialized above his adversary’s head, a leathery thing as large as a shield and resembling nothing more than a sheet. The wolf raider, engaged in repelling the rock storm, did not notice the danger above him until his head was suddenly covered. He reached up to pull the sheet off, but the covering would not be removed. It wrapped itself tight around the face and helmet of the raider, cutting off his air supply.

Then it dissolved.

Cabe stepped back. The eerie eyes turned his way again. In the Aramite’s grasp, the talisman fairly glowed. “I ask again, warlock. Who are you? I think you must know the Gryphon, our friend. I think that is why you are here. That would make you one mage in particular. What was the name? Yes . . . Cabe Bedlam.”

From behind the raider came the sound of many armored men running. The first of the soldiers reached the entrance, but when he sought to enter, the Aramite sorcerer waved him back. From the soldier’s quick obedience, it was obvious who was in command of the invaders.

“Your chance to yield has forever passed, Cabe Bedlam.”

The talisman flared.

Cabe tensed, but there was no attack against him. He glanced back and forth around the chamber, never letting his eyes completely shift from the raiders. Still he saw and sensed nothing.

Then, from all around him, there came horrible, wrenching noises. He could not place the sounds save that they reminded him of metal scraping against rock. The warlock took a step back and tilted his head enough so that he could see more of the right side of the room while still keeping an eye on his foe.

What he saw turned his stomach and almost made him forget the threat before him.

They struggled from the wall, freeing themselves slowly but surely with a strength far in excess of that of any living man. With eyes as blank as the sorcerer who controlled their strings, the dead sentries, the lances still piercing their torsos and limbs, shambled toward Cabe. Some had their weapons ready, but others merely reached for him. Caked blood splattered the floors and walls.

The warlock fought against the unreasoning panic rising within him. Necromancy was the darkest use of sorcery. Cabe’s first introduction to it had been when Azran had sent the rotting apparitions of two of Nathan Bedlam’s old companions, the sorcerers Tyr and Basil, to kidnap the young Bedlam and bring him to the mad mage’s keep. That horrific meeting had forever left its mark on him, although he had never admitted such to Gwen. Cabe Bedlam disliked shapeshifting, but he feared necromancy.

Fear, however, did not equate panic. Not quite. He stepped around so that the Quel device stood between him and the Aramite. The wolf raider stirred, but, as Cabe had prayed, his adversary still held some hope of making use of the artifact and therefore hesitated to cast any spell that Cabe might deflect to it. That hesitation gave the warlock the extra breath he needed to combat the more immediate threat. Even if the barriers he had raised held, the unliving army was too great a distraction. If Cabe let them surround and harass him, he would eventually fall to his true opponent.

It was the metallic lances that skewered each of the undead that finally inspired him. Cabe lunged forward and reached among the crystals he had arranged earlier. Drawing upon the same knowledge that had let him create the pattern before him, he transposed three of the pieces.

A storm broke above his head. A lightning storm that raced so swift from one end of the room to the other that it created a web of ever-shifting design. The warlock ducked back as the bolts struck the array as well, creating a bluish glow about the artifact. From the other side of the Quel device, he heard the keeper shout in frustrated realization.

From his studies, Cabe was familiar with the attraction of lightning to metal rods. So, too, it was evident, was the wolf raider.

The chamber shook as the bolts struck. There was no escape for the undead, pincushioned as they were by so many lances. Some were struck several times in a single moment while others were touched but once. One or a hundred times, however, the effect was still the same. The raw power behind those bolts was more than enough to incinerate the stumbling corpses. Some few burst into flames while others simply dropped, their forms charred black. More than one literally burst, sending gobbets flying.

Cabe crouched on the floor, his cloak protecting him from the awful rain. From where he was, he could see that the other spellcaster had backed all the way into the tunnel. The raider’s spells might protect him, but armored as he was, he evidently thought himself too tempting a target for the magic lightning.

The last of the unliving legion fell. Cabe felt some small pity for the unfortunate men, but reminded himself of what they had been. Whatever decency had once existed in them when they had lived, the Aramite war wolf had worried it to death. The Gryphon had spoken of many gallant folk among the raiders’ race, but the soldiers of the empire were, with very few exceptions, not among them.

Risking the storm that still crackled above, the exhausted mage stood. Much to his dismay, the keeper chose that same moment to dare to reenter. Cabe would never be able to sufficiently describe the expression on that ravaged countenance, but he knew that the next duel between them would be the last.

