A WOLF IN THE FOLD

SUFFER NOT THE CHILDREN...

 

I

 

The cavern glittered, its walls encrusted with a multitude of crystals of varying proportion. The flames from the two torches set in niches on opposites ends of the chamber were all that were needed to create the dazzling light that filled his surroundings.

He fidgeted, but not because the constantly-shifting illumination bothered his wide, feline eyes. No, the young, brown-furred figure fidgeted for a far better reason—to try to escape the black ropes which bound him from head to foot.

Although only a small child, the captive tried his best to hide his deep fear. His father and his mother were the bravest people he knew and he tried to emulate them, but it was so, so difficult. They knew everything, could defeat any enemy.

But they were back home and he...he had no idea where he was, save that it was a place worthy of any nightmare.

As if to accentuate that thought, a fearsome figure suddenly filled his gaze. Immediately he ceased his fidgeting.

The monster stared down at his him with narrow, red orbs. It had a long, slim snout that ended in a tiny but toothy mouth. The snout constantly shifted up and down, as if the behemoth sought to absorb every scent.

A scaled arm as thick as the child’s torso reached forward to test the bonds with heavy claws designed for digging through mountains of rock and earth. The monster shook him as it tested the ropes.

“The ropes will hold,” said a toneless, seemingly disinterested voice.

The beast turned to its right, giving the captive a glimpse of the layered armor that covered its backside. Embedded between the various plates were yet more crystals, their purpose unknown. They gave the monster a yet more surreal appearance.

It unleashed a shrill, hooting sound in response to the distant speaker. The beast’s peculiar voice echoed through the massive cavern.

“He is unlikely to free himself,” answered the voice to what apparently had been a question from the creature. “He lacks yet his father’s frustrating tenacity to survive, not to mention his mother’s grace.”

The creature the child had seen twice before, but the speaker was a new thing. His eyes could not help but be drawn to the voice—human if not containing a touch of humanity.

The gargantuan watch dog shuffled aside as the other drew near. To the captive’s momentary relief, the newcomer was indeed human, although of an unnerving appearance.

Beneath a shocking head of utter white hair—hair that clearly had not turned so pale due to age—could be found a plain visage utterly devoid of identifying feature or emotion. In truth, the human’s countenance might have seemed a dead one if not for the scathing hatred boiling over in the eyes.

Under a tattered but serviceable traveling cloak could be seen clear evidence of armor and arms. As the figure approached, the tell-tale squeak of metal followed, reminding Darot of his father’s soldiers.

From within the cloak, an arm shelled in midnight black stretched forth. Unlike the monstrous giant, though, the human reached for the straps binding his prisoner’s mouth tight.

The cloak slipped back as the arm moved, revealing the other limb.

Darot’s feline eyes widened further. What he could see of that arm revealed a twisted, withered appendage, one long dead. Armor hid most of the effect, but near the shoulder and the hand, the horror lay unveiled. The arm looked as if something had burned it away, leaving but a mockery behind.

The cloaked human noticed his eyes. The good hand swiftly retreated—the better to push aside the garment and give the child a good look at the travesty.

“A pretty sight,” Darot’s captor remarked with the same unsettling lack of interest. He might as well have been commenting on some insect he had found wandering near his foot.

His scaled companion hooted loudly.

The icy-haired man did not look at the beast. “The Quel, he thinks it’s dangerous to keep you breathing. He’s for skinning you and wearing your fur for a trophy.”

If he hoped to put more fear in the heart of the child, he readily succeeded. Despite wanting so desperately to be like his father, Darot sniffed and tears dripped down his cheeks.

His plight did nothing to touch the cold heart of the soldier. “I, on the other hand, want to keep you alive long enough for you to see your damned parents flayed and made into a new cloak for me.”

The constantly-shifting glitter only added to the human’s horrific aspect as he leaned closer. Even the animalistic Quel was preferable to the evil that young Darot could sense in the man.

“By now, the note is delivered, the stage is set. Your father will come running, knowing it to be a trap...but still he will come running.” He straightened, absently touching the twisted limb with the good. “And I will pay him back a hundredfold for this and other indignities.”

From the same shadowed entrance through which the human had emerged came a second towering Quel. This one hooted in a slightly deeper tone, clearly relating something of importance.

The cloaked figure nodded, then said to the beast, “The tunnel’s ready, then?”

The second Quel responded with a different, higher note.

“Then have the others to keep an eye on the master of Legar. He likely will not stir himself from his seclusion...but we must be certain of no interference.”

With a final note, the armored behemoth departed. Darot’s captor allowed himself the first sign of emotion, a thin, almost nonexistent smile.

“Everything falls into place...” The smile faded, almost as if it had never been. “But I must be careful. He is a tricky one. He may suspect that what is on the surface is not the only act. He may yet realize the full extent of my vengeance...”

The first Quel uttered a sound. The human glanced at him, nodding. “Yes, I’ll be along in a moment. I’ve just one more thing to say to the boy.”

With his good hand, he reached within his cloak, going behind him. From there he removed a weapon that Darot had not noticed despite its size.

The mace had a crystalline head shaped like a jagged diamond, a head that, as its wielder brought it forward, began to glow as crimson as the Quel’s orbs. The handle had been crafted from what seemed platinum.

“To replace the one lost,” he explained cryptically. “Mark it well, child. You see it? You understand it can hurt just with a touch? Nod, if you do.”

Darot quickly did.

Lowering the arcane weapon, the pale figure thrust his face within inches of his captive’s. Up close, the darkness in the eyes grew staggering. Darot wanted to look away, but knew that if he did, the man would hurt him.

“Try nothing foolish. I won’t hesitate to punish you.” The human’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Your father would vouch for that. He knows of what I’m capable.” A hint of a frown graced his pale features. “Perhaps he’s even mentioned me. Orril D’Marr? You might want to remember that name, child...after all...I killed your brother.”

 

II

The missive had but two parts to it, both simple but dire in their implications. The first was one word, a location.

Legar.

The second, perhaps more ominous than the remote peninsula, was a symbol, a black, stylized beast’s head.

“Looks like a hound,” General Marner finally decided. The burly, mustached soldier had officially served as chief officer of the kingdom of Penacles for the past three years, a position in which he still did not feel comfortable despite having more or less filled it for several more years. To him, to many in the fabled City of Knowledge, his role should have belonged to the lanky, red-haired Toos. Toos had been the long-time companion of the king, taking on the role of regent on what he had considered a temporary basis when his lord had sailed overseas to discover his lost origins. During that time, Marner had taken over his commander’s position. When the king had returned, Toos had gladly stepped down and so had Marner.

But shortly thereafter, Toos had died, the victim of an assassination attempt on another. The king had naturally chosen the one with the most experience to replace his old friend and Marner had tried to live up to the reputation of his predecessor.

At the moment, he was dearly wishing that Toos still lived.

Someone had kidnapped the prince from under his prodigious nose.

“The sign is that of a wolf,” his monarch responded in a tone which Marner had not heard since the loss of General Toos. Claws swiftly darted forward, shredding the parchment adhered to the door of Darot’s chamber by the curved dagger. “To be more specific...the wolf god of the Aramites.”

“The Ravager? Wolf raiders? In Penacles?”

The king cocked his head toward Marner in a manner akin to a bird of prey eyeing its next meal. The movement was not accidental; the lord of Penacles, after all, resembled much a hawk in appearance.

He was not human, at least, not for the most part. To those who saw him, the king was a cross between man, bird, and lion. He had the visage of the bird, but a regal mane both of feathers and a hair. His arms, when visible, were covered in a downy fur somewhat golden brown in color, although of late a hint of gray had finally touched it. His hands were almost human, but ended in slightly curved fingers from which claws stretched and retracted at his will.

The loose garments he wore—red robe, golden jerkin and pants—gave the pretense of a form wholly manlike. In truth, although the torso was mostly so, save for the fur and the nubs of what would have been wings, the legs were bent backward at the knees. In addition, the specially-made leather boots hid the fact that his feet were both birdlike and feline in design—long, slender, and clawed.

Human, avian, leonine...small wonder, when he had washed up near dead and totally devoid of memory on the eastern shores of the vast land called the Dragonrealm that he had taken as his name the most descriptive term for what he was.

The Gryphon.

As the tattered remnants of the note dropped to the carpeted floor, he looked down on his commander. “The room has been searched?”

“From top to bottom. No sign of forcible entry, my lord.” Marner glared at two cloth-covered forms. The guards who had been assigned to the prince. “The poor lads were stabbed with their own blades.”

“Their attacker was known to them, then.” They both knew what that meant, but the Gryphon stated it nonetheless. “One of the curs is in our midst.”

“Aye, my lord.” Marner removed his hawkcrest helmet and went down on one knee. “I am guilty for my failure in protecting your son. My position...my life...is forfeit to you, your majesty.”

The lionbird waved away his words. “I am growing old when I cannot sniff out a wolf raider. You want to redeem yourself in your own eyes, find the traitor in our midst. I rely on you while I am away.”

“Away?” purred a feminine voice from down the corridor. “Away where?”

The Gryphon bit back a curse. He had hoped to be gone before she heard the news. “You shouldn’t be up. The healers said—”

“I bore one son on the battlefield, the other during the storm that tore the roof from the eastern half of the palace. I suffered a miscarriage the next time after, but I swear that this child will be born!”

She moved with a natural grace only slightly hindered by her bulging belly. The silken emerald robe played off her tawny, feline fur. A matching pendant on a silver chain rested on her chest. She walked barefooted—as was her way—on slim, tapered feet ending in short, curved claws. Similarly, her hands, lightly furred, ended in longer, sharper ones that, like her mate’s, retracted.

