Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

lionbird on his back, had flown off, leaving behind him ruin.

A lipless smile crossed the drawn countenance of the raider leader. “I led that patrol that fought you. When the dragon brought the city down upon the catacombs beneath, I was nearly crushed. I did survive though . . . only to suffer much greater later on, when our Lord Ravager’s gift was withdrawn.”

The Gryphon could still not recall D’Farany’s features, but that had been almost twenty years ago and humans tended to change more with time. Sorcerers, even keepers, lived longer, but the Aramite commander had also suffered withdrawal from the addictive power of his dark master. That had probably done more to twist his features than the entire war.

Glancing about, D’Marr dared interrupt his commander. “Lord D’Farany, you said that we must have the camp ready to move as soon as possible. While the order has just gone out, we don’t have much time.”

“I am aware of what I said, Orril. I am. A pity, though.” The eyes suddenly focused. “It is a pity, Gryphon, that we cannot make a grand ceremony of your death. I, for one, would have found it inspiring. I was thinking of first giving my verlok a few moments of your time and then allowing Orril to show us his prowess in the art of lingering pain.”

“Death by vermin. My apologies for the disappointment.” There was no great visible reaction from D’Marr, although his eyes might have flashed in anger for an instant. The lionbird tried to judge the distance between himself and Lord D’Farany. Even bound as he was, he was almost certain that a good push would send him rolling into D’Farany. It was a desperate venture, but if he was meant to die now he at least wanted one last chance at one of his foes. After what the Gryphon had learned from D’Marr about his son’s death, he would have preferred the young officer’s throat, but D’Marr was too far away to even consider.

“I will live with it . . .” Lord D’Farany gingerly shifted his grip on the glimmering talisman. “I made the brief acquaintance of a friend of yours, by the way. A dark-haired warlock . . . Cabe Bedlam was his name.”

The Gryphon tensed.

“It would have been so cozy to bring such old friends back together, but he didn’t want to come . . . so I left him buried beneath the rubble from a collapsed cavern.”

Cocking his head to one side, the lionbird carefully studied his captor. The drawn face, the constantly moving hands, and the stiff body told him more than the keeper’s words. Cabe might be dead, but that death had been costly for the Aramite commander. He began to ponder the sudden decision to break camp when it was obvious that the Quel city could hardly be stripped of all its prizes. Cabe or Cabe’s death had instigated something that bothered Lord D’Farany enough to make him uproot his entire force without warning.

D’Farany took his silence the wrong way. “I thought you cared about your friends more. You are little more than an animal, birdman. It would be best if we just put you out of your misery.”

By the side, Orril D’Marr removed the scepter from his belt.

A hand stayed the raider officer. “He does not die this morning. Have him readied for the journey. His death will entertain us on the morrow.”

Looking somewhat disappointed, D’Marr nodded. He glanced at the Quel, who stared back with unreadable expressions. The Gryphon thought that they looked a bit too calm considering their situation. “What about these little beasts?”

Lord D’Farany did not even give them a glance. “Kill them before we leave, Orril.” To his prisoner, the Aramite softly added, “I want to spend a little time with you before your death, birdman. I want you to know the pain and suffering you caused me all those years ago . . . and I know it was you. It had to be. I have never been whole since the day the gifts of the keepership were stripped from my soul.” He stroked the talisman and again smiled that lipless smile. “But here I have come close.”

With that, the keeper turned and departed the tent. His aides, with the exception of Orril D’Marr, hurried after. Only the young officer and the guards remained. The former studied the bound captives and scratched his chin in contemplation.

“I should do this all myself, but I’ve not the time. Too bad; it would’ve been fun.” He swung the tip of the scepter around until it was pointed at the lionbird. “At least I’ll have the pleasure of dealing with you later. Let’s see if you can scream as long as your son did.”

Holding back the rage that boiled up within him, the Gryphon calmly and quietly responded, “My son did not scream.”

It was not merely his belief. He knew Demion had not screamed. Demion would never have screamed. The Gryphon was also aware that his son had died quickly and in the heat of battle. D’Marr had never had time to torture him.

That in no way released the wolf raider from the lionbird’s vengeance. Somehow, he would take the little man down.

Seeing that his attempt to ruffle the feathers of his adversary had failed, Orril D’Marr replaced the mace on his belt and summoned the two guards. “Bind his mouth and kill those obnoxious beasts. Do you think the two of you are capable of executing those orders? I mean, they are bound hand and foot.”

The soldiers nodded. D’Marr turned to go, then stopped to stare at the Quel again. He reached into a pouch and removed something too small for the Gryphon to make out. Crouching, the Aramite spoke to one of the Quel males. “I have decided to give you one final chance to save your miserable lives. What’s in that cavern? What were you hiding? Speak to me!”

The Gryphon guessed that the unseen object in D’Marr’s tightly clenched fist had to be a magical creation similar to the crystals that the subterranean race used to communicate with those not of their kind. Talk of a hidden cavern interested him, especially the cold silence it brought forth from the Quel that D’Marr had questioned.

“It’s buried forever! There’s no use keeping it a secret any longer! I want to know!”

It was interesting to see the bland mask of the young officer slip away. He had obviously become obsessed with this cavern.

“Bah!” The Aramite rose, then turned toward the lionbird. “Stupid beasts won’t talk even to save their useless lives.”

Likely because they know what your promise is worth. At least they can die knowing they’ve frustrated you in this. Aloud, he wryly remarked, “You seem a bit put out. What won’t they tell you?”

D’Marr’s face returned to its more common banality. “You. You might know about it.” He leaned over the prisoner. “Far beneath the surface, past the Quel city, there was a chamber with some sort of great magical device.”

“Fascinating.”

The Aramite looked ready to strike him, but held back. “It’s what lies beyond, what I alone of the camp knows lies beyond, that interests me more. The beasties used sorcery-I witnessed the very end of that spell-to change the entrance to solid wall. There is something so valuable in there that they willingly die to preserve the secret. I was planning to set some explosives against one of the outer walls, but circumstances worked against me. Something always worked against me. Now Lord D’Farany says the passage is gone and we must leave here, but I still need to know what was in there.” While he had been talking, Orril D’Marr had put away the tiny talisman and once more removed the scepter from his belt. He began poking the head into the lionbird’s chest, but, fortunately for the Gryphon, did not make use of the weapon’s more devilish aspect. “Do you know what secret they hide from me?”

Certain as he was of the cavern’s contents, the Gryphon had no intention of passing that information on to the wolf raider. D’Marr could offer him nothing. The Gryphon had no love for the Quel and they certainly cared little for him, but here, for the moment, was a common foe. Let D’Marr’s curiosity eat at him. It was a small, petty bit of revenge, but at least it was something.

“I have never been to the domain of the Quel.”

It was an honest statement, as far as it went. The raider officer looked ready to strike him, but their discourse was shattered by another tremor, this one more violent than its predecessors. D’Marr almost fell on the Gryphon, who would have gladly snapped off the Aramite’s throat with his powerful beak if given the opportunity. One of the Quel did seek to roll into a guard, but the soldier backed out of the way and, without ceremony, thrust a