The duel was never to be, though, for as the raider commander raised the talisman, the chamber shook anew with a frenzy that nearly sent both men to the floor. Someone cried out about earthquakes, but this was no natural tremor. The walls, floor, and ceiling were being buffeted from within, almost as if a ghostly fist was trying to battle its way out of the cavern. Only the shield that Cabe had raised against the Aramite mage was preventing him from being tossed and battered like a piece of soft fruit. As it was, each passing moment left him weaker and weaker, for the pounding was growing stronger with each wave.

Across from him, the wolf raider was also struggling against the tremor. In his one hand he clutched tight the talisman. Beyond the sorcerer, Cabe could make out the faces and forms of several of the soldiers. To his surprise, they moved as if barely hindered by the quake. The greatest force was confined to the chamber itself, at least for now. Once the crystalline walls began to crumble, who was to say how far it would spread.

The cause, of course, was the hole between Nimth and the Dragonrealm. Feeling much like a fool, Cabe realized that the struggle between the two sorcerers had upset the balance he had created. It not only had recommenced pulsating, but with greater intensity than previously. Worse, although the tremor made it impossible to focus long on the terrible hole, the thing’s dimensions appeared to be expanding.

Damaged as they were from the deadly rain of spears, the walls were not long in commencing to crumble. Large chunks of rock crystal broke free and tumbled to the floor. Long, wicked cracks spread from one side of the chamber to the other. Damaged already and now with its support weakening, the ceiling, too, cracked and shook.

The entire place was about to collapse.

Having succeeded in righting himself, the Aramite sorcerer retreated once more to the cavern mouth. Although they did not exactly focus upon the warlock, not once did the raider’s eyes leave the vicinity where Cabe stood. The talisman remained poised.

He means to trap me! Caught between the danger of the collapsing ceiling and the threat of the keeper’s sorcery, Cabe initially did nothing but stand where he was. His adversary continued to back away until he was well out of the chamber. Then the Aramite stopped and waited. The warlock cursed his counterpart. The keeper was trying to make certain that Cabe’s quandary became a fatal delay.

The warlock knew he could not hope to escape through one of the other exits, not with the keeper waiting to strike. Yet, that left only teleportation and while the spell had served Cabe well enough to bring him to this place, he knew that under present circumstances he now stood a greater chance of materializing a hundred feet above the surface than he did in actually arriving at his hoped-for destination. That was if the warlock did not teleport into solid rock instead of thin air.

It was the ceiling that made his decision for him. No longer able to withstand the battering, the entire thing collapsed.

Cabe never knew if the Aramite mage tried to prevent him from escaping. He was only aware of his own sudden desire to be elsewhere and that, combined with his skill and natural affinity for sorcery, was enough to make the spell happen. Even as the ceiling came down, the warlock vanished.

He did not reappear in solid rock nor did the harried mage materialize high above the surface of Legar. Rather, Cabe came to an undignified stop against a small rocky outcropping. He yelped in pain as his arm briefly rolled against the harsh surface, then grunted as he continued to roll downward.

The outcropping was a low one and so his descent was short, if bruising. Fighting back a moan, Cabe Bedlam looked up.

The warlock had not materialized a hundred feet in the air, but he had materialized three or four yards from the feet of one very eager soldier.

Mages popping into existence must have been a familiar sight to this veteran. Even as Cabe noted his presence, the raider was already charging him, likely aware that the only chance he had against a spellcaster was to catch him while his wits were still addled. Cabe caught a glimpse of a well-honed blade rising. He reacted instinctively, raising his own arm to block the blow. From anyone other than a sorcerer, this would have been but a feeble, fatal attempt. From Cabe Bedlam, however, the action was what saved his life. The soldier’s blade came down . . . and stopped two feet from the warlock’s forearm.

Cabe did not wait for the soldier to recover from his surprise. He made a cutting motion with his arm.

The wolf raider’s head snapped back. The soldier grunted, then fell backward. He sprawled on the ground, his neck broken as easily as if the warlock had stepped on a dry twig.

I’ll never get used to killing. That might be true, Cabe supposed, but it no longer prevented him from doing the deed. This journey was becoming too much for him. Where he had tried to avoid killing his adversaries unless pressed, he now considered it the only expedient route in this case. The wolf raiders were without pity; they would kill him outright or save him for a slow death. Worse, they were more than willing to let his friends and family share that slow death.