Under short brown locks two mildly-pointed ears rose erect. The feline visage was both human enough and exotic enough to have made her one of the most alluring women in the fabled kingdom.

Veiled, catlike eyes narrowed further as she approached the Gryphon. “The staff’s been trying to keep me in seclusion. I finally had to threaten my nurse with the promise of a quick trim of her fine long hair...” Her claws stretched forth in emphasis. “What’s going on, Gryph? Where is our son?”

“Troia—”

“I fought an empire at your side! Don’t play games!”

He sighed, never able to hold out against her. “Troia...Darot is missing. He’s been kidnapped...” As he spoke, the Gryphon’s form shifted. Gone was the creature of legend, in its place a handsome, regal figure with flowing hair, cleft chin, and an aquiline nose. Around his mate, the king tended toward such a form. “The mark of the letter is that of the wolf raiders...”

Few times had he seen the cat woman lose her composure. When she had been forced to slay her treacherous mentor, Lord Petrac, she had broken up after the act. The second, more tragic time, had been when Troia had discovered the murder of her first born.

Then, as now, the act had been that of the Aramites, the dread wolf raiders.

“How? How?” She burst past them, racing into Darot’s chambers. The Gryphon and Marner quickly followed after. Troia threw aside the hand-crafted bed sheets, shoved aside the elfwood frame. She flung open and charged into the vast closet.

“Troia!” roared the king.

“He only recently received his life name, too!” Among Troia’s people, infants were given a name at birth, then a new one when they had survived at least four years. She had chosen the name ‘Darot’, after a hero of her race. Darot had gone around proudly for months after being receiving his new name, pretending he was the legendary figure and doing mock battle with amused soldiers.

“Your majesty!” echoed the general.

“Nothing’s been touched! The room is as calm as if he still sleeps!” She pointed at the nearby wall, where Darot’s favored bow and practice sword hung. To the right, an ebony statue of a shadowy stallion stood, a gift from the king and queen of Talak, who knew that Darot found the subject fascinating. The statue represented the ethereal creature called Darkhorse, an immortal who was ally and friend of sorts to the youth’s

parents. “Perhaps he’s simply wandered off on one of his explorations!” Troia desperately suggested. “Like the time he managed to enter the Libraries!”

The Libraries of Penacleshad existed before the City of Knowledge had risen up around it. There were many legends concerning the Libraries’ origins, including the notion that the complex had been built by the ancestors of the modern humans, the Vraad sorcerers. The Libraries were magical and could only be entered through the vast tapestry hanging in the king’s personal chambers and guarded by golems. The tapestry, a masterpiece of magic itself, revealed Penacles as it was up to the moment. Whatever alterations took place, the tapestry added them instantaneously.

The Gryphon shook his head. “No, Troia, he can’t get in again without my permission. He only passed the guardians the first time because he used his blood link to me. They now have different orders.” He considered. “Besides, the Librarian will not let him wander about there any more.”

The sole figure—perhaps figures, as the Gryphon had never been certain if each to whom he spoke was the same—was that of a bald, gnomish little man in voluminous robes who hid behind a sarcastic and condescending personality the knowledge of the workings of the Libraries. Each time someone entered, they were met by what seemed the same creature, this no matter what corridor it was.

On his one visit, Darot had slipped past the usually adept gnome and had run through the edifice, pulling out book after book to see what was in each. Unfortunately, unless one had a specific question and knew which book held the key, all the pages were blank.

Not realizing this unique fact, Darot had gone along looking for one that had something inside...in the process leaving a lengthy trail of scattered tomes behind him.

The queen suddenly grabbed for the headboard of her son’s bed, slipping onto the latter and gasping for breath. Despite the ease of the previous two births, Troia had been suffering during this last pregnancy, so much so that the Gryphon had ordered her to bed rest.

“It’s to be a son...” he heard her whisper. “Another son...but not to replace the previous! Not like last time!”

The Gryphon came to her side, helped her sit. General Marner vanished from the room, returning with a mug of water.

As he leaned toward his mate, the Gryphon’s countenance changed again, reverting to the fearsome avian who has been the death of many Aramites before, including those who had slain his eldest, Demion. In a voice tinged with hatred for the ones who would perform such horrendous acts, he whispered to her and himself, “No...not like last time...”

 

III

To reach the southwestern peninsula from Penacles by normal means took weeks and the Gryphon suspected that the kidnappers had not simply ridden off and hoped to be there before him. They were already at their destination, of that he was certain. The wolf raiders were warriors, true, but they, too, relied on magic at times. To travel such a long distance, they would need a simple but massive spell, one that could be utilized to enable a large force to ride through at once.

A blink hole.

Cold Styx hovered in the night sky as he raced along astride his favored beige steed, following a trail visible only to the object in his hand. The traces of magic would have been impossible to note even for many versed in the arts, but the Gryphon had picked up many tricks and secrets during his long, adventurous life. One of those now helped him see the faint trail of energy left by the artifact that the Aramites would have needed to create the hole.

He had ridden around the area of the city all evening, knowing that somewhere out here the villains had accepted their precious cargo from the traitor and had then departed. The spells protecting Penacles from Dragon Kings also worked against blink holes created by kidnappers. They would have been forced to enter physically through the city gates, which should have drawn some suspicion. Therefore, it was more likely that they had waited outside for their cohort to perform the actual deed, then bring Darot to them.

More than those who now held his young son prisoner, the Gryphon wanted the fiend who had betrayed an oath to accomplish the perfidious act. He hoped Marner would find the perpetrator by the time he returned—assuming he returned.

“No...” the Gryphon muttered. “We will return.”

Even in a land filled with shapeshifting dragon lords, demonic steeds, and more, the Gryphon could not and would not ride out undisguised, even at night. Two hundred-plus years of seeking freedom for those oppressed by the Dragon Kings had made him nearly as legendary as the Bedlam family, the most renown line of wizards and sorcerers. In his role as monarch, he had ruled over more than five generations of humanity, which surely marked his appearance in the eyes of his subjects. Maintaining the transformation that he used when around Troia was more of a strain than even she knew, but for love of her he suffered through it. Away from the palace, though, the Gryphon instead relied on illusion. However, even such a spell demanded a constant stress on his magical abilities, meaning that he would have to rely most on his strength and battle skills should some new situation arise. But such a reliance bothered the Gryphon not in the least, for he was more a warrior than wizard, anyway, and it was those skills he would need most when confronting the wolf raiders.

On a wooded hillside barely a mile from the walls of the city, he abruptly reined his mount to a halt. The night wind ruffled his feathered mane. The Gryphon cocked his head, eyeing the path before him.

He extended his hand, letting sit on his open palm the object that had led him to this point.

In the dim moonlight, the crimson gem suddenly flared bright.

Ahead of the king, the empty air rippled as if due to the advent of a ghost.

The unsettling effect vanished almost the moment it appeared, but the Gryphon had seen enough. The image had been faint, but still a telltale sign that a blink hole had recently opened here. The portal had been removed, but the residual traces left were just enough for him to use.

Placing the crystal in the pouch at his side, the Gryphon used what limited magic remained to him to bind the residue to his power. He urged it to resume its past casting, become once more what its creator had desired.

And suddenly a gap opened up, a shimmering tear in the fabric of reality. It widened, not only large enough for horse and rider, but for a small force of soldiers.

“One or a hundred,” the Gryphon murmured. “I’ll take you all down if so much as a scratch mars my son...”

With that, he urged his steed into the portal.

 

 

 

General Marner drew a line through the second name on his list of suspects. He had nine in all, those whose alibis had not been available at the time of the initial investigation. The second and eighth now had cleared themselves of possible wrongdoing.

He lifted up the parchment, eyeing the rest. One or more of them had aided in the kidnapping.

“Well?” asked a voice from the door. “Did you find the vermin?”

Quickly rising, the general rasped, “Your majesty! The king specifically ordered you back to bed—”

“My son is missing.” Troia said it in such a way that Marner could think of no further reprimand. Had he been in her situation, would he have simply let everyone else take charge?

“I want to help you,” the cat woman muttered. “I need to help you.”

He frowned. “My lady, your infant—”

“Is due in another month. Don’t worry yourself, Marner. I don’t plan armed combat. I just want to offer...my senses.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

She maneuvered herself to a chair in his spartan quarters. Marner, still feeling like an interloper, had only a few personal items in the chambers that had served the indomitable Toos for generations. In the back of his mind, Marner kept expecting the fiery-haired, foxlike mercenary to return to his post even despite the small matter of his death.

The queen’s deep eyes drew the officer to her. Like many of the soldiers directly serving the palace, Marner was infatuated by his mistress. It was a respectful infatuation, of course, everyone knowing their proper place. The pendant she wore had actually been presented by Marner and some of the soldiers under him on her last birth anniversary. To a man, each would have given their life for the queen.

Correction. There was one who likely would have preferred to give the life of the queen for his own.

“I grew up fighting the Aramites, Marner. For all the history my husband shares with them, mine was, in many ways, a more intense, more personal struggle.”

“Your majesty, I still don’t know—”

She raised a hand to silence him. “My people are hunters, creatures of the forest. We live by scent as much as anything else.”

The general blinked. “Are you trying to tell me—”

The veiled eyes drew him nearer. Marner stirred in discomfort, improper emotions stirring. “Yes. I know the stench of wolf raider. It’s very unique. I’ve been distracted, but that’s changed. Send each of them before me, general.” Troia smiled grimly, revealing an entrancing set of teeth—pointed teeth. “I’ll do whatever I have to to sniff our traitor out.”

 

IV

The blink hole had deposited the Gryphon in the midst of a grass-filled landscape. In the dark of night, he could not at first get his bearings, but after a short ride, it became obvious just where the kidnappers had exited.

