Meanwhile, the first wolf raider put the arrangement on the stand. The Quel that had been identified as the leader of the underdwellers stepped up and adjusted the crystals, not only turning them so that the Gryphon could see them better, but setting the blue ones into a pattern that moved more rapidly than the previous.

The ma.s.sive creature hooted at Orril D'Marr.

"Yes, that should do." The frost-haired villain turned again to his adversary. "Here it is, misfit, in plain words. At a pace of roughly two hours each, one of those blue stones will cease to glow. It'll drop. You have until only the last one remains to tell us where the caverns are and prove that you don't lie. If there's any doubt, or you think that you can hold off from answering . . . " He looked over his shoulder at Darot.

The Gryphon could guess the rest. At the end of that time, if he did not give them the truth, they would harm his son. His gaze fixed on Darot and he wondered if the boy understood that threat.

"Aah . . . you make the logical, if incomplete, conclusion." Stepping between the king and Darot, Orril D'Marr held up another crystal, this one emerald in color. "But there remains one more element, a further enticement. You are a warrior born. The life of your son might be something you'd be willing to sacrifice. Therefore, I've added a further incentive."

The emerald flared. As it did, a foot-tall image materialized.

An image of Troia.

The barest ghost of a smile traced D'Marr's lipless mouth.

"Before the last stone drops, when your son is already dead by your choice, you have one last opportunity to give us the information. If not . . . with the final gem's fall, your mate . . . and your coming child . . . will also die."

VII.

General Marner entered the royal chambers, going down on one knee before the queen. "Forgive this intrusion, your majesty."

Troia sat in a simple chair, a goblet in one hand. Next to her, a small, elegant marble table held a pitcher of spring water. Behind her, almost shadowed, two slim female forms stood watch. They were clad as ladies-in-waiting, but their expressions were hardly those of soft aristocrats. Toos had chosen both women with care. The younger, blond one could match the best dagger t.o.s.s.e.rs at fifty paces. The older, more attractive brunette knew how to handle a sword better than many of his men.

Even still, both were not nearly as deadly as their mistress.

"Your visit is hardly that, general. You've some news for me?"

"Aye. We made a thorough search of Henrik's chambers. At first we found nothing out of the ordinary."

The queen fingered her pendant. "You said 'at first' . . . " Marner reached into a pouch on his belt, cautiously removing the contents. A black cloth surrounded them. He peeled it open, then showed the items to the queen. "In a s.p.a.ce carved out of the wall and hidden with a false front, we found these." As she leaned close to inspect them, he warned, "No nearer, majesty! The vial contains the same poison as tipped the blade."

The black, opaque bottle was tiny, barely half the length of her thumb. That spoke much for the potency of the foul liquid within.

Tearing her gaze from the vial, Troia hissed.

The ring was as black as the bottle and instead of a stone, a metal image decorated it. Both could clearly see the savage, lupine head.

"The final d.a.m.ning evidence," she muttered. "No clue as to his efforts?"

"None, but I hardly expected any. He would've destroyed such things. The only reason he kept the vial was due to necessity and, as for the ring . . . I chalk that down to obsession with his G.o.d."

Troia nodded. "I'm rather glad that you found the rest of the poison. I've been wondering where it might be."

"As to that, young Juren leant his aid there. He's tried to recall any peculiar behavior Henrik ever showed. This came from one memory." Marner grunted. "Lad feels worse than the rest of us. He considered Henrik a friend."

"How is he faring?"

"I've done my best to show him he's done well, but he still thinks he nearly got you killed through his ignorance."

Troia's feline eyes became mere slits. "I'll talk to him. Let him know how grateful I and my mate are."

Her last words suddenly darkened the mood further. Troia gazed toward a window, staring, not by coincidence, to the southwest.

"Gryph must be in Legar by now," the queen said. "I should be with him. Darot needs me."

"With all due respect, the king was correct. As capable as your majesty is, you are nearly ready to bear your child . . . perhaps the heir to the throne."

She gave him a sharp look. Her claws extended fully and Marner momentarily expected to earn new scars on his face.

Then, Troia retracted her claws and nodded. "You're right, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I like it."

