Richard Knaak: Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

Yes, it would be interesting to see him die.

He reached the ridge some ten minutes later. The sentries positioned near the bottom saluted him and immediately stepped out of his way. Most soldiers were quick-witted enough to know that one did not stand in Orril D’Marr’s way for very long. As he walked between them, the young officer smiled lazily at the taller of the two. The man’s eyes widened, then looked away. Once past, D’Marr dropped the smile and forgot them completely. They were nothing to him. Only one man among all those who had become part of this desperate venture had earned his respect and obedience . . . not to mention his fear.

As he neared the top, a snarling sound made him look up. A savage creature the size of a small dog but built more along the lines of a giant rat peered down at him. Its ugly face was flat, almost as if at birth someone had pushed it in, and when the jaws opened, there were jagged teeth everywhere. When D’Marr came almost within reach, it snapped at him. The mask of boredom slipped from his visage as the Aramite silently cursed the animal and swatted at it with one mailed hand. Still snarling, his furry adversary trotted back several steps. D’Marr hated verloks and would have gladly done away with this one save that it was his master’s pet. Only Lord D’Farany would ever consider such a vicious creature for a plaything.

No longer with an advantage, the verlok trotted back to its master. D’Marr took a moment to both catch his breath and organize his thoughts. He stared at the backside of the Pack Leader, who stood at the opposite edge of the cliff gazing out at the sea. The evening wind whipped Lord D’Farany’s cloak like some mad dervish, but otherwise the master raider was as still as stone.

The Aramite commander was alone, but as D’Marr strode toward him, he heard D’Farany’s voice.

“Can you feel it? So very near yet so far. The land fairly glows with power . . .”

D’Marr came within arm’s reach of his commander and knelt beside him. The verlok moved away, glaring. “My lord.”

“You killed him, D’Marr.”

He glanced around to see if somehow he had missed someone else, someone who could have informed Lord D’Farany about his mistake. There was no one. The anxious raider looked down at the ground. Time and time again he reminded himself that his master was no longer a keeper , no longer one of the Aramite sorcerers whose souls had been tied to the wolf raiders’ savage and very real god, the Ravager. When their god had abandoned them just prior to the revolt, he had taken his gifts with him. That had meant madness and death to most of the keepers, for the power of the Ravager had used as much as it had been used. It had enslaved them to the will of the wolf god. Without it, the survivors had become as helpless as newborn pups . . . all of them save Ivon D’Farany.

D’Marr realized he had not yet responded. “Yes, my lord.”

“You were overzealous.”

“I was, my lord.”

“Rise, Orril, and join me.” The Aramite commander had still not shifted his gaze from the sea. D’Marr stood up and waited, knowing that his master would speak when he chose to.

More than a minute had passed before Lord D’Farany finally commented, “From here, they still resemble hunters, don’t they Orril?”

It took D’Marr the space of a breath or two to understand what his master meant. Then his eyes fixed upon the three massive ships that had carried the wolf raiders this far. It was true; they still did resemble the hunters they had once been. Tall, black, and, despite their great size, as swift as any other vessel sailing the seas.

And swift enough to carry us away from the revolt while our tails still hung between our legs . . . “They’ve served us well, my lord.”

“And suffered because of us.”

“Yes, sir.” Suffered, indeed. From a distance they might still resemble the terrors of the sea they had once been, but up close the ravages of the empire-wide revolt became all too evident. The sails had been patched so many times that there were now more patches than original sail. Scorch marks and cracked timber on the hull spoke of the accuracy of the enemy’s weapons. On board, it was even worse. Most of the rails were either broken or completely missing. There were still gaping holes in the decks because there was no longer enough material with which to repair them. Aboard one vessel, the crew had barely managed to secure the main mast after one strike had nearly torn it free. It was a wonder the raiders had made it so far with only a few losses at sea.

The three ebony ships were hunters no longer. They were merely shadows now.

“Scuttle them. Tonight.”

“My lord?”

The raider commander turned then. D’Marr swallowed. Lord D’Farany had not escaped the madness that had taken his fellow keepers and the vestiges of that madness remained forever a part of his countenance. His skin was pale, almost white, and there were scars, insufficiently hidden by a short, well-groomed beard, where he had tried to claw his own skin off during that period. Three days of screaming had left his lipless mouth forever curled upward at the ends, making it seem as if the former keeper found the world around him ever amusing. Worst of all, though, were the eyes, for they never seemed to focus, yet somehow they snared one’s attention, forced one to look at them. To D’Marr, to whom the world was an enemy ever needing to be watched, being bound to stare into those eyes and those eyes alone was sheer horror.

“Scuttle them. Tonight. They deserve to rest.” The eyes drifted to the direction of the sea but did not quite reach it.

“Y-yes, my lord.” D’Marr found himself shaking as he broke contact. Then his fear faded as he contemplated what the Pack Leader’s command truly implied. They would be trapped here, then. They would be forced to not only survive, but to strengthen themselves as swiftly as possible. They would have to make this realm theirs or perish.

It did not occur to D’Marr to protest, to refuse the order. One did not question the Pack Leader. It was not the Aramite way. “I will do it myself, my lord. There’s something I wish to test and this will give me the chance.”

“You should have been more careful, Orril,” Lord D’Farany said, switching back to the previous subject as was often his habit. He snapped his fingers. The verlok came trotting over to him. Reaching down, the Pack Leader took the monstrosity in his arms. It growled quietly as he began to stroke it, the closest it could come to a purr. “This . . . this . . . Quel . . . was valuable.”

Here was his chance to redeem himself. “Yes, my lord, he was. More so than we could’ve ever realized.”

The hand stroking the backside of the verlok paused. Pale, gray eyes shifted to a spot just to the side of the officer’s head. Not a word was said, but D’Marr still knew that he had just been commanded to speak.

“I know now where the surface entrance to the caverns lies, my lord,” he began. “The entrance to the city of the underdwellers. To their power. All the searching in the world would not have uncovered it, Lord D’Farany. It’s extremely well hidden.”

“But you can find it.”

“Yes, my lord. Easily.”

Nodding his approval, the Pack Leader turned away. D’Marr, however, did not take that as a signal that he had been dismissed. He knew his master too well to assume such a thing.

“Tomorrow, then. You will lead the search.”

“As you desire.” Despite his hatred of the heat and the blinding sunlight he would be forced to suffer, the young raider was pleased. The glory would be his, not the blue man’s.

“There is something else, is there not?”