He could not see the city itself, but the gradually ripening equine smell wafting from the south was enough to identify the region as near the kingdom of Zuu, famous for its horses. His illusory visage twisted into an expression of frustration; Penacles and Zuu, while not enemies, were also not on friendly terms. The latter was one of the few kingdoms employing wizards of its own and while none approached even the Gryphon’s level of mastery, any notice of his presence by one could cause a costly delay.

The kidnappers would have faced the same risk, which made him wonder why they had chosen to open the portal so far from their obvious destination. One explanation could have been a lack of magic upon which to call; the Aramites likely had no true sorcerers among them. Most of the keepers, as they were called, had perished during the war when suddenly cut off from the seductive power of their god.

But one had survived, albeit touched by madness. He it had been who had first led the wolf raiders to Legar, to what they had hoped a new base and a new source of magic. That keeper had died, as had most of the Aramites, when the Crystal Dragon, lord of Legar, had unleashed a spell that had shaken the earth, bringing it down on both the invaders and the subterranean Quel infesting the region.

Legar had been quiet since then, even its enigmatic master silent. The Gryphon’s spies and secretive spells had revealed nothing. It had been as if the land had become a complete wasteland, devoid of life.

The perfect domain for a wolf raider.

He rode for as long as he could during the night, finally forced to stop for the sake of his horse. Secreting himself in a small valley, the Gryphon rested as best he could. Each time he shut his eyes, the images of his sons filled his thoughts. Darot was almost the exact image of his elder brother, which only served to remind the Gryphon of how much the first loss had touched him.

It had taken years, but he had gained his vengeance. The Aramite officer who had been responsible had died in the destruction of Legar. That had not erased the pain, but it had given some sense of justice. Few times had the Gryphon lost control of himself, but few adversaries had touched him the way Orril D’Marr had.

His eyes shot open. “Orril D’Marr...”

No...that path led to insanity. The cold, calculating young wolf raider lay crushed under tons of rock and earth. He could have no more survived than the scores of other Aramites who had fallen prey to the Dragon King’s desperate act.

It had to be someone else...

 

 

 

With dawn, he raced off to the southwest, aware that his destination lay not all that far ahead. The Gryphon began steeling himself for the journey into the uninviting realm. The Legar Peninsula had always been an inhospitable land. The heat rose to unspeakable levels and the ever-present sunlight combined with the natural crystal deposits to make travel during daylight all but blinding. Wildlife consisted of the typical desert dwellers. The dragon clan itself had always been small and, like their lord, seldom seen. They likely would be no trouble, if they still even existed.

The Quel were another story. They lived deep beneath the earth there, burrowing through rock and creating vast, underground chambers. Until the wolf raiders, all but a handful had been caught in a perpetual sleep, the product of a spell gone awry centuries before. The Aramites had awakened the rest by chance and only the destruction of Legar had prevented further catastrophe. Still, the odds were better that some of the huge, armored diggers had survived. The Gryphon knew that he would have to keep an eye on the ground, watch for any sudden shifting that could not be explained by one of the realm’s incessant tremors.

Late in the afternoon, his surroundings changed, becoming more and more akin to what he expected of Legar. His only moment of danger during the trek so far had been a small patrol to the south. The huge, blonde riders in leather jerkin and pants had clearly been from Zuu and, as was the kingdom’s way, some of the warriors had been women. Zuu made very little distinction between the sexes when it came to work and war.

Fortunately for him, the patrol had turned back to the east without noticing the stranger in their land. That had not been due to lack of effort, but rather the Gryphon’s own superior experience. More than two centuries as a mercenary and warrior had, at least, benefited him in some way.

At last, he reached Legar.

The high, rocky hills glittered even from more than a mile away. The clouds that had earlier threatened some rain stopped almost exactly at the recognized border, giving way to a relentless sun. A dry, harsh wind blew from the peninsula, offering the newcomer a taste of what to expect.

Without hesitation, the Gryphon entered.

At first, the trek seemed a simple one. While uneven and rocky, the path was not the worst, especially for a horse as well-versed as his. That enabled the Gryphon to focus his attention on the seeking signs of the kidnappers. Near Zuu, the effort had not been so difficult; a party of riders left much of a trail in grasslands and fields. However, here in this dry, hard region, the clues required a more cautious, expert eye.

Several times he reined the horse to a halt so that he could investigate marks. By now the Gryphon knew that there had been five riders, one of them likely his son. The party had stayed close together and had ridden as if the demon Yureel had been at their backs. They feared something...but not pursuit.

Their leader?

Still mulling over that question, the Gryphon directed his mount through a narrow, winding pass. The hills rose high and foreboding around him, then finally opened up just as the sun set.

And beyond them at last he witnessed the ravages of the Crystal Dragon’s attack.

It looked as if the entire world before him had been literally raised up in the air, turned upside down, then dropped. No inch had been left untouched. Legar for as far as the eye could see was a realm torn asunder.

The horse snorted uneasily, stamping its front hoof at the same time. The Gryphon also hesitated, recalling the actual devastation. In many ways, what had happened here reminded him of the events during the desperate war against the Dragon Kings by the wizard Nathan Bedlam and his allies that had culminated in calling the struggle the Turning War. Then, the area of destruction had been elsewhere and the results had finally made the bickering drakes ally themselves long enough to deal with the upstart humans.

Rocks as huge as some of the hills through which he had ridden lay as if tossed about by some giant child. Sudden gaps plummeted deep into the earth, the pebbles that the Gryphon threw into one never making a sound to indicate that they had reached the bottom. Even after years, many areas had not yet settled, the groan of shifting earth assailing him as he traveled cautiously along.

His quarry aided his journey now. By careful study, the Gryphon located their path, the safest through Legar. Even still, he knew that the land could be treacherous and so he finally walked the horse, hoping eventually that he would find smoother ground ahead.

The Gryphon did not realize just how dangerous the peninsula still was until a short time later, when he discovered the bodies.

Initially, he had mistaken the glitter for just more crystal. Only as he drew near did he recognize the glint as from metal.

The Aramite and his horse had died together, crushed into one almost pastelike substance by the rock fall. The familiar black armor that had put fear into a continent for centuries had served as much of a buffer against the tons of stone as silk. Blood stained much of the area, the sun already drying it to a faint crimson chalk.

For several terrifying moments, the Gryphon searched around, trying to discover whether or not Darot had suffered a like fate. Eventually, it became clear that only the one horse and rider had perished. Scratch marks revealed that the others had continued on. Like him, they were now on foot.

The descending sun brought some relief in terms of temperature, but mounting frustration in terms of the pursuing father. The Gryphon dared not travel at night; one false step could quickly end his life. He did not fear for himself, but what the wolf raiders would do to his son if he did not make it to Darot. There would be no use for a young child, then.

Just before the last rays of sun vanished, the Gryphon came across what appeared the most stable patch of ground so far. More or less flat, it was flanked to the north by several jagged plates of baked earth rising yards into the sky and on the south by a gaping ravine.

Alone and feeling as dry as his surroundings, the Gryphon removed the illusion, returning to his true form. In preparation to entering Legar, he had filled several sacks brought with him with water. Already a third of those sacks had been emptied. The Gryphon took one, then held it so that his horse could drink. The animal eagerly swallowed the contents, licking at the empty bag until its master finally pulled it away.

Satisfied that the horse had been watered, he led it to where a few gaunt, skeletal shrubs somehow had managed to grow. The fare was not the best, but it would keep the steed alive.

Seeing to his own needs, the Gryphon drank some more water, then dug into the shrinking bag of rations. Some dried, salted meat served him for now. He had long learned to survive on little during his campaigns and had eaten as healthy as possible before setting out.

A slight tremor shook his immediate surroundings. Pausing in his meal, the former mercenary waited it out. The tremor ceased almost immediately. The Gryphon waited a few moments, then resumed eating.

Styx drifted high in the sky. Of his bloody sister, there was no sign. The pale moon enabled the Gryphon to see for some distance, not that there was much at which to look.

A second tremor started, this one nearer and more severe. Dropping the meat, he leapt up and prepared to move to safety.

His mount neighed. The Gryphon started toward the animal, intent on calming it.

The earth beneath the horse gave way.

The animal shrieked as it dropped from sight. The Gryphon made a desperate grab for the reins, but they slithered out of his reach, vanishing into the dark gap.

Before he could collect himself, the ground near his feet burst open and a huge rock thrust skyward.

No...not a rock. Even in the dim light of night, the Gryphon recognized the monstrous outline.

A Quel.

The Gryphon tried to cast a spell, but felt a force disperse the magic. He cursed silently, recalling that the crystal-embedded ridges of a Quel’s shell gave it much protection from all but the most powerful attacks.

The giant underdweller emitted a deep hoot, then pulled a blunt spear from the earth and jabbed at hiss prey. However, by then the Gryphon had rolled away, coming to a crouch at the edge of the hole down which his unfortunate mount had fallen.

The end of the spear sank into the hard earth just inches from him. He immediately grabbed at the weapon, pulling it free despite the Quel’s tremendous brute strength.

Again the Gryphon felt the ground quiver. This time, however, he was not fooled. Using the spear as a pole, he leapt away just as a second hulking form burst up from below.

The first Quel slashed at the Gryphon with claws nearly a foot long. Had they actually cut, they would have spilled the latter’s insides all over the unforgiving landscape. Instead, as the Quel lashed out at empty air, his more agile opponent used the spear as a pole again—throwing himself up and over the armored behemoth.

The Quel turned, trying to snare him. The Gryphon flipped the spear around, bringing the point up.

He embedded the point in the creature’s throat, the softest part of the Quel’s shelled hide.

As the one dropped, two more erupted from the soil. Still moving, the Gryphon retreated up a massive rock in the hopes of better gauging the enemy’s numbers.

