Richard Knaak - The Citadel

“Forgive me if I do not take that as a compliment.”

“Atriun is once more under my command. Gwynned will be crushed, and my name will go down as one of the greatest wizards of this monumental era.”

The man had no compassion, no care whatsoever for others. All Valkyn concerned himself with was his magic and what he could do with it. Other lives did not matter. Valkyn would try to conquer the world not for the reasons that Ariakas had, but rather just so he could continue his monstrous experiments on a grander scale. In some ways, the world Ariakas had sought to create for his goddess would have been a blessing instead of the laboratory that the mad mage desired.

Of course, the more likely future for Valkyn would be that eventually his citadel would succumb to the might of his myriad foes, but how many more innocents would have to die before then?

“Atriun is crumbling, dying,” Tyros countered. “Control of its flight will mean nothing when it falls from the sky.”

The gloved hands came up, spreading in opposite directions and making Valkyn look like a scholar attempting to teach a reticent student. “But it will not fall! It will fly, and the storm will cover the heavens once again … now that you’re here.”

A sense of unease swept over Tyros, and he suddenly threw himself away from the doors.

Two fearsome forms dropped from the ceiling, nearly landing upon him with their sharp claws. Tyros rolled against a wall and then scrambled to his feet.

A pair of huge gargoyles, ember eyes flaring and jaws open wide, closed in on him. Tyros sensed something amiss about them. They not only stood taller than any of the gargoyles he had seen, but Tyros felt a strong current of magic around each.

The smiling mage extended a hand toward his demonic device. “Your place of honor awaits you again. I knew you couldn’t resist coming, so I made certain that things would be fully prepared for you.”

The columns had been partially repaired, and new runes of power had been etched in by magic, albeit clearly hastily. Worse yet, new chains had been set into place, this time chains that glowed from base to manacle. No simple blows from an axe or sword would free Tyros if Valkyn managed to secure him there again.

“Never again, Valkyn,” Tyros retorted, his staff held before him, “but I would be glad to let you take my place if you like.”

One of the gargoyles lunged. Tyros held up the staff and muttered words that would unleash one of the few spells with which he had been able to imbue it back in Gwynned. It wouldn’t kill the monster, but a sleeping gargoyle could do him no harm.

Only the gargoyle did not drop. Briefly he shimmered, but that was all.

Desperate, the wizard raised the point of his staff just as the gargoyle closed in on him. The point caught his attacker at the lower edge of the throat.

The monster collapsed, holding his throat and fighting for air. However, by then the second had also leaped forward. As he flew at Tyros, his claws grew longer, sharper, distorting into nightmarish sickles that threatened to cut the mage to ribbons.

Valkyn had enchanted the creatures, adding to their inherent magic. Small wonder he expected Tyros to fall. Yet despite their new and fearsome abilities, Tyros realized that he had one great advantage. Their master needed him alive. That meant the gargoyles had to move with caution … which opened them up to all sorts of weaknesses.

The macabre claws came within an inch of his face, but by then Tyros had a counterattack in motion. He muttered the words of a spell he had found useful in the days of the war, one that he had hoped to save for Valkyn but needed now.

A moist cloud, looking vaguely like cotton, formed around the oncoming monster. The gargoyle slashed, but the cloud immediately reformed where he had cut. At the same time, it continued to grow thicker, obscuring his vision.

Tyros watched with satisfaction. He had realized that to combat the creatures, he had to cast spells that did not affect them directly but rather their surroundings.

Again and again the gargoyle slashed. Tyros moved to one side and saw that his winged adversary did not turn with him. Likely now the gargoyle could see nothing but white.

The first monster had nearly recovered. Tyros called on another spell from his staff and had the satisfaction of watching the floor beneath the gargoyle’s leathery feet turn icy.

Suddenly bereft of footing, the creature slipped, falling backward. Before the gargoyle could utilize his wings to right himself, Tyros used the tip of the staff to push one attacker into the other.

Unable to see who collided with him, the enshrouded gargoyle slashed out with his distorted talons. The fiendish claws tore through even the hard, enchanted hide of his comrade, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the neck. With an agonized roar, the mortally injured creature dropped to one knee and collapsed.

Unfortunately for Tyros, the magical cloud suddenly took on a fiery glow. The gargoyle within had finally realized that only magic could free him. The mage looked up at the great stone ceiling, muttered words of magic, then tapped the staff once on the floor.

The ceiling opened up, great blocks of stone dropping on the remaining gargoyle, who had just managed to refocus his baleful gaze on his prey.

Tyros stared at the rubble, making certain that the creature would not rise, then screamed as incredible pain wracked his body. A hand held him by the shoulder, a hand covered by a slim, black glove.

“They served their purpose well,” came Valkyn’s voice. “You should be a bit more manageable now.”

The staff fell from Tyros’s twitching fingers. He dropped to his knees. Where Valkyn’s hand touched him, an incredible fire burned. Tyros forced his gaze up and saw that various parts of his foe’s hand glowed brightly through the fiber of the glove.

He had forgotten that Valkyn didn’t always need the wand. The other wizard could draw directly from the dwindling reserves of Atriun, thanks to the horrific spell he had cast on himself.

“Time to take your place, Tyros,” Valkyn ordered with a smile. “Gwynned awaits.”

* * * * *

Mere moments after leaving Tyros, Serene nearly had Taggi turn back. She had been a fool to let the mage go alone. He needed her help. If anyone knew Valkyn best, it was Serene.

All thought of Tyros was pushed to the back of her mind as the griffons suddenly lost all semblance of order and dropped into the wooded garden over which they had just begun to pass.

“What’s going on?” Bakal shouted.

The answer became dreadfully apparent a moment later when they spotted a small, still form, arms folded, lying almost peacefully in the midst of the wooded area. Serene swallowed back tears as the griffons fluttered near the body of the only creature they had ever known as their parent.

As one, the animals let out a cry. Taggi landed, nudging Rapp’s body with his beak. He squawked again, a mourning sound.

“Damned wizard,” the captain muttered.

Although clerics of Branchala deemed all life sacred, there and then Serene wished that she could have been the one to face Valkyn. At the moment, the cleric felt that she had it in her to kill him.

Bakal looked at her, eyes bleak. “We can’t stay here, girl.”

“I know.” Yet Serene hated the thought of leaving Rapp here, either to perish with Atriun or, if Valkyn triumphed, to be disposed of like garbage by her former love’s pet gargoyles.

The griffons took the decision out of her hands. Taggi nudged the kender’s body in the direction of the largest of the females. With talons that could have easily shredded Rapp, she gently secured the body and took to the air.

Taggi and the rest flew after her. Bakal managed to glance at the cleric just before they soared into the air, his expression one of astonishment. Both of them were amazed at the depth of devotion the griffons had for the kender.