Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

XVII

Cabe recalled being thrown aside when the Quel had burst from the ground. What he could not recall were the several seconds after that. Cabe only knew that he opened his eyes to the sight of a squalid whiteness. It took him several seconds more to discover that he had become entangled in a tent. The befuddled mage fought his way out of the canvas, then hurriedly looked all around him to see if he was in immediate danger.

He was not. The battle had been carried away from where he was. The Quel who had surprised the duo was nowhere in sight.

Neither was the Gryphon.

Cabe began to suspect that he had been unconscious for more than a minute. He reached back behind his head, which proved to be a painful mistake, for the warlock made use of his injured arm. That led to another few seconds while he struggled to fight the new agony.

I can do nothing about the arm, but I have dealt with your head injury.

“Wha-?” Cabe started, then clamped his mouth shut. Why did you do it?

There were actually two questions in that one. The voice, the Crystal Dragon, answered both. You struck your head on a piece of wood in the tent. The wound was severe enough that it demanded immediate treatment. I need you as whole as possible for what we musssst do.

The Dragon King had chosen to aid him after all. It was not too surprising to the spellcaster, not when the Crystal Dragon’s own kingdom must certainly be threatened. Cabe was careful to avoid any comment or thought about the Crystal Dragon’s earlier reluctance. The warlock needed a solution and it appeared that only the lord of Legar had one.

At least, he hoped that the Crystal Dragon had a solution.

“But the Gryphon-”

Isss on his way to free the demon steed. He knowsss what your tassssk is to be.

My task? the warlock asked in silence.

There issss only one force capable of driving the evil of Nimth back to where it belongsss! That isss the evil itssself! With the sphere and the Quel platform no more, there isss only one object with ties ssstrong enough to the cursssed sorcery of Nimth to be of ussse! We must have it!

Only one object. Cabe could think of only one, but surely not that. “You don’t mean Lord D’Farany’s talisman?”

The silence that greeted his question told him that the keeper talisman was exactly what the Crystal Dragon meant. The warlock shook his head. There had to be something else.

There is nothing else! It mussst be the tooth!

Cabe stood his ground. Even if I can find him in all of this, he’ll never willingly give me that thing!

I shall do what I can to aid you. I promissse you, Cabe Bedlam, that if there were another way, I would take it! Thisss will either sssave all . . . or it will put an end to usss asss well!

Not a statement evoking confidence, the spellcaster thought wryly. However, his link with the Dragon King was strong enough that he knew the other was not lying. The talisman was the only chance they had.

First, though, Cabe had to find the tooth and take it from a sorcerer more than capable of killing him with it.

He isss to your right at the far end of the camp. I will guide you, but you mussst hurry!

Hurry he did, but not before he first recast the spell making him unnoticeable to those around him. It might or might not work in the midst of all this anarchy, but Cabe felt safer. An invisible shield would have protected him better, but he wanted to save himself for the confrontation with the Aramite commander. The peculiarities of sorcery demanded that while the power was drawn from without, the will and strength of the mage was often paramount to maintaining many of the spells. He did not pretend to understand it; Cabe only knew that those were the rules.

Did a keeper have to abide by the same rules?

His path was surprisingly clear of violence, despite all he heard and saw around him. There was still no way of knowing whether either force had gained the upper hand. A Quel died with three bolts in her neck; the Aramites were quick to learn the weaknesses of their much larger foes. However, the Quel were learning, too. Those that did not have weapons tore from the earth massive hunks of rock, which they threw with uncanny accuracy at their smaller, quicker opponents. Cabe came across one body whose face and upper torso were crushed beneath a rock probably as heavy as the warlock was. He had always been aware of the astonishing strength of the diggers, but this new reminder struck home.

In some places, the threat was not from either side, but from the land itself. Crevices had opened up throughout the area and more were opening every minute. Cabe saw one man plummet to his death as the surface under him abruptly caved in. The warlock himself had to leap across growing ravines more than once. Only the Dragon King’s guidance kept him on his course.

Then, amid the fighting armies and the trembling earth, Cabe saw Lord D’Farany. The keeper and three other raiders, all officers, were attempting to seize control of a number of horses penned up nearby, but were having limited success. Two animals were nearly saddled, but the other horses were too overwrought and fought the wolf raiders.

D’Farany was mounting one of the two animals readied for flight.