The sons of the wolf had to be pushed back into the sea. Even one was one too many.

I’m beginning to sound like the Gryphon, he thought. Why not? He had lived through the war through the lionbird’s messages, hearing of the battles and deaths. While the war had from the start been in the rebellion’s favor, the immense size of the empire had meant years and years of struggle to free the continent. Years and years of folk giving their lives to overthrow the night-clad soldiers and their masters.

The brief, contemplative respite allowed him to recover enough so that he could go on. That he was in Legar was obvious. That the mist seemed a bit lighter and the land a bit more visible made him suspect that dawn was coming fast. Cabe had wondered exactly how long he had been unconscious after the Crystal Dragon’s sphere had exploded. Longer than he had imagined.

Where was he in relation to the Aramite encampment? That was the true question. Was the dead raider a lone soldier who had gotten separated from his patrol or was he a scout?

Cabe rose and took a step toward the direction the raider had come from. Despite the rocky soil, he could make out a partial track here or there, at least enough to give him a place to start. He continued on for several paces, then recalled one last thing. Turning, Cabe eyed his attacker. The corpse might not be noticed for quite some time, but he could not risk it.

The spell was simple, as had been the one that had so handily killed the soldier in the first place, and thus there was less chance of it going awry. The Nimthian fog was almost dormant for the moment, but that was not likely to last. The present calm was probably like the quiet before the storm. Cabe had not forgotten the destruction raging somewhere below him, destruction that would affect the surface before long. That was another problem that needed quick solving, but the warlock knew no way to close the portal without the now buried Quel device. Besides, he had enough on his hands at the moment as it was. All he could do was hope that some solution would present itself before all of Nimth poured through.

The spell began with a tiny whirlwind whose width was just enough to include the remains of the soldier. As the whirlwind spun, dust and dirt flew up and around the body. The compact tornado whirled faster and faster, dredging up more dirt and rock. Before long, it was impossible to see anything within. Cabe let the whirlwind spin for another two or three breaths, then made it stop.

When the dust had settled, there was no sign of the body. In its place was a small mound not much different from many other mounds formed by the uneven land. A close examination would reveal the truth, but Cabe was trusting the fog to work with him. Unless one of the other warriors tripped over it, no one was likely to find the remains for quite a while. By that time, the warlock would either be finished here or dead.

He grimaced. He was sounding too much like the Gryphon.

The trail twisted and turned, but Cabe somehow managed to keep sight of it. Before long, he came across more tracks, also from Aramite soldiers. The boot shapes were more or less identical and Cabe doubted that there could be too many other armies wandering around Legar. Most of the trails led from one general direction. At first, he was surprised at the ease with which he was able to follow the tracks, but as he came across more, it occurred to him that the wolf raiders were not being very careful about covering their trails. It seemed unlikely that they would be so careless unless he was-

In the distance, he heard the familiar clink of metal upon metal.

Cabe located a nearby rise and hid behind it. He peered over the top, ready to duck if someone looked his way.

The clink of metal was joined by the stomping of booted feet. In the mist, the warlock was just barely able to see the outlines of four figures wearing helms and carrying swords or lances. They were wolf raiders; they had to be. As Cabe had thought, the Aramites would not have been so careless about covering their tracks unless those tracks were in an area very, very close to the encampment.

A little more distance and I might have landed in the center of their army! He considered it fortunate that he had been forced to deal with only one soldier. This close, he might have found himself confronting yet another patrol . . . a better prepared patrol, this time.

Cabe allowed the foursome to pass. Once they had, the wary mage continued on. He was not exactly certain of what he hoped to accomplish, but the closer he journeyed the more something new began to drive him toward the camp. It was almost as if someone was calling to him. Not anyone malevolent; his senses were acute enough for him to know that. No, someone who needed his help. That was what it felt like to him. Even if he was wrong and the feeling of need was only a figment of his imagination, Cabe would have still been willing to invade the Aramites’ camp. He had to know how many men there were and how well supplied the army was. Most important of all, he had to know what their plans were. Where might they strike other than Zuu? Without the Crystal Dragon’s magical sanctum, which saw everything and everyone, skulking through the encampment was the only way by which he could hope to gather the information he needed.

