Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

man. Not even Shade had been able to recall what he had once looked like.

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

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

“What happened to you?”

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

“Including Shade?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gryphon! Beware!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bind his mouth.”

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

Unless Cabe was not a prisoner . . .

If not, where was he?

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

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

Provided the Gryphon woke at all.

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