Cabe started to run. He wanted to be as close as possible before he attempted a spell in this chaos, but his time was limited. The Aramite commander looked more than ready to leave his men behind if they did not hurry. Evidently Lord D’Farany had decided that the Quel attack was too long of a delay to risk. Even if his men defeated the underdwellers, which was not a certainty, the time lost would be too great. This entire region was heading for total collapse.

In his anxiousness to cut the distance between the keeper and himself, the warlock did not watch his path closely enough.

He tripped over something large and moving, falling face first into the inhospitable soil with a jarring crash.

Groaning, Cabe looked up, fearful that the Aramite commander had already fled. What he saw was not the wolf raider, but rather a mouthful of jagged, yellowed teeth. The teeth were in the wide-open jaws of a monstrosity the size of a small dog, but more rodentlike in appearance. It had positively the ugliest countenance that the bruised mage had ever seen, and that included such creatures as the Quel or ogres. It looked hungry. Very, very hungry.

He tried to roll aside as it leapt, but the horror twisted in the air, and as Cabe turned onto his back, it fell upon his chest. Cabe gasped as all the air went out of him. The warlock was barely able to get his hands up in time to keep the beast from his throat. It snapped at him and the foul breath was almost enough to kill him, teeth or no.

His arm was in agony and a second snap by the thing added to the pain in the form of a shallow wound. He was able to push it back just enough so that the strong jaws could not keep hold. The viciousness of the beast was so astonishing that Cabe hardly had time to concentrate. Twice he failed and both times the monstrosity’s horrid maw moved a little closer to his throat.

With a last desperate push, Cabe finally managed to put the ratlike beast at arm’s length. Ignoring the throbbing pain, the warlock glared at his catch.

It squealed. Squealed in fear. He allowed himself a slight smile. It was nice to have something afraid of him for once. Despite its mournful squeal, however, he did not stay his course. The punishment had been chosen. The beast twisted and turned in his grip and as it did, it shrank. It shrank to the size of a rabbit, then a robbin redbreast, and then the rat it so resembled. Even that was not good enough. Cabe did not stop until his attacker was no larger than an acorn. At that point, he closed a fist around it and, stretching back his good arm, threw the vermin as far away as he could manage. The tiny beast vanished into the fog.

Cabe turned back, fearful that he was too late, but he found that Lord D’Farany had not yet departed. In fact, the keeper was looking in his direction and not smiling in the least.

The warlock searched his mind for the presence of the Crystal Dragon but could not reestablish the link. The Dragon King had seemingly abandoned him at the worst possible instant.

D’Farany spurred his steed and guided the animal slowly toward his enemy. He made no attempt at a spell but the warlock sensed the power flowing about the wolf raider, power whose source lay in a pouch at the hip of the Aramite. Behind him came the three officers, one astride and two on foot. They, unlike their master, were armed and ready to kill.

“You should be dead. Like I once was. But I came back to life and so have you. I think you must be, in your own way, as tenacious a foe as the Gryphon,” D’Farany remarked, the lipless smile just barely coming into play.

“In some ways, more so. Is this raider loyalty I see before me? You weren’t long in abandoning your men, were you?”

The officers took his slight as the final insult and moved to cut him down. Lord D’Farany raised a hand, halting them in midstride. “I do not abandon my men. I abandon wars that are lost and I have, in the past, abandoned sanity, but I do not abandon my men. I have the power to save them right here.” He patted the pouch. “And as long as I have it near, I can do anything.”

The earth tried to swallow Cabe up. Literally. The ravine that opened had boulders for teeth and a sinuous, seeking column of clay that acted as a hunting tongue. Cabe had wondered if the keeper could control his power even when the talisman was not in his hands. Now he knew, although the coming of that new knowledge had almost been a second too late.

Yet, the warlock had been expecting the worst and so he was ready. Cabe rose above the gaping mouth and beyond the searching tongue. He felt D’Farany work his power. The tongue, like an earthen snake, followed after him, growing to match whatever height the dark-haired mage dared.

A violent wind turned Cabe’s flight into a spinning terror. He first thought it was the Aramite’s work until a chance glimpse showed that D’Farany, too, was having trouble controlling his sorcery. While the warlock was finding it nigh impossible to direct his flight, the wolf raiders were now having to do combat with the animated creation of their master. The column of clay darted in and out, first matching blows with the two officers on foot, then trying to seize either rider.

Nimth was overwhelming all of them.

Dragon King, where are you?