So far, his last few spells had worked the way they were supposed to work. Cabe wondered if he dared one more. He was taking a risk with this one, for it required a much longer duration. There was a good chance that the spell would deteriorate unexpectedly in the sorcerous mist.

The sounds of camp life reached his ears. Even throughout the night there would be those who were on duty and those who simply did not sleep. Sleep had probably not been quick in coming for the Aramites, not in this magic-wracked fog.

He would have to risk the spell. If it worked, it would give him a free hand. If it did not, the Aramite keeper might yet have his life.

He cast the spell about him. Unfortunately, there was no way to tell whether he had succeeded until he confronted someone. Under normal circumstances, Cabe would have been certain of his success, but so long as Legar was blanketed, nothing was certain.

With great care, the warlock walked toward the camp. It was not far, he discovered. The first of the sentries came into sight only a few minutes later. A trio of wolf raiders conversed with one another. It was time for the changing of the guard. With the two sentries was an officer, marked so by the cloak he wore. What they were saying, Cabe could not hear, for their voices were too quiet. He braced himself and walked toward them.

One of the guards glanced his way. The warlock stiffened, ready to do what he had to do in order to protect his anonymity. His patience was rewarded, however, for after a brief moment, the raider turned his attention once more to his superior.

The spell worked. Unless Cabe drew added attention to himself, he would be able to walk unnoticed through the entire army. He was not actually invisible, but like Shade had done so many times in the past, he now blended into his surroundings. It was an easier spell and one that did not require as much will and power to maintain. It was also a bit more of a danger.

He was careful to give the trio a wide enough berth. Once past them, Cabe did not look back. There was too much ahead of him that needed his attention.

Cabe had seen armed camps before, but the organization and efficiency of this one dismayed him. He had assumed that the wolf raiders would be a more haphazard bunch after their flight from the war, but while the men and equipment did have that weary and battle-worn look to them, this was not an army of refugees. These soldiers were here to fight. They would grumble and their officers would beat some of them, but this was most definitely a force to fear.

Walking among an army that would have slain him in an instant if his spell failed, Cabe could not help but feel ill at ease. Nonetheless, he moved through the camp with little hesitation, noting the number of tents and men he saw and estimating how many more there might be. The warlock listened to fragments of conversations about the war in the empire and the decisions of the expedition’s leaders. He heard the name “D’Farany” used more than once and always in fearful respect. From what he discerned, Cabe was certain that the Aramite sorcerer was the very same man. His worry increased a hundredfold. Under a leader like the keeper, the wolf raiders became an even greater threat. D’Farany was the sort of commander who would drive his men beyond normal limits, if only out of fear of him.

Several times soldiers on sentry duty crossed his path and during one such incident one paused before him, squinting. The guard tightened his grip on his sword, but after staring for several seconds, he blinked and continued on. Cabe’s heart did not start beating again until the guard was far away.

The warlock was in what he guessed was the center of the encampment when, to his shock, he sensed an all too familiar presence. It could only have been because of the fog that he had not noticed it sooner. In fact, Cabe was certain that the sense of need he had felt earlier could only have come from this source.

“Darkhorse . . .” he muttered. They have Darkhorse!

Like a beacon, the shadow steed’s presence drew him along. Cabe was forced to walk around several tents and avoid numerous sentries, but at last he saw a huge, looming shape in the distance. The ensorcelled mage glanced around. The light had not changed much for the past several minutes; this was evidently as bright as the day was to become. Cabe was relieved. It would be difficult enough to rescue Darkhorse, out in the open as he was, without more illumination further increasing visibility. For once, the fog worked to his benefit.

The distance that remained he covered in swift enough fashion, but the last few yards were still the hardest he had crossed yet. Not because of any encounter with sentries, but rather because he was at last able to see what had become of his old friend.

The ebony leviathan stood silent in an open patch away from the main encampment. Two sentries stood watch from a more than healthy distance, but they were there more for decoration and were not even looking at the captive. What truly held the shadow steed prisoner was a peculiar, metallic harness device that hung around his neck. From the harness stretched four thin lines whose other ends were looped around his legs just above the hooves. Cabe could detect the power ravaging Darkhorse even from far away. The baleful Aramite device was designed not only to hold its captive in place, but to slowly drain him of any will or strength to escape. Judging by the way the eternal’s head dropped and how dim the once-blazing eyes were, the foul creation of the wolf raiders was doing its work and doing it well.