But the rock shifted, tipping over and throwing him at an awkward angle. With a grunt, the Gryphon struck the ground shoulder first.

As pain coursed through him, one of his attackers seized the Gryphon by the mane. The Gryphon squawked as the huge creature twisted his head back.

Claws out, he slashed at the Quel’s long, almost tubular mouth. Blood splattered the Gryphon’s avian visage, but he failed to disrupt the shadowy behemoth’s grip.

The other Quel closed in on him. Muscles straining, the Gryphon flipped, turning upside down in his captor’s claws and wrapping his legs around the stocky head. The injured Quel hooted, adjusting his grip so that he could deal with the unexpected assault.

It was exactly what the Gryphon desired. He pulled his head free, leaving bits of his mane behind in the process, then dropped without warning. A normal man would have fallen on his back, possibly cracking it, but the Gryphon twisted again, managing to land on his feet and duck under the Quel’s groping arms.

A spear point came within inches. The Gryphon rolled past it, darting with inhuman agility between two of his assailants.

He leapt up onto a more stable position, then crouched. The Quel turned as one, at least four broad, armored figures seeking his death.

Though they were native to Legar, this attack could be no coincidence. Whoever led the kidnappers had alerted the underdwellers to his eventual incursion. They had calculated that he would have to choose this particular area for his rest stop and had dug a tunnel to it.

The Gryphon eyed the dark path, seeking a way past the four. He spied another rock just behind the furious Quel. It would require a prodigious leap even for him, but it would put the Gryphon far enough ahead of his foes to keep them from ever catching up.

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

Without hesitation, the Gryphon jumped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

V

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

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

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

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

“My queen,” Syl whispered, kneeling.

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

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

“So I would imagine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us see the others.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, my queen.”

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

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

“No distant relations?”

He shrugged. “None to my knowledge.”

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

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

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

“Where did you go?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop him!” roared Marner.

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

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

Juren threw the blade.

Troia rose. “No! We want him alive!”

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” snarled Marner.

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

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

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

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

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

The Aramite continued to grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A healer!” shouted Marner. “Get a—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

VI

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

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

“I could care less whether he slew two or two dozen of you,” the speaker remarked. “You know the key is for him to live, for now. That’s why I punished the one in charge of the attack. He let fury override reason. There will be vengeance, but calculated, timed.”

As the Gryphon stirred to waking, the injuries caused by the Quel also awoke, nearly making him cry out. Only decades of life as a hardened mercenary enabled the Gryphon to keep still, pretend that he lay unconscious.

“He will reveal what I desire and lead you to what you desire. That was our agreement,” continued the voice. A Quel hooted, then the voice added, “Yes, he should be.”

The sound of footsteps echoed, growing nearer. The Gryphon did not move, did not alter his breathing. He had often fooled his adversaries into thinking he was unconscious. Perhaps again—

“Enough games,” murmured the uncaring voice.

Something touched the Gryphon on the shoulder. A horrific shock tore through him, one that made the injuries insignificant by comparison. This time, the king of Penacles could not keep from shouting. His roar of pain repeated endlessly in the glittering cavern.

And through tear-drenched eyes both avian and leonine, he beheld the bland face of a corpse.

Injury had weathered the shaven countenance more than the past few years had warranted, but there was no denying the emotionless expression, the burning eyes.

There was no denying that Orril D’Marr hovered over him.

In the one hand revealed by the figure’s dark cloak, Orril D’Marr wielded a frightening recreation of his favored weapon. The magical mace had been designed for both battle and torture and the Aramite had used it for the latter reason quite often. In a true moment of irony, he had been grabbing for a handhold during the final moments of Legar’s destruction and had instead gripped the head, at last suffering a taste of what his victims had endured.

But the mace had been destroyed, lost in the devastation. In fact, when last he had seen the Aramite officer, D’Marr, too, had been tumbling into the great crevice formed by the collapse of tons of earth upon the Quel’s stronghold. The wolf raider should have been mangled to a pulp, his body crushed under the earth and rock.

“My Lord Ravager watches over me,” D’Marr remarked, as if reading his prisoner’s thoughts. “I suffered some injury, but nothing that could not be healed...” Just for a moment, a flicker of bitterness touched the mask that was his face. “...nothing, save what you did to me.”

Handing the mace to, of all creatures, a Quel, he threw back the thick cloak he wore, revealing the twisted, maimed remnant of his other arm. The flesh was even more pale that that of the face. The hand, if it could still be called such, resembled a scaly set of skeletal talons.

“When the Quel found me, miraculously whole despite all, they chose, for reasons of their own, to allow me to live. For their needs, they required my health and so they used their magic...at the same time enhancing me where necessary.” He paused, as if expecting his captive audience to ask just how. When the Gryphon remained stonily silent, D’Marr shrugged and went on. “But they could do nothing for this.” With effort, he raised the arm slightly at the shoulder. “The full force of my power mace went through it, burning away most of the muscle, the nerve. The rest atrophied from inability to use it.” Utter hatred radiated in the eyes, a monstrous contrast to the rest of the frozen visage. “A few seconds longer gripping the head and I would’ve died.”

From behind him came a second, larger Quel. This one had a slight crest atop his elongated head and as he neared, the Gryphon noted how the creature holding D’Marr’s weapon moved respectfully aside.

The Quel leader hooted, the same call that the Gryphon had first heard upon awaking.

“You’re absolutely right,” Orril D’Marr replied to the beast, his gaze never leaving the Gryphon. “He is probably wondering.”

A cry burst from somewhere behind the king. The Gryphon immediately tried to turn, only then registering that his arms and legs were bound by thick, iron manacles. The manacles were attached to short chains nailed into the rock upon which he lay. Try as he might, he could not pull them free.

“You did come for your son, didn’t you?” mocked the wolf raider. “Your second son, that is?”

Another of the armored Quel carried a struggling bundle before the prisoner. Darot saw his father and both relief and fear filled his eyes. He had clearly been crying for some time, but the Gryphon could hardly fault the child for that.

“You’ll note that he’s quite well and almost untouched. You may wonder why that is.”

The Gryphon eyed his nemesis, but said nothing.

“The Quel and I...we came to an understanding. Thanks to you and that wizard, Bedlam, you accomplished what their mortal foes, the Seekers, never could.” The Seekers were an avian race that had supplanted the underdwellers as rulers of the land before the coming of the Dragon Kings. The two races had battled long and hard against one another. “You destroyed their world.”

The Crystal Dragon had actually done that, but the Gryphon, Cabe Bedlam, and the enigmatic Darkhorse had contributed to the chaos, if not by choice. Of course, neither the Aramites nor the Quel would see it that way.

“My armored friends, they would finally rid themselves of the Dragon King, but with their numbers reduced and their home in...shall we say ‘disarray’?...they lack the strength.”

“And they think to gain it from you?” the captive finally said. Despite the situation, he eyed the wolf raider with disdain. “A squalid pack of mongrels with barely a place to call their den? What strength could you add that could deal with a Dragon King, especially the Lord of Legar?”

Orril D’Marr almost reached for his mace, but then evidently thought better of it. To the Gryphon, he quietly replied, “The strength of a god.”

The fur and feathers on the back of the Gryphon’s neck stiffened. It had been more than vengeance that had sent the Aramite after him.

“You were there.” D’Marr snapped his fingers and the Quel brought Darot closer. “You were there when our Lord Ravager was tricked into imprisonment. You know where he is kept...”

“And where he’ll stay for eternity.”

Darot suddenly cried out through his gag. The Gryphon’s eyes burned red as he watched the creature holding his son rake huge claws ever so lightly over the youth’s cheek. A hint of blood trickled down.

The Gryphon tried to draw upon his magic, but immediately sensed a dulling of his powers. At the same time, he noticed many of the gems filling the cavern flicker as if alive.

“No wizardry here, misfit. Not unless it falls into Quel wizardry.”

“My son has no part in this. Release him.”

The frost-haired figure glanced at the child. “I can do that, misfit. I can let this son live, where the other didn’t.”

Memories of the limp body of Demion filled the Gryphon’s thoughts. Darot’s brother had been older, old enough to see battle. His parents had kept him secreted as well as they could, but the Aramites had come across him.

And without compunction, Orril D’Marr had killed him.

He would do the same to Darot. The Gryphon could not imagine losing a second child, not even with a third on the way. “I won’t fight you, wolf, You and your grotesque friends can do with me as you please. The boy deserves better.”

“You know what we want. Give us that and I promise your get will be sent to his mother.”

Something about the way D’Marr said it, as devoid of emotion as it was, set the Gryphon even more on edge. “What do you mean by that?”

The Aramite looked at his Quel comrades. “They are creature directly to the point. They would torture your child or you right now, using straightforward methods.” D’Marr gave him an empty smile. “I, being civilized, prefer a more mentally-debilitating method first.”

“That burrower touches my son again and they’ll find nothing left of him but a scraped-out shell...” He eyed the creature hold Darot, letting the Quel read his meaning.

The huge beast drew ever so slightly into his shell.

“Look at him...” Orril D’Marr commented to the Quel leader. “Even now he can make one of your minions cringe. You see why we do it my way?”

The Quel nodded, responding with a slight, drawn-out hoot.

“Oh, yes, it will work. He just has to decide how much he values his family and who, if necessary, he wishes to lose less.”

Darot whimpered.

“Speak plainly...if you can, cur!” snapped the Gryphon.

This time, D’Marr did reach for the mace. The head flared as he brought it toward the Gryphon. The latter did not flinch, knowing that that was exactly what the Aramite desired.

Finally retracting the sinister weapon, D’Marr whispered, “Speak plainly? Very well, I’ll speak very plainly.” He pointed the mace to the left, where the grim figure of another wolf raider materialized from the darkness. Dust still covered the ebony armor. Here was one of those who had transported Darot.

