Richard Knaak: Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

It was not a pleasant sight, but it gave D’Marr new respect for the strength of the overgrown armadillos.

“Leave it,” he warned the two who started to reach for the remains in some vain hope that there was still a chance. “I want spears and torches ready.” He had had some of the men bring light spears, weapons about a foot longer than a short sword and quite useful in tight areas. As light as they were, the spears were very, very sharp and highly resilient. “Right flank watch right wall and ceiling. Left flank watch left wall and floor. The man who misses the next one will not have to fear death at the beasts’ claws. I shall be more than happy to oblige him myself.”

Yet, even as he spoke, another arm burst through the wall across from him, seizing the nearest man by the throat and bringing his head hard against the rock face. The crack and snap echoed throughout the cavern, then was drowned out by the noises of belated action as the raiders closest tried to cut the hand of the creature off. One man managed to slice the back of the huge paw, but the digger quickly retreated into the earth.

How do they move through it so quickly? It might as well be water the way they come and go! There was only a small, collapsed hole to mark where the second attack had originated from.

He did not have time to consider the matter further, for the third attack was directed at him. D’Marr was turning when the talons came shooting from the wall next to him. With a swiftness he did not know he had, the officer ducked back. Even still, his reaction was nearly too slow. Huge claws slashed at his jaw, leaving a bloody trail. His sword was up in almost the same instant. The raider had the great satisfaction of watching the blade cut up through the arm just past the wrist of his attacker. A shower of blood drenched his breastplate.

The Quel’s arm shook, its actions nearly twisting the sword free of D’Marr’s grip. He took hold of it with both hands and held on for dear life. One of the soldiers raised his own weapon and brought it down on the still exposed limb. The armored hide of the Quel was thick, but not thick enough. The edge of the sword embedded itself in the arm, causing a new shower of blood.

The attacker tried to withdraw, but the swords prevented that. A soldier with a spear moved forward and thrust into the hole. D’Marr again wondered at the vast stamina and strength of the armored beast. Even as badly wounded as the Quel had to be, there was no sign of weakness.

The wall before him shattered, pelting men with bits of rock. The Quel, unable to retreat into the earth, had chosen to come to them instead.

The subterranean dweller filled the passage. D’Marr could not tell whether it was male, like the first, or female and did not really care. As an it , the Quel was terrible enough. With its good arm, it took the man with the spear and threw him into the soldiers behind him. The raider with the sword had wisely retreated already. D’Marr released his hold on his own weapon, having realized that he would be next if he insisted on maintaining his grip any longer. The young officer had no delusions that he could take on one of the beasts singlehanded.

Still . . . he reached for the rod by his side even as the Quel pawed at the blade buried in its wrist. Both arm wounds still bled profusely but the monster moved as if nothing were wrong.

“Don’t just gawk! Bring the spears in!”

There was a scream and then much commotion farther down the line. The Quel were no longer attacking one at a time. He had no time to concern himself with the others, however, for the one who had tried to kill him evidently was intent on completing its task. D’Marr suspected that the creatures had known all along that he was the leader of the invading force. The initial attacks might even have been made so that they could better locate him among the rest. He suspected that the Quel relied greatly on their sense of hearing or some similar trait when they moved through the ground.

With a loud, long hoot, the monster swung at him with one huge paw. D’Marr ducked away and pulled his staff free of his belt. He held the long rod before him. Several men with spears had now closed on the Quel. Two feinted from the left of the huge digger. When the Quel turned toward them, those on the right jabbed with their own spears. One caught the massive creature in the arm that had been wounded. This time, D’Marr’s adversary unleashed a shrill, unmistakable cry of agony. While it was thus occupied, the other lancers also attacked. Three spears penetrated the armored hide of the Quel.

So you do have a soft shell in places , the Aramite officer noted with some satisfaction. Like the creature it resembled, the Quel had less protection near the stomach region. That was not to say it was not protected well there, for two of the spears had snapped in that initial thrust, but of necessity the subterranean monster could not have as thick and hard a shell as it wore on its back. D’Marr had suspected as much from his time with the prisoner, but knew better than to trust that all the creatures were built the same way.

The Quel was staggering now, even its great stamina unable to compensate for the many dripping wounds. It took one last swipe at him and then began to back into the wall from which it had emerged.

“You’ll not be leaving us so soon,” hissed D’Marr. He thrust at the retreating Quel with his rod.

The wounded creature’s howl shook the tunnel and echoed on and on long after the huge figure had collapsed to its knees.

Orril D’Marr touched the tip of the rod to the armored head. He smiled with grim satisfaction as the Quel shivered, hooted mournfully, and finally slumped.

“Yesss . . . I thought all it needed was a little adjustment.” He looked from his conquered foe to his favorite toy. With the prisoner, he had overcompensated with the rod, killing the Quel. The short staff was a magical tool that he had inherited from his late predecessor, who had, in turn, paid dearly to have a sorcerer not of the keeper caste create it. It had thirty-two levels of pain, many of which could kill. The captive Quel had died from level twenty-one. He had given this one level twenty. D’Marr was quite pleased. Lord D’Farany would want hostages to question. It would make up for his earlier overzealousness.

The raider leader turned to aid in the other attacks, only to find that there were no longer any. He summoned one of the lesser officers.

The wolf raider, a bearded veteran named D’Roch who, like most of the men, had to look down at D’Marr, saluted him and nervously explained, “They simply withdrew, my lord. Right after that beast you took down howled.”

It seemed odd that they would abandon the attack simply because one of their number had fallen. Such cowardice went against the Aramite way. “How many were there?”

“Counting yours, sir, four.”

“Four?” D’Marr frowned slightly. They had only dared expend four of their kind in defense of the tunnel against a force the size of his? There was a piece of the puzzle missing. “This place is too lightly defended.”

It was clear that the other officer did not think so, but he was wise enough not to say anything.

A soldier returned D’Marr’s sword, carefully cleansed of all blood, to him. The young raider inspected the weapon, then sheathed it. The rod would serve him better, it seemed. With the blade, he would be dead long before he finished hacking up one of the beasts. They now feared the rod and D’Marr enjoyed nothing more than wielding fear.

He glanced down at the Quel. It still lived, if only barely. “Bind that thing tight and put it somewhere safe. Lord D’Farany may desire to see it.”

D’Roch saluted. “Yes, sir.”