I . . . sssspell . . . it will . . . The message in his mind was meaningless garbage. Cabe struggled to force his will upon the spell he had started. In a sense, he finally succeeded, for suddenly the startled mage was plummeting earthward.

Cabe was unable to keep himself aloft, but in the last second, his will was strong enough to create a cushion of air, making his landing only a bit harsh. Lord D’Farany’s creation did not seize him when he touched ground, which he assumed meant that it still fought with the Aramites. That proved true enough. In fact, the serpentlike appendage had wrapped itself around one of the horses, throwing the officer riding the steed to the ground, and was even now dragging the poor creature kicking into its maw.

Two soldiers pursued the trapped animal, but Lord D’Farany barked an order, causing them to backstep. Shrieking, the steed was pulled into the magical jaws. As the hapless mount disappeared from view, the mouth simply vanished. There was no sign of the ravine and no sign of the unfortunate beast.

Seemingly satisfied, D’Farany then pointed at the third man, the one who had been thrown off the horse, and said something unintelligible that the warlock assumed was an order to see to the condition of the injured officer. The two remaining officers obeyed without hesitation.

The keeper glanced in his direction. One hand went into the pouch where the talisman was kept. Lord D’Farany wanted a more direct control over his spells. The talisman was useful as a focus, but Cabe knew it was also a crutch of sorts to a sorcerer’s imagination. Those who relied on talismans concentrated too much sometimes on what was in front of them, for that was where their toys were focused. That meant that on occasion they left their other defenses weak.

So he hoped.

The warlock did not wait for his counterpart to retrieve the tooth. Quite suddenly, there were ten Cabes all about the area. Each one moved with purpose, but not the same purpose as his twins. Some stood where they were while others moved toward the keeper and his men.

Among the latter was the true Cabe Bedlam, who now stood far to the right of his previous position. It was a risky spell, as all were in this place, but it had worked like perfection. The false Cabes moved their hands about in mystical passes that actually had no meaning. Creation and control of the illusions were actually not a great strain for him. They required much less power than true conjuration. Now he only had to hope that his adversary fell prey to it.

D’Farany did pause, losing a precious second or two while he studied his multiplied opponent. Then he pulled free the talisman and pointed it at one of the farther images. Out of the corner of his eyes, Cabe watched the duplicate ripple, then fade away. He hurried his pace. Just a little closer . . .

Swinging his arm around, the keeper brought the talisman to play on one image after another. His steed, made jittery by the madness around him, struggled with the Aramite, slowing D’Farany’s work another critical few seconds. The warlock edged closer, glancing now and then at the other raiders. The two officers were still bent over the third, who would not be rising soon, if at all, from the looks of him. Cabe did not fear the two remaining. Only their master was a danger.

Then it was that Lord D’Farany’s deadly talisman was pointed directly at him . . . only to continue on until the keeper had fixed it on the illusionary Cabe to the warlock’s right.

The Aramite had assumed that one of the ten must be his adversary. He was wrong. Cabe walked among his duplicates, but to all eyes but his own, he was not there. Not unless they looked close. Cabe had relied on the tremors and his duplicates to draw attention from himself. Meanwhile, the same spell that had allowed him to enter the wolf raider encampment now allowed him to move toward the keeper. As long as D’Farany had other things to occupy his sight, he would not see the warlock. Of course, there were limitations. The nearer Cabe moved, the more chance there was that the Aramite sorcerer’s will would overcome the spell. Had he tried to actually reach Lord D’Farany and pull him from the saddle, it was likely that Cabe would have been attacked long before he was close enough to do anything. Fortunately, he had no intention of getting that close.

At least, not at first.

He reached his destination just before D’Farany, still battling his anxious steed, focused the talisman on the last of Cabe’s duplicates. The keeper was having trouble maintaining aim, which was what the warlock had hoped for. It gave him just enough time to prepare and then to unleash his own assault.

The ground before the nervous stallion exploded in one bright, raucous burst after another. The bursts of light appeared all about the steed, growing noisier with each consecutive explosion. Already flighty, the stallion could take no more of the happenings around it. It bucked and reared, trying to escape the explosions.

Lord D’Farany fought in vain to remain in the saddle. He first slid back, then fell forward as he tried to grab hold of the saddle with the hand not clutching the carved tooth. In the process of grasping, the keeper lost his hold on the reins.