In the Aramite’s hands sat a peculiar-looking and ominous crystal arrangement about the size of a small cat. Ten, small blue stones hovered magically above a crimson one that fit snugly in an oval, bronze tray set in the human’s palms. As the Gryphon studied the blue gems, he noticed that they slowly shifted position, creating a descending spiral.

“Set it directly between the two of them.”

Another soldier, also covered in dust, brought forth a wooden stand, which he placed several yards before the Gryphon. At the same time, the Quel holding Darot positioned the child on a rock across from his father. With impressive efficiency, the armored beast used its huge clawed digits to bind the Gryphon’s son to the rock.

Meanwhile, the first wolf raider put the arrangement on the stand. The Quel that had been identified as the leader of the underdwellers stepped up and adjusted the crystals, not only turning them so that the Gryphon could see them better, but setting the blue ones into a pattern that moved more rapidly than the previous.

The massive creature hooted at Orril D’Marr.

“Yes, that should do.” The frost-haired villain turned again to his adversary. “Here it is, misfit, in plain words. At a pace of roughly two hours each, one of those blue stones will cease to glow. It’ll drop. You have until only the last one remains to tell us where the caverns are and prove that you don’t lie. If there’s any doubt, or you think that you can hold off from answering...” He looked over his shoulder at Darot.

The Gryphon could guess the rest. At the end of that time, if he did not give them the truth, they would harm his son. His gaze fixed on Darot and he wondered if the boy understood that threat.

“Aah...you make the logical, if incomplete, conclusion.” Stepping between the king and Darot, Orril D’Marr held up another crystal, this one emerald in color. “But there remains one more element, a further enticement. You are a warrior born. The life of your son might be something you’d be willing to sacrifice. Therefore, I’ve added a further incentive.”

The emerald flared. As it did, a foot-tall image materialized.

An image of Troia.

The barest ghost of a smile traced D’Marr’s lipless mouth.

“Before the last stone drops, when your son is already dead by your choice, you have one last opportunity to give us the information. If not...with the final gem’s fall, your mate...and your coming child...will also die.”

 

VII

General Marner entered the royal chambers, going down on one knee before the queen. “Forgive this intrusion, your majesty.”

Troia sat in a simple chair, a goblet in one hand. Next to her, a small, elegant marble table held a pitcher of spring water. Behind her, almost shadowed, two slim female forms stood watch. They were clad as ladies-in-waiting, but their expressions were hardly those of soft aristocrats. Toos had chosen both women with care. The younger, blond one could

match the best dagger tossers at fifty paces. The older, more attractive brunette knew how to handle a sword better than many of his men.

Even still, both were not nearly as deadly as their mistress.

“Your visit is hardly that, general. You’ve some news for me?”

“Aye. We made a thorough search of Henrik’s chambers. At first we found nothing out of the ordinary.”

The queen fingered her pendant. “You said ‘at first’...” Marner reached into a pouch on his belt, cautiously removing the contents. A black cloth surrounded them. He peeled it open, then showed the items to the queen. “In a space carved out of the wall and hidden with a false front, we found these.” As she leaned close to inspect them, he warned, “No nearer, majesty! The vial contains the same poison as tipped the blade.”

The black, opaque bottle was tiny, barely half the length of her thumb. That spoke much for the potency of the foul liquid within.

Tearing her gaze from the vial, Troia hissed.

The ring was as black as the bottle and instead of a stone, a metal image decorated it. Both could clearly see the savage, lupine head.

“The final damning evidence,” she muttered. “No clue as to his efforts?”

“None, but I hardly expected any. He would’ve destroyed such things. The only reason he kept the vial was due to necessity and, as for the ring...I chalk that down to obsession with his god.”

Troia nodded. “I’m rather glad that you found the rest of the poison. I’ve been wondering where it might be.”

“As to that, young Juren leant his aid there. He’s tried to recall any peculiar behavior Henrik ever showed. This came from one memory.” Marner grunted. “Lad feels worse than the rest of us. He considered Henrik a friend.”

“How is he faring?”

“I’ve done my best to show him he’s done well, but he still thinks he nearly got you killed through his ignorance.”

Troia’s feline eyes became mere slits. “I’ll talk to him. Let him know how grateful I and my mate are.”

Her last words suddenly darkened the mood further. Troia gazed toward a window, staring, not by coincidence, to the southwest.

“Gryph must be in Legar by now,” the queen said. “I should be with him. Darot needs me.”

“With all due respect, the king was correct. As capable as your majesty is, you are nearly ready to bear your child...perhaps the heir to the throne.”

She gave him a sharp look. Her claws extended fully and Marner momentarily expected to earn new scars on his face.

Then, Troia retracted her claws and nodded. “You’re right, but I’ll be damned if I like it.”

“He’ll bring Darot back. He will.”

“I have to believe that, general...just as I have to believe he’ll be coming back himself.”

 

 

 

Marner departed the presence of the queen feeling less satisfaction than he had hoped from the encounter. They had their assassin, their traitor in their midst, and now all they needed to do was pray that the king would find the other villains and rescue the prince. It had to work out that way. The Gryphon had ruled Penacles all Marner’s life...even the life of Marner’s father and grandfather. The king had battled demons, Dragon Kings, and sorcerers. Surely the outcome of this sordid episode would be no different.

And yet...how many of those past adversaries had actually infiltrated the kingdom? The general had studied the records of his predecessor enough to know that very few had managed such a feat and none had managed anything as outrageous as this.

Which gave him the uneasy feeling that his end of the matter had not yet been settled.

But what had he missed? Nothing, so far as he could see. Henrik had been the man inside, the one who had tricked the guards, murdered them, then stolen the young prince away. From there, it had been in the hands of those waiting beyond the walls.

All of this had been validated by Henrik’s last, foolish act. There could be no doubt as to his guilt.

Then why did ghosts of doubt still haunt Marner?

He went about his duties constantly at war with himself over the situation. Toos would have no doubt tied up the matter simply and cleanly. Yet, on the surface, things concerning the present situation seemed just as simple and clean to the general. Had his predecessor lived with such ridiculous doubts after each case? The indomitable Toos?

“Of course not,” Marner chided himself.

As night drew near and the palace settled down, he removed his helm and went to his quarters. The commanding general of Penacles’s armed forces had a varied and unusual list of duties far different at times from that of most of his counterparts. He acted as major domo for the king, saw to the personal running of the palace guard, and still had to deal with the military might protecting the kingdom. If Marner had any grudge against the late Toos, it was that his predecessor had set such high standards that no one could possibly match him.

Yet, the general tried.

As he entered his room, he uncoupled his sword sheath and set the weapon aside. Seating himself at the table and planting his booted feet atop it, he drank some ale. When forced to attend formal functions, Marner drank the elegant wines, but for his own personal consumption he enjoyed the heavy ale popular among the troops. The thick brew provided nourishment and increased the stamina. A good soldier just had to know his limits.

Still the question of Henrik plagued him, tempting Marner to drink more than was his wont. He finally shoved the flagon away and brooded. Perhaps if he once more inspected the traitor’s trail he would finally be able to rest.

He almost left his sword, but force of habit made him latch it on again before stepping out. Only a few torches lit the hallways at night. Accustomed to the shadows, the veteran officer strode determinedly down the corridors, nodding to the occasional sentry.

After some time, he came to section where the palace guard itself was quartered. The sprawling complex that was the palace enabled the king to keep a good-sized contingent of ready soldiers nearby. Built to accommodate the Dragon King who had once ruled here, most of the rooms were immense. This enabled each member of the palace guard to even have their own individual spaces, divided from those of their comrades by tall partitions.

The sentries at the entrance snapped to attention, but Marner quickly put a finger to his lips. He had no desire to awaken his men. With stealth commendable for a human—no one could match the king or queen—he headed toward the late Henrik’s cot.

Marner seized a candle from the short table next to the cot, then lit it with the tinder left behind by the late resident. At his order, nothing had been disturbed since last he had inspected the place. Putting the candle aside, the general quietly turned over the blankets and inspected the rails. As before, he found nothing. Marner searched under the table, studied every personal item...and yet again he found nothing.

Some minutes later, the bulky fighter straightened. He stared down in disgust at the objects before him. With one last grunt, Marner doused the candle with his fingertips and started out.

Force of habit made him check on the slumbering figures as he walked past. Each of them he considered good men, which had been in part why Henrik’s betrayal had struck him so hard. Like their commander, the sleeping men would have given their lives for their king and queen. The Gryphon and his mate did not rule by power alone; they also ruled by common sense and compassion. Marner could think of no better master and mistress to have.

Some of the beds lay empty, those men on duty. The general absently acknowledged each, knowing those on night activity often had the riskiest tasks. The kidnapping of the prince proved that.

Still frustrated, Marner headed for the exit. He thanked the heavens that none of the slumbering soldiers had noticed his search. They might have thought that their commander had lost his wits—

Hand on the door, Marner suddenly looked back into the darkened chamber.

With the same stealth that had enabled him to already once cross a room full of crack troops without waking any, the general hurried along. His narrowed gaze rapidly shifted from left to right and back again, studying each individual section.

And then he came across the one he sought.

The bed should have been occupied. He had been here long enough for the soldier who used it to return from any necessities. The palace guard lived by strict rules. No one went wandering aimlessly about the building.

So where had Juren gone?

 

VIII

Orril D’Marr had not tried any physical torture on either father or son. He had even fed Darot and allowed the child to deal with nature, then had bound the boy again. The Gryphon had been provided with some water, but no one had even suggested that he be released for even a moment. Still, overall the Gryphon had been treated far worse by captors over the decades, including other Aramites.

