arm. Talons tore at ebony armor to no avail. The officer’s armor was of a grade much higher than that of a common guard. Nonetheless, D’Marr backed away, aware that he was growing just a bit too careless.
Still, under the oncoming pressure of the scepter, the Gryphon was pushed farther and farther back. Each step was a precarious venture in itself, for not only was the ground increasingly uneven, but the intensity of the tremor had become so great that even on the flattest surface it would have been a challenge to maintain his footing. Even Orril D’Marr, working with a vast advantage over the lionbird, was finding it difficult to keep steady.
“Why don’t you come to me, bird? Are you part chicken? Is that what all those feathers mean?” The Aramite officer pretended to lunge. “Are you going to prove as much a coward as that stripling of yours?”
If he hoped to goad the Gryphon into a frenzy as he had nearly succeeded in doing the last time he had mentioned Demion, the wolf raider was mistaken. For the memory of his son, the lionbird was trying his best to keep his instincts in check. They would have their uses when the moment came, but they could not be allowed control.
At that moment, his foot came down upon a small crack in the earth, a crack just wide enough to catch the heel. The Gryphon weaved back and forth, trying to regain his balance. Orril D’Marr charged at him, the scepter ablaze in hideous glory.
It was not the Gryphon who ended up falling. By dropping to a crouch, he managed to just barely stabilize himself. The eager raider, on the other hand, stepped on a portion of ground that that tremor had loosened but not broken up. D’Marr’s heavy boot was more than enough impetus; a good piece of earth gave way, scattering about, and the Aramite went sliding down on his back.
It was all the feathered fury needed. He turned his crouch into a leap at the throat of the murderer of his son. Gasping, D’Marr twisted away, but not quite enough to escape untouched. The Gryphon went crashing into the harsh soil, but the claws of his maimed hand caught the side of the raider’s neck. D’Marr shouted out in agony. The smell of blood reached the Gryphon and he felt the wetness spread down his fingers.
There was no time to savor the strike, for the Aramite was far from dead. Orril D’Marr continued to roll until he was facing his adversary again. Despite the fall, he had kept hold of the scepter, which he immediately swung at the sprawled figure beside him. The Gryphon blocked it with his arm, careful to meet the scepter at the handle. He tried to twist his hand around and grab hold, but D’Marr was having none of that. The wolf raider scrambled back, then rose to his feet. Blood was seeping from twin scars running along the side of his throat. The smile had been replaced by growing fury and perhaps a hint of fear.
Standing, the lionbird showed the raider officer his bloodsoaked fingers. “The first taste, D’Marr. The first taste of my revenge. I will not stop until the skin on your face has been peeled away the same way one would peel away the hide off of a dead wolf. I doubt if there will be as much call for your hide, but I know two, counting myself, who will prize the experience.”
“I’ll see your head mounted on a wall first, birdman!” The wolf raider came at him again.
The Gryphon ducked the initial swing, then slashed at D’Marr as the raider’s arm went by. Again, his talons caught on the armor, but he pulled away before the Aramite could swing the scepter back. D’Marr managed to kick him in the leg. The Aramite underestimated the lionbird’s strength, however, and instead of sending his foe to the ground, he almost lost his own balance.
The Gryphon leapt once more. Orril D’Marr was not able to bring the mace down in time. The two collided and fell, locked in mortal combat. D’Marr would not release the scepter and the Gryphon had to put all his effort into maintaining a three-fingered grip on that arm. They rolled on for several yards with first the lionbird on top, then D’Marr, and so on.
It was the sound that almost put an end to the battle for both of them. A high, agonizing sound that cut through the ear and the mind. The duo separated, each seeking only to cover their ears and save their sanity. The Gryphon barely noticed that the earth no longer shook, but rather vibrated, a somewhat different and puzzling movement.
Orril D’Marr had thrown off his helmet and was rummaging in his belt pouches for something. He had dropped the mace, but the Gryphon was at first unable to act. It was all he could do to stand. A part of his mind pushed him on, though, reminding him that if he died Troia would come next. She would face Orril D’Marr on her own. For her and the sake of the child yet unborn, he could not allow that.
He took a step forward . . . and almost lost his life. Cracked and broken by the tremors, the cavern-riddled earth of Legar could little stand up to the constant vibration now occurring. Whole areas of the surface began to collapse into the underground system the Quel had established over the centuries. The ground before him gave way just as his foot came down. Only his reflexes saved him. As it was, the Gryphon lost his balance and slipped. His legs dangled over the new ravine for a time, but with effort he was able to pull himself back up.
A hard boot struck him in the side.
Orril D’Marr stood above him, a peculiar set of coverings over his ears. The Gryphon recalled the wolf raider speaking of working with explosive powders; D’Marr must have designed the coverings for his projects. It was clear that they did not completely filter out the sound, but they worked well enough for the Aramite to move about without having to hold his ears.
Unable to concentrate enough to shapeshift, the lionbird could do nothing about his own predicament. It was a wonder he was not deaf by now. Part of his magical makeup, no doubt. Still, deafness was the least of his worries. The greatest was that D’Marr once more had his foul toy in hand and this time he looked ready to try its strongest touch.
Knowing he could not be heard over the horrible sound, the wolf raider leaned over his shaking adversary and mouthed out an arrogant farewell. That proved to be his fatal mistake. Despite his knowledge of the Gryphon, Orril D’Marr was evidently unaware of the stamina and resilience of the lionbird. He thought the Gryphon too overwhelmed to have any fight left in him.
That was just the way the Gryphon wanted it.
His spinning roll caught the wolf raider’s legs. The Aramite officer went down under him, but did not lose the magical mace. The Gryphon easily caught the awkward strike that D’Marr tried, then began to bend the raider’s arm back, bringing the scepter toward its master’s face. Although he felt he must soon black out, the former mercenary pushed with all his might. It was time for Orril D’Marr to understand what his victims had gone through.
The ground shifted, sinking lower on one side of the duelists.
Cursing, the weakening lionbird tried one last effort. Throwing his full weight into it, he forced the scepter into the wolf raider’s snarling visage. D’Marr, however, twisted aside and the jeweled head went past his face. The snarl became a smile.
The tip of the scepter grazed the raider’s shoulder.
Lying as he was half on his adversary, a prick of pain coursed through the lionbird, but it was little compared to what D’Marr must have felt. So very close, the Gryphon could not help but hear the scream. The Aramite had said that armor would be of no help and he had been all too correct.
Fueled by his agony, the wolf raider managed to throw the Gryphon off of him. He also succeeded in dropping the scepter as well. The ground tipped even more, but Orril D’Marr hardly noticed. He was still hunched together, trying to recover.
The lionbird had given his all, but now he realized it was time to get away. The area was collapsing and it would do no good to die here if he could ensure otherwise. Half stumbling and half crawling, he abandoned the Aramite to his fate. If they both survived, the Gryphon would be more than happy to renew the struggle. Staying here was simple foolishness.
Behind him, d’Marr recovered enough to realize his danger. He searched for the mace, found it, and hobbled after his enemy. When he had seen that the tip was coming toward him, he had tried to lower the weapon’s intensity. It was all that had saved him. Now, though, D’Marr let the full power of the scepter rise again. One way or another, he would kill the birdman. He would.
About to pass out, the Gryphon rolled over and saw the wolf raider stumbling toward him. He also saw the ground just beyond his own feet begin to crack. The lionbird dragged himself back a bit more and watched in fascination at the tableau that unfolded before him.