Not daring to pause, the warlock turned on the remaining pair of wolf raiders, who even now rose to aid their master. Cabe dealt with them in the simplest of manners, using a tiny portion of his skill to raise two heavy stones and fling them toward the duo. Neither man had a chance to deflect the oncoming projectiles. Helms or not, the stones struck with enough force to knock both officers senseless.

Unable to collect his thoughts enough to control his beast, Lord D’Farany was finally thrown off his horse. The fall was not as harsh a one as Cabe had originally hoped, but the bucking stallion did manage to toss the keeper almost exactly where Cabe had wanted.

Now he leapt.

The determined spellcaster fell on top of his counterpart. D’Farany, still dazed by the fall, was unable to prevent Cabe from getting a grip on his wrists. Only when he realized that his precious talisman was no longer in his hand did the keeper truly begin to struggle. He did not even attempt a spell, although perhaps his kind needed their tokens on their person. The only magic that the warlock could recall D’Farany using on his own was when he had summoned the talisman to him and that might very well be only possible because of his link to the thing in the first place. There was too much that Cabe did not know about Aramite sorcerers.

Cabe, searching while he fought, saw the object of both their quests only a yard or so away. To his dismay, it was inching its way toward the two. Recalling how the tooth had flown to the hands of the Aramite sorcerer, he realized that as long as the keeper could think, D’Farany could summon the talisman to him. Only the fact that he battled with Cabe kept him from already retrieving his cursed trinket. A minute or two and he would control it again.

That time the warlock would not allow him. This close to each other, he, at least, knew how risky it was to cast any sort of potent spell. However, there was one more illusion he planned on trying. He only hoped that his imagination and the Gryphon’s descriptions in a long-ago letter would be enough.

Cabe’s visage melted, becoming the dark, murky outline of a great and terrible lupine creature with burning eyes and a toothy maw capable of taking in whole a man’s head.

Lord D’Farany’s face grew blank, then twisted into a horrific mask of reverence for the beast he saw above him.

Releasing one of the keeper’s wrists, Cabe formed a fist and punched D’Farany in the jaw with as much force as he could muster. His hand ached for a time after, but the results were well worth the pain.

“Sometimes the direct way is the best way,” he muttered to the unconscious keeper. Only against a man such as D’Farany would an illusion like the one Cabe had cast succeed. The Gryphon had described his meeting with the Aramites’ rabid deity, the lupine Ravager, spending some length on the ghostly image of the monster and the devotion the keepership displayed for their darksome god. D’Farany had reacted exactly as the warlock had calculated. A good thing, too; he would have been at a loss as to what to do next if his trick had failed.

The talisman! said a sudden, familiar voice in his head. There is little time left to undo the damage!

“If I’d had a little more help with this,” the warlock snarled, climbing over D’Farany, “I would’ve been done earlier.”

I mussst conssserve my sssstrength!

“What about mine?”

The talisman! the inner voice roared.

I have it! he sent back, more than a little bitter. Out loud, Cabe asked, “What now?”

Now, came the oddly hesitant but unusually controlled voice of the Dragon King. Now you must hold it together at all costs. You must not allow it to shatter, lest all we manage to do is unleash further decay and chaos from the realm of my past!

That sounded like nothing Cabe desired to be a part of, but he nonetheless held the talisman tight. “What are you going to do?”

The keeper’s toy is the only thing still with a link to Nimth and the dark power of that wretched world. It is not one I would trust long to survive the effort, but it is all we have. I will take the power of Nimth and use it as only one born of the Vraad could. I will take that power and bring peace to my realm . . . peace or death.

“But-” Cabe’s protest died on his lips as he felt the first surge of power flow into and then out of the talisman. Almost immediately he understood what the Dragon King had meant about holding the talisman together. There was so much energy, so much of the wrong magic being forced through it that the tooth was being stretched beyond its abilities. The Crystal Dragon was using it as more than just a receptacle or a focus or even both together and the strain was tearing it apart.

The Crystal Dragon’s voice grew indifferent, distant. Let the power of Nimth at last do something worthy. Let Legar hear its power . . . and then let Nimth be silent forever!

From all around, there came a sound, a piercing sound that suddenly simply was. It was powered from the great forces pouring through the hole between worlds, but it was transmitted from all around. The storms, the wind, and the wild, drifting magic gave way to a trembling. It was not a quake. Cabe could only think of it as the entire land vibrating and the faster the frequency of that vibration, the greater the intensity of the sound.