He knew it was not because of any civil streak. Orril D’Marr was simply letting him see that the wolf raider controlled entirely the situation. The lives of both were his. That, in turn, made it clear that the lives of Troia and the unborn infant were just as much D’Marr’s to save or execute.

It was typical of the wolf raider. Orril D’Marr did everything with a mask of indifference draped across his face. Only the results revealed his true, monstrous self.

A slight clatter set every nerve in the Gryphon afire. Two stones remaining. When the next dropped, they would come for Darot.

He eyed the two Aramites left guarding him. One had always been watching him, which had made any plans of escape futile. Of late, however, the two men had become bored. Now they spent more time playing some secretive game of wager than paying attention to their captive. The glances toward the Gryphon had grown less frequent.

The noise made both men look up. One smiled maliciously at him, then both resumed their game.

He had to act now. Surely this time they would forget him long enough...

The Gryphon began contorting his legs.

When they had brought him here, his captors had chained his wrists and ankles. They had left his boots on, securing the bonds tight enough to make it impossible for a normal man to slip free his feet. The Gryphon had to assume that the Quel had been the ones to do that, for surely if the Aramites had done it, they would have realized the error in doing so.

His muscles ached and his bones felt ready to crack, but still he silently twisted his legs, trying to slip his feet free. The long, avian-leonine appendages were narrower than human feet. The special boots kept them set so that he lost no mobility even though he nearly stood on his toes. When transforming to a more human shape, the Gryphon even often left his lower limbs unchanged, since those were not visible. Only around his family did he generally make a full transformation and usually when the occasion allowed him to make use of other, more mundane footwear.

Now that habit offered him his only hope.

The braces squeezed tight against his flesh as he pulled upward. The task was made all the more difficult by his having to keep the chains from rattling.

Darot watched his father, but whether or not he understood what was happening, the Gryphon could not say. To his credit, the child remained silent, drawing no attention to them.

Suddenly, one foot slipped free. The chain rattled slightly as the boot shifted, but the Gryphon managed to keep it from doing enough to attract the guards’ attention. His foot remained inside, his toes bent to keep the boot from falling free.

A moment later, the second slipped free. Again the metal links rattled.

One of the Aramites looked up. He tapped his comrade on the shoulder and pointed at the Gryphon.

The two black-armored figures approached, the first drawing his blade. Neither appeared overly-concerned, but both were veteran fighters.

“My son could use water. So could I.”

“He’ll live without it, if he lives at all,” smirked the first. “And we’ve orders to give you nothing more unless you tell us what we want.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you mongrels where to go...”

“Beast!” The second moved to slap the Gryphon hard with his gauntleted hand. “You’ll learn your place!”

The hand flew toward the captive’s face.

The Gryphon pulled both feet free, using the rock and the chains on his wrists to swiftly fold his body upward. As he moved, the claws of each toe extended to their full length.

Razor-sharp nails tore out the throats of both men.

Neither had even a chance to gasp out a warning cry. They froze for a moment, then one slumped toward the Gryphon while the other fell back.

With one foot he caught the second, pulling him forward. Both corpses fell on the Gryphon. He heard a muffled gasp from Darot, but after that his son quieted.

Slowly the Gryphon let the body on his right slip to the ground. The second he held near. With his free foot, he reached toward the guard’s belt.

The keys jangled as he removed them. The body shifted, almost causing the Gryphon to lose the precious items. He quickly compensated, managing to keep the keys snagged on one one claw.

Lowering the second raider, the Gryphon twisted his legs upward, nearly folding himself in half. His back strained and the keys slipped to one side. With a silent curse, he brought them around so that the other foot could seize the one he needed.

Each second he feared either one of the Aramites or a Quel would come in to check on the guards, but the shadowed entrances remained empty. Before him, the cursed clock that D’Marr had wrought with Quel magic continued to shift, the next stone already dimming. The minutes raced by as the Gryphon struggled to get the key into the lock and turn it enough to open the cuff.

The harshness of the click so startled him that he lost his grip on all the keys. They dropped to the hard cavern ground, their crash echoing even more than the opening of the cuff had.

Darot shifted nervously, but the Gryphon stilled him with a shake of his head. Turning his wrist, the king freed his hand, then tugged on the other.

In the tunnels leading to the cavern there came the sounds of hooting.

Grabbing at the keys with his foot, the Gryphon brought them up to his hand. He thrust the principal one in the lock and quickly turned it.

Darot made a soft sound through his gag.

The Gryphon looked toward the tunnels.

A hulking Quel wielding a spear emerged from the darkness, its gem-encrusted, segmented shell glittering in the light of the cavern’s own crystals. The narrow red eyes took in the two bodies and the struggling captive...then the creature let out a loud cry of warning and charged.

Despite the key, the manacle would not yet open. The Gryphon tugged hard at it as his attacker approached, but still it did not give.

The Quel thrust. The point of the lance came at the Gryphon’s chest.

He twisted around, using the remaining chain to enable him to swing out of the weapon’s range. The point smashed against the rock, breaking off.

Ignoring the metal cutting into his wrist, the Gryphon propelled

himself around the rock, swinging quickly toward his attacker’s blind side.

The Quel started to turn, but in comparison to the Gryphon, he moved as if in slow motion. The prisoner wrapped his legs around the broad neck and squeezed.

Its breath cut off, the snouted beast instinctively pulled away.

The half-open manacle could not hold up to the strain. It snapped in two.

Pulling himself up, the Gryphon sank his hands into one of the ridges that divided each segment of the shell. He buried his claws in the tender flesh within.

Shrieking, the Quel abruptly fell back.

Before his adversary’s massive weight could crush him against the floor, the Gryphon squirmed free. The Quel’s desperate attempt proved a costly one for the underdweller, for, having failed to grind his foe into the ground, he now had to push himself up.

The Gryphon did not allow him that chance. Seizing the broken lance shaft, he jammed it into the open area under the snout.

With a last hissing squeal, the creature stilled.

But other cries already filled the tunnels, some of them human. The Gryphon hurried to his son, slicing Darot’s bonds with one action.

“Come!” He led the child into the corridor that offered the least

echoes of threat. Whether it also offered entrance to the surface, the Gryphon could not say, but he thought he sensed a slight hint of air current indicating so.

The clink of armor warned him of their approach before the wolf raiders could strike. Shoving Darot against the far wall, the Gryphon ducked under a sword blade. He slammed his fist against the armored chest and although the action pained him greatly, he had the satisfaction of watching the Aramite stumble back.

Claws out, the Gryphon slashed at the sword arm. One nail dug deep in the wrist where the armor by necessity ended. The wolf raider cursed, dropping his weapon and falling back as he he tried to bind the deadly cut.

As the second marauder drove forward, the king seized the fallen blade. The two battled for several precious seconds. At last, the Gryphon came under the other’s guard, then caught him along the nose.

With a cry, the Aramite dropped to the ground, face crimson. Without compunction, the Gryphon ran him through, then turned to confront the first. However, the other Aramite had already fled, a trail of blood indicating that he would not likely live long despite his retreat.

His son in tow, the Gryphon continued on. A short distance later, he paused at a crossroads in the tunnels. By now, Darot had removed his gag, but he remained silent, trusting in his father.

Sniffing the air, the Gryphon chose the passage on the right. After only a few steps, he grew certain of his choice. Pausing to make an inspection of the walls, the Gryphon finally looked down at his son.

“Listen, Darot. You’ll do exactly as I say?”

“Yes, father,” the child whispered.

“Can you crawl up to that gap there? That one there. See it?”

Darot finally nodded. His eyes were as good as his father’s when it came to the dark, but he lacked the latter’s experience in ferreting out hiding places.

“Can you climb up there?”

At three years of age, Darot had been found climbing up the high walls of the palace. Rather than be frightened, as the servitors had been, his parents had watched him with pride—and then gone up to retrieve him. Some day, he would surpass both in his skills, but only if he survived now.

“Yes, father,” the youth declared.

“Do so. I’ll go to the entrance, lead those there deep in the tunnels. Wait until we’re all past, then climb down and leave. Head toward the east...you recall which direction is east?”

“Yes, father.” Most human children would have been unable to do what the Gryphon hoped of his son, but like any predatory creature, the offspring of the king and his mate matured at a quicker rate. Theoretically, Darot could reach home.

Realistically, it was the only hope the Gryphon had.

“I have to go find the human with the snowy hair. You understand that?” His son nodded, shivering at the same time. The Gryphon could hardly blame him. There were few humans who had filled him with the dread that Orril D’Marr did now. The Gryphon had no illusions that he would readily defeat the maimed Aramite. “He wants to hurt your mother. I have to stop him.”

“I know, father.”

Ducking down, the king gave Darot a quick, strong hug. He then guided the child up as Darot climbed toward the hiding place.

Pressed against the back, the boy was nearly invisible even to his father. The Gryphon nodded grim satisfaction, then headed toward the exit to freedom.

Just within sight of the night-enshrouded surface, the Quel came for him.

He immediately turned and fled back into the cavern complex, leading them away from his son just as he had planned. The three massive creatures crowded the corridor, their gem-encrusted shells radiating a dim light as they pursued him.

As the Gryphon spun around a corner, he nearly collided with another of the beasts. Fortunately, the Quel was as startled as him. The Gryphon used the Aramite blade to sever the head while the Quel still gaped.

Those pursuing unleashed harsh hoots of warning, which were immediately picked up by others deeper in the complex. A human voice—Orril D’Marr’s—loudly but emotionlessly commanded them to close in on their prey from the very walls. The Gryphon was well aware that D’Marr expected him to hear that command and react accordingly, but he hoped that instead he would do what neither the underdwellers or D’Marr had in mind.

It was the only way he could hope to save Troia and the infant.

