Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (46 page)

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 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.

Orril D’Marr obviously felt the earth collapsing, for he started to run toward his foe. Still suffering from the effects of his own toy, the Aramite stumbled and fell to his knees. He dropped the mace again and as he fumbled with the handle, trying to get a grip, the ground he knelt upon finally broke completely loose.

The last glimpse the Gryphon had of Orril D’Marr was the image of the wolf raider, his face composed one final time into that bland mask, raising the scepter to throw at his cursed enemy.

Then . . . there was only a cloud of thick dust as tons of rocky earth crumbled into the vast crater.

Demion
. . . he managed to think.
Demion . . . he is no more, my son. The monster is dead.

He settled back, willing to let oblivion take him, when a darkness covered him from head to foot. There was blissful silence and none of the oppressive heat of Legar. Too weak to wonder, the Gryphon merely accepted everything.

A stentorian voice broke the silence. “I . . . will protect you as . . . well as I can, Lord Gryphon! I cannot . . . promise you . . . but we may survive this yet!”

At the moment he did not care. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep for the first time in almost two days . . . and sleep
well
for the first time since his son’s death.

XVIII

NO PART OF
Legar was left untouched by the sound, yet just beyond the interior edge of the peninsula, the region of Esedi and the kingdom of Zuu in particular heard nothing. Those who might have been curious enough about the fog to attempt an excursion into Legar would find themselves turning away in great unease. Even the agents of Lord D’Farany who attempted to return to the camp could not find their courage. Instead, they scattered northward, suddenly certain that it would be wise
never
to return to the inhospitable land of Legar.

Within Legar, the spell of the Crystal Dragon did its work. The Quel, whose hearing was far more sensitive than that of most other creatures, including humans, fell to the ground hooting in dire agony. The wolf raiders were unable to take advantage of their misery, for they, too, suffered from the terrible, piercing noise. Several Aramites simply stumbled off of the edge of newly formed cliffs and plummeted into ravines and craters. A few of the Quel did the same, but the pain was so great most of the tawny behemoths simply crouched on the ground and tried to block out the sound. Tunneling into the earth was no escape, for the vibrations collapsed passages with the ease that a foot could crush an ant. The shells of the Quel were strong, but not
that
strong, and even if they survived, they could only hold their breath for so long. In truth, there
was
no escape.

Cabe, almost oblivious to the world, still struggled to hold the Aramite talisman together.
Ssssoon
. . . the Crystal Dragon had promised.
Ssssoooon it will be at an end.

There was something strange and frightening happening to the mind linked to his, but Cabe had little opportunity to pursue the matter. All that was important was to keep the tooth from being destroyed . . . and keep
himself
from being destroyed while he was at it.

Around the camp, the Quel began to die. The sound shook their very being, destroying them through their ears. Enhanced by sorcery, it was an inescapable hunter, for there was nothing on the surface of Legar sufficient to dampen its intensity.

On and on and on it went. The fates of the Gryphon and Darkhorse concerned Cabe, but by this point he knew that nothing could be done if it had not been done already. The Crystal Dragon had not warned him of the enormity of what he was doing and for that Cabe was angry. Recriminations would have to come later, however.