Keep your mind on the talisman! Let the ssssound drift away! I shall-

The deafening noise sent the warlock to his knees, but he did not lose his control. It was not because of the knowledge that the spell would fade unfinished, but because he knew that to do so would mean his death. He only hoped the spell’s success would not mean the same.

Then, coherent thought was no longer possible. There was only the sound. The damning sound.

As Cabe fought against the verlok, the Gryphon’s own battle commenced. It began with circling, as the two wary opponents sized up each other. The lionbird did so in silence; Orril D’Marr was the opposite.

“When I found the tent in ruins and the bodies of the beasts and guards lying there-but not yours-I was furious. To have caught you at last and then have you slip away . . . it was just too much. I’ve waited too long!”

The Gryphon glanced over D’Marr’s back at Darkhorse, who remained motionless. There would be no help there, not that he wanted any. D’Marr was his and his alone. As much as the young officer wanted him, the Gryphon wanted the wolf raider more. Even though practicality was screaming that escape was the only option for either of them, neither would have stepped back now.

D’Marr’s scepter glistened as Legar once had. The Aramite made two jabs with it, always withdrawing before the Gryphon had a chance to grab the deadly little tool by its handle. He was aware of how useless his power was against the wolf raider while D’Marr carried the mace. That was not a great disappointment to the Gryphon. Demion’s death demanded a more personal struggle. Orril D’Marr had to be made to know what it meant to kill one of the Gryphon’s own. Besides, he did not want to trust to sorcery too much in this place. A thing like the scepter might work here, but spells cast might kill the caster instead.

Around them, the earth shook and crevices opened. Green lightning still played with the plain. Neither fighter cared in the least. They had come almost to the point where interference by anyone, be it Quel, wolf raider, or one of the Gryphon’s allies, would result in a bizarre alliance between the duelists against those interlopers. Only the rampages of the realm itself stood any chance at all of coming between them.

“Would you like your sword, birdman? Perhaps asking for it politely will gain you something.” The Aramite’s visage was still damningly indifferent. His eyes were not.

The Gryphon displayed his talons. “I have these. They are all I need for you.”

“Well have the sword, anyway,” D’Marr remarked, kicking it toward his foe.

Puzzled and wary, but knowing the sword would cancel out the advantage of length the wolf raider presently had, the former mercenary retrieved the blade. There was no lunge from D’Marr, merely that shadow of a smile. The lionbird had met few men who could unbalance him the way that this one did. Nothing about the Aramite could be trusted, not even the way he breathed. Still, now the Gryphon had a weapon he could make use of without coming dangerously close to the scepter.

“Whenever you are ready, D’Marr.”

The wolf raider laughed . . . and brought his mace into play while the Gryphon was still marveling over the peculiar reaction from the normally diffident officer. He only discovered the reason for that laugh when his blade came up to parry the attack. As the two weapons struck each other, Orril D’Marr pulled his back, bringing the head of the scepter into contact with the metal blade.

The Gryphon was unable to stifle his scream.

He dropped the sword and stumbled away as quickly as he could, all the while keeping blurred eyes on the position of the Aramite. D’Marr was not pursuing him, however. He was simply smiling at the Gryphon’s misfortune and at the success of his trick.

Compared to this present attack, the blow he had taken while engrossed in the effort of freeing Darkhorse had been only a bee sting. The lionbird could not stop shaking. His head pounded and his legs threatened to fold.

“That’s a setting somewhere in the middle, birdman,” smirked the raider officer. The true Orril D’Marr was coming to the surface at last. “Didn’t you know that all I have to do is touch something you’re touching? Could be metal. Could be cloth. If you wear it or carry it, you’ll feel the mace’s bite. My predecessor was wonderful with detail like that.”

“What-what happened to him?”

“He was slow to realize my potential, but then the accident took care of that oversight.” Even if the raider’s words had not been clear enough in their meaning, the Gryphon would have understood what D’Marr was saying. The path to promotion in the Aramite empire was littered with the bodies of those not quick enough to know which of their brethren wanted their throats. It was encouraged; after all, it was the law of the Pack. The better officers would weed out the lessers.

Before him stood a prime example of the former. The tradition of blind obedience was for the lower ranks, the line soldiers, and those you feared enough to serve.

D’Marr gave his scepter a lazy swing. “Shall we have another go at it?”