 

IX

General Marner could have summoned the entire guard, but instead he chose to seek Juren himself. It could be that he was wrong—he prayed he was wrong—but, if not, a troop of soldiers tramping around the building would only alert the other soldier to his suspicions.

Marner ran over the details again. On the surface, nothing proved that Juren was anything other than what he claimed. Still, he had been the one to react swiftest and his first action had been to toss the dagger at Henrik. What had seemed a survivable wound had become a death sentence thanks to the poison.

But that did not mean that Juren had known his strike would slay his comrade. Neither did the fact that he had been trying to pick up the dagger afterward indicate anything other than a soldier doing his duty. There was no reason for General Marner to be wary of the missing man.

And yet...

Without at first realizing it, he headed in the direction of the royal chambers. If his concerns had any merit, it behooved him to check on the security of the pregnant queen. She was well protected, but the kidnapping of the prince proved that even the best protections did not always work.

That thought came back to haunt him but a moment later when he noticed the slumped forms near the gilded doors.

Sword ready, he moved with stealth to the dead men’s sides. Like the other guards, they had been killed with their own blades. One wore an expression of outright astonishment, as if he could not believe the identity of his killer.

Small wonder when it had been one of his own comrades.

Marner noticed then that one door was ajar. Cautiously, he nudged it open with the tip of his blade.

A single lamp remained lit within. It offered just enough illumination to reveal two more corpses...the female companions of the queen.

As he neared them, the general noticed a significant difference in their deaths. Blood splattered everything. The women’s throats had been ripped apart. It looked more the work of an animal than a human being.

But then, in his opinion, wolf raiders were less than either.

At first he saw no sign of the queen, but then a faint blood trail from one of the women led him back to the doorway. Stepping over the dead guards, Marner searched for more telltale spots.

They led him toward the rear of the palace, toward where one of the huge balconies open during grand balls overlooked the ceremonial gardens. Below the balcony in question, Marner recalled, a huge fountain with a pointed spire had recently been constructed, a gift from the mountain kingdom of Talak.

Marner hurried his pace.

As he neared his destination, he suddenly noticed that all the torches ahead had been doused. Swearing silently, the commander planted himself against one wall and felt his way to down the vast corridor. His vision adjusted some as he went, enabling him to make out shapes.

And as the balcony came into view, he made out one shape in particular. Pregnant or not, there was no mistaking the queen. She stood as if frozen, her gaze turned toward the outside.

Marner started forward—and pulled back a second later when he noticed the other figure nearby.

His suspicions that it was Juren were verified when the figure raised a tiny, glowing emerald up, staring at it as if awaiting something from it. Juren wore an expression far different from his humble, youthful one. Marner recognized the fanaticism, the utter obsession Juren had to his cause.

The general could only assume that dark cause now demanded the queen’s death.

Moving slowly toward the traitor, Marner held the sword high. One

quick stroke would remove both the crystal and Juren’s hand.

But as he readied the strike, the younger soldier suddenly slipped aside. He clenched his fingers over the crystal, dousing the dim light. At the same time, he drew with his other hand his sword.

“General Marner...I was coming to see you later, sir.”

“For what reason? To add me to your list of victims?”

Although he could barely make out Juren’s shape, much less his countenance, the commander knew that the latter wore a callous smile. “Yes, sir. Exactly that.”

The general lunged, almost catching Juren in the throat. The traitor brought his own weapon up, deflecting Marner’s blade. They traded blows for a moment, with Juren quickly forced back onto the balcony. Marner’s hopes rose as the wolf raider barely kept his guard against the elder fighter.

Too late did the commander realize that Juren played him.

As they neared the still figure of the queen, Juren suddenly leapt toward her. He did not seize her or run her through as Marner feared, but rather simply pointed the tip of his blade at her swollen stomach.

“Drop your weapon, general. Do it now. The dagger on your belt, too.”

Marner hesitated, then tossed the sword to the floor. He did the same with the smaller blade. That still left him with another that Juren could not know about, one that could be used the first moment that the traitor’s concentration lapsed in the least.

But Juren was no fool himself. “What to do with you, eh, general? Each moment I keep you alive, you endanger our plan...”

“What? To kill the king’s family?”

Juren snorted. “No...to free our god!”

Recalling what he had heard concerning the Aramite deity, Marner retorted, “Pretty petty god, if he needs the likes of you to help him escape.”

“He was weakened! Our faith lacked and it cost him! But we grow strong again!”

How had the likes of this one slipped through, Marner wondered. Every word was seeped in zealous loyalty to the beast called the Ravager.

“So what you want is the information that the king has. That’s why you kidnapped his son.”

“We know the misfit well,” Juren answered, referring, so the general gathered, to the Gryphon. “Only his family could break him. It nearly did when he lost his firstborn...”

The general shifted ever so slightly, noting with relief that Juren did not see him move. He needed to stall the villain a little more. If Marner could unhook the other dagger—

“How did you manage to drag the boy out of here? I could understand you being able to kill the guards, but there was no sign of a struggle—”

“The sons of the wolf inherit his cunning,” Juren replied, as if quoting something. He continued, “Who best to quietly rouse a youngster from his bed and guide him to our waiting arms? Who better to slay guards without they’re having any prior warning?”

Marner could not conceal his sudden intake of breath. He gazed at the shadowy form of the queen. “The pendant...”

“Aye. A thoughtful gift from her loyal servants...suggested by Henrik and me, if you recall.”

He did...now. “You slew Henrik!”

He gave his life for his god. It was all planned ahead.” Juren held open his palm, in the glow of the crystal revealing his manic expression. “This, the one she wears, and another held by my Pack Leader are all part of the same. Through this, I link to the last, communicate with Lord D’Marr. He gives the order...I send the queen leaping off the rail.”

It made no sense to keep her alive...unless.... “You’re keeping her alive in case the king’s willing to sacrifice his second son.”

“He may be capable of that...but will also he suffer the loss of his cat and the last of their get?” Juren shook his head. “Even the vaunted Gryphon has his limits, general.”

Too true. Darot would be the example that would prove to the king that he had no choice. If he did not give them what they wanted, they would then have Troia kill herself...and slay the third son in the process.

“Twisted minds,” he murmured. Marner turned his arm slightly, feeling the hidden blade position itself. He expected no aid from the palace guard; Juren had chosen the most secluded spot for his deviltry.

The wolf raider edged closer to the queen. He held up the stone so that Marner could see her blank expression. The general could also make out the drying blood on her clawed hands.

Juren had used Queen Troia as the means of murdering her own bodyguards.

“ ‘Tis nearly time, general. I thank you for giving me something to distract me, but now the game’s ended. She’s got just a few minutes left to her...more than enough for one last hunt.”

He held the crystal toward General Marner. To the latter’s horror, the cat woman turned and stared at her subject.

“Which will it be, general? Can you kill your queen...or will you let her slay you?”

With that, Troia raised her hands. The bloody claws extended to their fullest...and the queen leapt at Marner.

 

X

Orril D’Marr stood in the glittering chamber, gaze fixed upon the macabre timepiece the Quel had made at his request. In his palm rested the final triplet. Only one blue stone now hovered, a stone whose slow descent he watched avidly.

That still did not prevent him from noticing when he was no longer alone.

“I thought you’d come sooner,” he remarked without turning.

The Gryphon crept out of one of the dark tunnels. He had spent the past hour evading the pursuing Quel and Aramites. Several of each lay dead and the rest followed false trails. The Gryphon had utilized valuable time just so that he and his nemesis could be left uninterrupted.

“Slay me and she dies,” D’Marr commented, turning slowly toward him. His ruined arm he left hidden under his cloak. “My agent will know the mission is lost and will therefore take action.”

“You plan to kill her, anyway.” The Gryphon strode toward the wolf raider, gaze shifting constantly as he sought traps. Orril D’Marr was too calm, even for him. “That leaves me with little inclination to save your own miserable existence, cur.”

“But one word from me and she will be spared. She...and your unborn.”

“One word that you’d never give, D’Marr.”

The wolf raider bowed slightly, keeping the crystal visible. “You do know me...”

A sense of dread filled the Gryphon.

He leapt up just as the floor exploded.

The Quel leader burst through, savage claws nearly ripping off the Gryphon’s leg. The Gryphon landed just as the huge creature fully emerged.

Orril D’Marr actually laughed. “I imagine you think you were responsible for the rest running off on fools’ chases! We knew you wouldn’t show yourself unless we made it clear that I was alone.”

But suddenly the Gryphon bounded toward the Quel, taking him by surprise. Out came the blade the king had seized from the dead Aramite.

The leader of the underdwellers tensed, awaiting the inevitable assault. D’Marr watched in amusement as the Gryphon sought to take on an opponent far larger and better prepared than him.

As he dropped upon the Quel, the Gryphon suddenly twisted. His feet came first, striking his gigantic adversary hard. The Quel shook but held his ground.

Using the beast as a launching board, the Gryphon flung himself on top of the Aramite.

Startled, Orril D’Marr thrust the crystal into his belt and reached with his good hand for his mace. He succeeded only in loosening it before the two of them collided.

Releasing his grip on the blade, the Gryphon seized the mace. He struck the wolf raider hard in the jaw, then rolled away.

The Aramite lay still, stunned by the attack. The monstrous Quel hooted as he charged.

Praying that D’Marr’s new mace acted like the old, the Gryphon twisted part of the handle, then thrust.

As the glittering head sank into the armored hide of the Quel, a flash of crimson lightning coursed over the huge form. The Quel shrieked, but could not pull away.

The Gryphon had only hoped to stun the leader, but what happened next astonished him. The back of the Quel began exploding, one burst after another resounding harshly in the chamber.

