Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

him.

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

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

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

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

I mussst conssserve my sssstrength!

“What about mine?”

The talisman! the inner voice roared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whenever you are ready, D’Marr.”

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

The Gryphon was unable to stifle his scream.

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

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

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

“What-what happened to him?”

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

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

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

The Aramite thrust with the mace, a maneuver that would have been foolish if not for the horrific ability of the head. Dodging aside, the Gryphon utilized his exceptional reflexes and slashed out at his adversary’s weapon