The Aramite thrust with the mace, a maneuver that would have been foolish if not for the horrific ability of the head. Dodging aside, the Gryphon utilized his exceptional reflexes and slashed out at his adversary’s weapon arm. Talons tore at ebony armor to no avail. The officer’s armor was of a grade much higher than that of a common guard. Nonetheless, D’Marr backed away, aware that he was growing just a bit too careless.

Still, under the oncoming pressure of the scepter, the Gryphon was pushed farther and farther back. Each step was a precarious venture in itself, for not only was the ground increasingly uneven, but the intensity of the tremor had become so great that even on the flattest surface it would have been a challenge to maintain his footing. Even Orril D’Marr, working with a vast advantage over the lionbird, was finding it difficult to keep steady.

“Why don’t you come to me, bird? Are you part chicken? Is that what all those feathers mean?” The Aramite officer pretended to lunge. “Are you going to prove as much a coward as that stripling of yours?”

If he hoped to goad the Gryphon into a frenzy as he had nearly succeeded in doing the last time he had mentioned Demion, the wolf raider was mistaken. For the memory of his son, the lionbird was trying his best to keep his instincts in check. They would have their uses when the moment came, but they could not be allowed control.

At that moment, his foot came down upon a small crack in the earth, a crack just wide enough to catch the heel. The Gryphon weaved back and forth, trying to regain his balance. Orril D’Marr charged at him, the scepter ablaze in hideous glory.

It was not the Gryphon who ended up falling. By dropping to a crouch, he managed to just barely stabilize himself. The eager raider, on the other hand, stepped on a portion of ground that that tremor had loosened but not broken up. D’Marr’s heavy boot was more than enough impetus; a good piece of earth gave way, scattering about, and the Aramite went sliding down on his back.

It was all the feathered fury needed. He turned his crouch into a leap at the throat of the murderer of his son. Gasping, D’Marr twisted away, but not quite enough to escape untouched. The Gryphon went crashing into the harsh soil, but the claws of his maimed hand caught the side of the raider’s neck. D’Marr shouted out in agony. The smell of blood reached the Gryphon and he felt the wetness spread down his fingers.

There was no time to savor the strike, for the Aramite was far from dead. Orril D’Marr continued to roll until he was facing his adversary again. Despite the fall, he had kept hold of the scepter, which he immediately swung at the sprawled figure beside him. The Gryphon blocked it with his arm, careful to meet the scepter at the handle. He tried to twist his hand around and grab hold, but D’Marr was having none of that. The wolf raider scrambled back, then rose to his feet. Blood was seeping from twin scars running along the side of his throat. The smile had been replaced by growing fury and perhaps a hint of fear.

Standing, the lionbird showed the raider officer his bloodsoaked fingers. “The first taste, D’Marr. The first taste of my revenge. I will not stop until the skin on your face has been peeled away the same way one would peel away the hide off of a dead wolf. I doubt if there will be as much call for your hide, but I know two, counting myself, who will prize the experience.”

“I’ll see your head mounted on a wall first, birdman!” The wolf raider came at him again.

The Gryphon ducked the initial swing, then slashed at D’Marr as the raider’s arm went by. Again, his talons caught on the armor, but he pulled away before the Aramite could swing the scepter back. D’Marr managed to kick him in the leg. The Aramite underestimated the lionbird’s strength, however, and instead of sending his foe to the ground, he almost lost his own balance.

The Gryphon leapt once more. Orril D’Marr was not able to bring the mace down in time. The two collided and fell, locked in mortal combat. D’Marr would not release the scepter and the Gryphon had to put all his effort into maintaining a three-fingered grip on that arm. They rolled on for several yards with first the lionbird on top, then D’Marr, and so on.

It was the sound that almost put an end to the battle for both of them. A high, agonizing sound that cut through the ear and the mind. The duo separated, each seeking only to cover their ears and save their sanity. The Gryphon barely noticed that the earth no longer shook, but rather vibrated, a somewhat different and puzzling movement.

Orril D’Marr had thrown off his helmet and was rummaging in his belt pouches for something. He had dropped the mace, but the Gryphon was at first unable to act. It was all he could do to stand. A part of his mind pushed him on, though, reminding him that if he died Troia would come next. She would face Orril D’Marr on her own. For her and the sake of the child yet unborn, he could not allow that.