The guards did not notice him, but when the warlock was only a few yards from Darkhorse, the shadow steed raised his weary head. He did not look at the spellcaster, but Cabe felt a weak touch in his mind. Cabe shuddered at the feebleness of that touch. How had the eternal come to this?

He continued on past the guards, who looked too caught up in their misery at having had to stand night duty to ever notice a specter crossing their paths. The silent warlock walked until he was next to the prisoner, then turned around so that he could keep watch on the sentries while he and Darkhorse conversed.

“Can you speak?” Cabe whispered.

“That . . . power is still mine. I had . . . given up hope . . . for you, Cabe. My heart lightens.”

The shadow steed’s tone did anything but lighten his. This close, he could better feel the wicked work of the harness. Each moment further drained his companion of his might. Darkhorse, however, was almost all magic; if the harness was allowed to continue its work unheeded, it would eventually drain the eternal’s very essence away.

“You can’t shift?”

“No, the harness prevents that.”

Cabe studied the diabolical creation while he talked. “How did you come to be here? Did the patrol capture you after we were separated?”

A little of Darkhorse’s bluster returned. The harness might be sapping his strength, but the return of the warlock was a revitalizing force. “That rabble? They scattered in every direction and never came back.”

One of the guards turned, a look of curiosity spread across his war-ravaged face. His comrade also turned, but seemed more curious about what the other sentry was doing. The first man took two steps toward the eternal and stared at him. With a casual turn of his head, the black stallion stared back. The guard swallowed and stumbled back, much to the amusement of his companion. Both men swapped glares at each other, then returned to their duties.

“Talk quieter!” hissed Cabe. “At the level I do.”

“I have become . . . careless . . . but it is so good to see you, Cabe! I thought my obsession had cost you your life. In dwelling on the loss of one friend, one enemy, I did not pay heed when another friend needed me.”

“You were trying to protect me,” the human protested, still attempting to find some way of removing the harness. He had to be wary; there were alarm spells woven into the arrangement. They were old, however, likely implemented when the harness had first been created. If he was careful, Cabe was certain that he would have no trouble bypassing them. Actually releasing Darkhorse from his magical chains was a more troublesome predicament. The sorcery involved in the evil work of the device was bound also to the captive. In trying to free his friend, Cabe might kill him instead.

“Do you have any notion as to how this may be removed?”

“I do not.” Darkhorse sounded much stronger, if not any more confident. “Forget me, Cabe. There are other matters you would be better off attending to.”

The warlock thought about the wild Nimthian sorcery loose below, but said nothing concerning it to Darkhorse. He could not leave the shadow steed here. Besides, with the stallion’s aid, perhaps a solution to that situation could be discovered. “I’m not leaving you.”

Both sentries turned. Cabe moved as close as he could to his companion. Darkhorse eyed the two raiders, and as had happened before, the soldiers quickly turned away. The dark leviathan’s ice-blue orbs brightened in amusement.

He tilted his head toward Cabe. “Then hear this thought. You asked how I had come to these dire straits. When I discovered that we had become separated, I searched for you. Unable to find any sign, I returned to Esedi, hoping that you would also return there. Much to my dismay, I did not materialize where I had intended. Thinking that the same . . . the same had become of you, I searched the hills carefully. Upon my return to our original point of departure, I was greeted with a surprise.”

As desperate as he was to hear the point of the story, Cabe did not try to hurry Darkhorse. The eternal would explain in his own manner and at his own pace.

Fortunately, this was not to be a long tale. “Awaiting me in the hills was none other than the Lord Gryphon.”

“The Gryphon!” It was all the stunned mage could do to keep from shouting the name. The one thing he had not expected was the lionbird’s return from the war.

“The Gryphon, yes. He it was who joined me when I entered Legar this second time. He it was who was with me when a second and better-equipped patrol found us.” The leviathan lowered his head, the gleam fading a little from his unsettling eyes. “He it is who is now, too, a prisoner of these jackals.”

Which was why the shadow steed had surrendered, no doubt. Cabe forgot the harness. Turning to gaze out at the mist, he asked, “Where? Do you know?”

“There is a large, flat-looking tent to . . . to your present right. It is some distance from here. When I was being led here, I saw them put him in there.”