It was the way of the Quel to plant crystals of various significance and power in the folds and creases between their armored plates as they matured. With age, the folds tightened, keeping the crystals forever held in place. The Quel used them not only to somehow ward away much of Legar’s oppressive heat, but also to absorb and adapt the natural magic of the world and use it.

And now, years of potent power stored by their leader had been unleashed.

Fire raked the Quel as he struggled to free himself. The Gryphon pulled back, but the fury continued unabated. Still shrieking, the Quel leader stumbled into one wall of the chamber—and set that too into magical combustion.

An arm suddenly snaked around the Gryphon’s throat, cutting off his air. Orril D’Marr’s maddeningly calm voice whispered, “You’ve chosen death for her...and your offspring.”

For a human with one arm, D’Marr was surprisingly strong. The Gryphon had no doubt that the Aramite had been strengthening his remaining limb since first the Quel had discovered him, but it was more than that. Now he understood what his foe had meant about being ‘enhanced.’

Instead of struggling against the impossible, the Gryphon propelled both of them backward. He heard a startled gasp from D’Marr just before the latter collided with the nearest wall.

The wolf raider let loose with a grunt of pain. His arm shifted, allowing the Gryphon all he needed to free himself.

The chamber still sparkled with unleashed energy, but the Quel leader, although burnt badly in several places, now appeared to have recovered. Meanwhile, from the tunnels emerged several Aramites and other Quel, all intent on seizing the Gryphon.

He twisted around, pulling D’Marr in front. Thrusting the head of the mace just under the wolf raider’s chin, the Gryphon shouted, “Get back! No one comes closer or I use this on him!”

The Aramites immediately obeyed, but the Quel were less inclined. They moved cautiously, seeking to avoid the harsh injuries that their leader had suffered.

“Your allies seem not to care a whit about you, D’Marr. Remind them of your importance.”

He expected his foe to reject his suggestion, but D’Marr called out, “Do as he says. Stay back.”

The underdwellers looked to their ruler. Leaning against one of his followers, the stricken Quel eyed the two with blazing orbs. A sound more like the hiss of a snake than a hoot finally erupted from his blackened snout.

The others surged forward.

Orril D’Marr’s men looked to him.

“Stop them, of course, you fools!” he snapped, revealing more emotion than the Gryphon had ever noted before.

The wolf raiders threw themselves on the larger, brawnier Quel. The Gryphon expected the humans to be slaughtered, but D’Marr had evidently planned for such a contingency, for his fighters maneuvered with purpose about the slower beasts, aiming for those specific spots where the armored hides gave way to soft flesh.

This by no means meant that the Quel were instead cut down. As one fell to the twin blades of two Aramites, another Quel seized the first of the pair, raised him up over his head, and threw him across the chamber.

Mayhem filled the cavern. With no knowledge of numbers, the Gryphon could not estimate who had the upper hand, but that hardly mattered. All he cared about was escape. Troia and the baby might be dead, but Darot still needed his father.

“Come!” he snapped in D’Marr’s ear.

As he steered his prisoner toward the exit leading to the surface, the Gryphon noticed the one-armed wolf raider try to toss something aside.

The emerald. The king almost ignored it, certain that he could do nothing to save his mate and unborn child, but then wondered why D’Marr should go through the trouble of trying to surreptitiously dispose of the supposedly-useless crystal.

On a hunch, he shoved the Aramite forward, then used the moment to sweep up the crystal. D’Marr tried to run, but the Gryphon seized him again, using the mace to keep him under control.

As they ran through the passage, he evaluated everything he knew about D’Marr’s twisted mind. If the raider still needed the crystal to slay Troia, he would have kept it secreted on him. If he no longer needed it—meaning that Troia was already dead—the Aramite would have simply let it fall, not tossed it aside so carefully.

But if Troia still lived...

Behind them, a human scream echoed. The clash of arms resounded like thunder. A frantic hoot cut off suddenly. Despite the danger still nearby, the Gryphon abruptly halted, tossing his captive against one side of the tunnel and putting the mace as close to Orril D’Marr’s bland countenance.

“The crystal. How does it work?” When D’Marr said nothing, he touched the wolf raider ever so slightly with the mace. The Aramite flinched, his eyes if not his expression revealing the pain he had just suffered. “Tell me now.”

D’Marr remained silent.

The Gryphon had neither the time nor the stomach for torture. The sounds of fighting grew closer, possibly meaning that the wolf raiders had begun a retreat out of the chamber toward the surface.

Searching his memory for all he knew of crystal magic, the Gryphon came to a dire decision. He might be condemning Troia to the death she had so far avoided, but he had no other choice.

Dropping the stone, the Gryphon turned the mace so that the hilt hovered above the former.

With all his might, he smashed the crystal. A brief flare of power brightened the tunnel, revealing only Orril D’Marr’s guarded countenance.

Pressing his beak close to the Aramite’s face, the Gryphon snarled, “If she’s dead, I’ll rip your flesh from your skull with one snap!”

Shoving the wolf raider forward, he went in search of the exit and Darot.

 

XI

“Rip his throat out,” Juren commanded, sneering. “Rip it out!”

But as she leapt, the queen suddenly twisted in mid-air. Even her pregnant state did nothing to lessen her agility as she came around and turned the claws that had been about to slash Marner across the face and throat against the traitorous guard instead.

Troia ripped open the right side of Juren’s cheek. He cried out, stumbling back and dropping his sword. His hand immediately went for a dagger in his belt.

Troia landed in a half-crouched position, for the first time showing some awkwardness. She pressed one hand against her stomach, clearly fighting to keep her baby safe.

Juren drew the dagger.

General Marner threw his first.

The blade sank into the Aramite’s throat. With a gurgle of astonishment, Juren dropped both the knife and the crystal, then staggered back.

And over the rail.

Marner heard the inevitable crash, but paid it no mind. He knelt anxiously beside his queen.

“General...” she gasped. “I think I’m about to give birth.”

 

 

 

He studied what remained of the pendant, curious as to its demise. The emerald gem had cracked, as if some great force had struck it. Marner had no doubt that only that had prevented the queen from attacking him instead of Juren. The king had promised to explain it to him, but with so much else going on...

“She fares well,” a familiar voice suddenly announced.

“Praise be,” returned the general, looking up.

It had been rough going for the queen, the birth of her third son more strenuous thanks to events. She had managed the actual act quickly enough, but then had fallen ill. Over the next week, she had eaten little. Her condition had been no better when the king and prince had arrived. The Gryphon had immediately ordered everyone away from her, then had ministered to his mate himself.

Two days later, the queen had begun to show recuperation. Now she not only fed herself, but her newborn as well.

“And the child, your majesty?”

“Trajan has good lungs.”

The baby’s lusty voice now filled this section of the palace. To Marner, he seemed to be declaring his place in the royal family, a place nearly stolen from him by Juren.

Thinking of Juren made him think of another, more foul personage. “I’ve done as you commanded, my liege. His cell is solid rock not only in terms of the walls and ceiling, but also the earth. It’s been doubly-reinforced there, in fact. Nothing could possibly dig through.”

The Gryphon nodded darkly. “Let us hope so.” The avian countenance brightened again. “You have my gratitude, general. You risked your life for Troia.”

“ ‘Tis my duty, your majesty. I could do no less than my predecessor would have.”

“Marner...Toos was a friend, a comrade, from well before my reign. He wielded a magic of sorts, too. I do not expect you to be him. You have your own skills and I wouldn’t have chosen you to replace him if I hadn’t agreed with his judgment. You are deserving of the position.”

Touched, Marner knelt. “I thank you my lord.”

The lionbird shook off the matter. “Now we must return to the matter of D’Marr.”

“He will be executed, of course.”

“Not until he’s told us all we can drain from him. This new resurgence of Aramite activity bodes ill. I expect that there are others with plots akin to his. They want their god back, Marner, and I intend to thwart them in that effort.”

“You can rely on me,” the general offered. “Come the morning, I shall begin in earnest on the wolf raider.”

“Let’s hope we have that long.”

“Your majesty?”

The Gryphon blinked, then shook his head. “Just anxiety. I know where you’ve buried him. D’Marr won’t be going anywhere.”

A child’s laugh caught their attention. The Gryphon’s form immediately shifted, becoming that of the noble, silver-haired man. He smiled warmly at the sound. “Darot plays with his brother. It’s good to hear them both! Come, Marner! Let me show off my son...both my sons!”

 

 

 

His hands were bound so that he could do no harm to himself. He could not eat without aid. They kept him chained against the wall, with no light by which he could study his surroundings.

Even in the deep cell under the palace in which they had put him, Orril D’Marr could hear the faint sounds of the infant son of his enemy. In the dark, his face could not be seen, but for one of the rare times in his life, the Aramite wore a frown. That frown, along with eyes also hidden by the blackness, barely hinted at the intense venom he felt for those above.

They planned to come for him in the next day or two, using what methods at hand to pry knowledge from him. They would seek to find out more about what others like him intended, what others were doing to restore the glory of the empire and find their stolen god.

They would learn nothing from him. Nothing. He was loyal to the Ravager. He would not betray his god.

A sound, a so slight sound, reached his ears. He had heard it more than once since his recent incarceration.

The sound of claws digging at rock.

They had followed. Whether or not as allies, the Quel had followed him. He had learned that the creatures were very vengeful and they likely blamed him as much as the Gryphon for the debacle. Their leader certainly had no love for the Aramite, not after the injuries suffered because of D’Marr’s weapon.

Orril D’Marr welcomed them either way. They would keep him from the Gryphon’s interrogators and there stood a chance that, given the opportunity, he could convince them of his continued value alive.

If not...

Expression once more emotionless, the wolf raider set his head on the stones near where he heard the scratching. He shut his eyes and listened.

And waited...