He took a step forward . . . and almost lost his life. Cracked and broken by the tremors, the cavern-riddled earth of Legar could little stand up to the constant vibration now occurring. Whole areas of the surface began to collapse into the underground system the Quel had established over the centuries. The ground before him gave way just as his foot came down. Only his reflexes saved him. As it was, the Gryphon lost his balance and slipped. His legs dangled over the new ravine for a time, but with effort he was able to pull himself back up.

A hard boot struck him in the side.

Orril D’Marr stood above him, a peculiar set of coverings over his ears. The Gryphon recalled the wolf raider speaking of working with explosive powders; D’Marr must have designed the coverings for his projects. It was clear that they did not completely filter out the sound, but they worked well enough for the Aramite to move about without having to hold his ears.

Unable to concentrate enough to shapeshift, the lionbird could do nothing about his own predicament. It was a wonder he was not deaf by now. Part of his magical makeup, no doubt. Still, deafness was the least of his worries. The greatest was that D’Marr once more had his foul toy in hand and this time he looked ready to try its strongest touch.

Knowing he could not be heard over the horrible sound, the wolf raider leaned over his shaking adversary and mouthed out an arrogant farewell. That proved to be his fatal mistake. Despite his knowledge of the Gryphon, Orril D’Marr was evidently unaware of the stamina and resilience of the lionbird. He thought the Gryphon too overwhelmed to have any fight left in him.

That was just the way the Gryphon wanted it.

His spinning roll caught the wolf raider’s legs. The Aramite officer went down under him, but did not lose the magical mace. The Gryphon easily caught the awkward strike that D’Marr tried, then began to bend the raider’s arm back, bringing the scepter toward its master’s face. Although he felt he must soon black out, the former mercenary pushed with all his might. It was time for Orril D’Marr to understand what his victims had gone through.

The ground shifted, sinking lower on one side of the duelists.

Cursing, the weakening lionbird tried one last effort. Throwing his full weight into it, he forced the scepter into the wolf raider’s snarling visage. D’Marr, however, twisted aside and the jeweled head went past his face. The snarl became a smile.

The tip of the scepter grazed the raider’s shoulder.

Lying as he was half on his adversary, a prick of pain coursed through the lionbird, but it was little compared to what D’Marr must have felt. So very close, the Gryphon could not help but hear the scream. The Aramite had said that armor would be of no help and he had been all too correct.

Fueled by his agony, the wolf raider managed to throw the Gryphon off of him. He also succeeded in dropping the scepter as well. The ground tipped even more, but Orril D’Marr hardly noticed. He was still hunched together, trying to recover.

The lionbird had given his all, but now he realized it was time to get away. The area was collapsing and it would do no good to die here if he could ensure otherwise. Half stumbling and half crawling, he abandoned the Aramite to his fate. If they both survived, the Gryphon would be more than happy to renew the struggle. Staying here was simple foolishness.

Behind him, d’Marr recovered enough to realize his danger. He searched for the mace, found it, and hobbled after his enemy. When he had seen that the tip was coming toward him, he had tried to lower the weapon’s intensity. It was all that had saved him. Now, though, D’Marr let the full power of the scepter rise again. One way or another, he would kill the birdman. He would.

About to pass out, the Gryphon rolled over and saw the wolf raider stumbling toward him. He also saw the ground just beyond his own feet begin to crack. The lionbird dragged himself back a bit more and watched in fascination at the tableau that unfolded before him.

Orril D’Marr obviously felt the earth collapsing, for he started to run toward his foe. Still suffering from the effects of his own toy, the Aramite stumbled and fell to his knees. He dropped the mace again and as he fumbled with the handle, trying to get a grip, the ground he knelt upon finally broke completely loose.

The last glimpse the Gryphon had of Orril D’Marr was the image of the wolf raider, his face composed one final time into that bland mask, raising the scepter to throw at his cursed enemy.

Then . . . there was only a cloud of thick dust as tons of rocky earth crumbled into the vast crater.

Demion . . . he managed to think. Demion . . . he is no more, my son. The monster is dead.

He settled back, willing to let oblivion take him, when a darkness covered him from head to foot. There was blissful silence and none of the oppressive heat of Legar. Too weak to wonder, the Gryphon merely accepted everything.

A stentorian voice broke the silence. “I . . . will protect you as . . . well as I can, Lord Gryphon! I cannot . . . promise you . . . but we may survive this yet!”

At the moment he did not care. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep for the first time in almost two days . . . and sleep well for the first time since his son’s death.