“After I free you, we’ll rescue him.” His face was grim. The warlock had wished for aid in his mission and he had received it in the form of two prisoners, one weakened near to the point of collapse and the other . . . Cabe tried not to think about what the wolf raiders might do to their most hated enemy.

“You miss my . . . my point, Cabe. Rescue the Gryphon now for two reasons. The first is that he might have the knowledge to free me from this vile contraption. He knows the curs better than either of us. The second reason is of the most import; this morning he is to be presented to the leader by some despicable little monster calling himself D’Marr. I heard that much. If you do not rescue him very, very soon, I fear we will lose our only chance. This D’Marr sounds ready to treat the Gryphon to the tender mercies of the empire at this morning’s confrontation. I do not think our friend is supposed to survive the event.”

Cabe hesitated but a moment. As dire as the shadow steed’s situation was, there was no argument that the Gryphon faced the most immediate threat. For years, Aramite spies and assassins had tried to put an end to what they considered the empire’s chief foe. Now, that foe was in their clutches. It would be an inspiration to D’Farany’s forces and no doubt a way of wreaking vengeance for his own personal losses if the keeper was able to present the Gryphon’s battered and torn body to his followers.

“Show me again the direction,” he finally whispered.

Darkhorse dipped his head toward the unseen tent. “The camp is starting to stir. They have not slept well this last night. Go swiftly but go very cautiously.”

Cabe faced his old friend. “I will be back for you.”

“I have faith. Your being here gives me new strength with which to battle this thing of torture. Now go!”

Slipping past the two sentries, the warlock again moved nigh invisible through the camp. He was pleased his spell still held true, but was aware that each moment made the chances of mishap greater. Cabe had to find the Gryphon, release him, and return to Darkhorse. With the Gryphon to aid him, they would surely be able to find some way to free the eternal. Darkhorse was also large enough to carry both of them, which would be a necessity once either escape was noticed.

He had just sighted the tent when a minor tremor shook the area. It was short and mild, but its appearance raised a muttering among the soldiers nearby, including those who had been sleeping before the quake had begun. Cabe gritted his teeth as he pondered what could be done. Had D’Farany tried to halt the destruction and failed or had he simply abandoned the underworld under the mistaken impression that the violence would not affect the surface?

Guessing was futile. Cabe set his mind on his present task. First the Gryphon, then Darkhorse, and finally escape. Once they were secure, then they could discuss their next move.

Although he was positive that he had found the correct tent, the warlock nonetheless decided to risk reaching out with his mind to discover who or what was inside. It might be that the lionbird had been moved to another location. It also might be that Cabe had chosen the wrong tent. Surely there had to be more than one tent so designed. Moving over to another, much nearer tent . . . just to be on the safe side . . . the warlock probed.

Gryphon? He sensed more than one being in the tent. There were several, in fact, and Cabe’s impression was that they were all prisoners of the wolf raiders. Cabe investigated one of the other minds, then immediately withdrew in disgust. Quel! They had put the Gryphon in with a band of Quel.

At least I know that he’s in there, too. His probe had been able to verify that fact even though Cabe had not actually linked with his former comrade. Still, it would be a wise move to alert the Gryphon to his coming so that the lionbird would be ready when the time for escape arrived.

Then, before he could act, a new presence invaded his senses. Cabe flung himself against the tent and tried to shield his own existence from the other. He prayed it was not too late. If he was discovered now, it was the end for all of them.

Out of the mist came the tall, familiar figure of Lord D’Farany. The keeper strode across the camp accompanied by several men, including a much slighter but foreboding officer who carried on his belt a crystal-tipped scepter that radiated sorcery. The shorter raider was fitting his helm on his head and looked to have been only recently asleep. He was muttering something to Lord D’Farany, who nodded once but did not otherwise reply.

The keeper suddenly came to a halt. As all but the slight officer looked at one another in confusion, the Aramite commander shifted his gaze toward the tent where Cabe hid. The talisman in his hand glowed, but no discernible spell was cast. At his side, the sinister aide also studied the spot where the warlock stood.

Despite the years it seemed, only a handful of seconds passed before the raider commander turned away. The other Aramite continued to watch a moment longer, but when his master resumed his walk, the officer had to follow.

It was not until the danger to his own person was past that Cabe noticed where the party was heading. His fists clenched in frustration and he silently swore in the name of his Vraadish ancestors.

He was too late. The wolf raiders had come for the Gryphon.