"He'll bring Darot back. He will."

"I have to believe that, general . . . just as I have to believe he'll be coming back himself."

Marner departed the presence of the queen feeling less satisfaction than he had hoped from the encounter. They had their a.s.sa.s.sin, their traitor in their midst, and now all they needed to do was pray that the king would find the other villains and rescue the prince. It had to work out that way. The Gryphon had ruled Penacles all Marner's life . . . even the life of Marner's father and grandfather. The king had battled demons, Dragon Kings, and sorcerers. Surely the outcome of this sordid episode would be no different.

And yet . . . how many of those past adversaries had actually infiltrated the kingdom? The general had studied the records of his predecessor enough to know that very few had managed such a feat and none had managed anything as outrageous as this.

Which gave him the uneasy feeling that his end of the matter had not yet been settled.

But what had he missed? Nothing, so far as he could see. Henrik had been the man inside, the one who had tricked the guards, murdered them, then stolen the young prince away. From there, it had been in the hands of those waiting beyond the walls.

All of this had been validated by Henrik's last, foolish act. There could be no doubt as to his guilt.

Then why did ghosts of doubt still haunt Marner?

He went about his duties constantly at war with himself over the situation. Toos would have no doubt tied up the matter simply and cleanly. Yet, on the surface, things concerning the present situation seemed just as simple and clean to the general. Had his predecessor lived with such ridiculous doubts after each case? The indomitable Toos?

"Of course not," Marner chided himself.

As night drew near and the palace settled down, he removed his helm and went to his quarters. The commanding general of Penacles's armed forces had a varied and unusual list of duties far different at times from that of most of his counterparts. He acted as major domo for the king, saw to the personal running of the palace guard, and still had to deal with the military might protecting the kingdom. If Marner had any grudge against the late Toos, it was that his predecessor had set such high standards that no one could possibly match him.

Yet, the general tried.

As he entered his room, he uncoupled his sword sheath and set the weapon aside. Seating himself at the table and planting his booted feet atop it, he drank some ale. When forced to attend formal functions, Marner drank the elegant wines, but for his own personal consumption he enjoyed the heavy ale popular among the troops. The thick brew provided nourishment and increased the stamina. A good soldier just had to know his limits.

Still the question of Henrik plagued him, tempting Marner to drink more than was his wont. He finally shoved the flagon away and brooded. Perhaps if he once more inspected the traitor's trail he would finally be able to rest.

He almost left his sword, but force of habit made him latch it on again before stepping out. Only a few torches lit the hallways at night. Accustomed to the shadows, the veteran officer strode determinedly down the corridors, nodding to the occasional sentry.

After some time, he came to section where the palace guard itself was quartered. The sprawling complex that was the palace enabled the king to keep a good-sized contingent of ready soldiers nearby. Built to accommodate the Dragon King who had once ruled here, most of the rooms were immense. This enabled each member of the palace guard to even have their own individual s.p.a.ces, divided from those of their comrades by tall part.i.tions.

The sentries at the entrance snapped to attention, but Marner quickly put a finger to his lips. He had no desire to awaken his men. With stealth commendable for a human-no one could match the king or queen-he headed toward the late Henrik's cot.

Marner seized a candle from the short table next to the cot, then lit it with the tinder left behind by the late resident. At his order, nothing had been disturbed since last he had inspected the place. Putting the candle aside, the general quietly turned over the blankets and inspected the rails. As before, he found nothing. Marner searched under the table, studied every personal item . . . and yet again he found nothing.

Some minutes later, the bulky fighter straightened. He stared down in disgust at the objects before him. With one last grunt, Marner doused the candle with his fingertips and started out.

Force of habit made him check on the slumbering figures as he walked past. Each of them he considered good men, which had been in part why Henrik's betrayal had struck him so hard. Like their commander, the sleeping men would have given their lives for their king and queen. The Gryphon and his mate did not rule by power alone; they also ruled by common sense and compa.s.sion. Marner could think of no better master and mistress to have.

Some of the beds lay empty, those men on duty. The general absently acknowledged each, knowing those on night activity often had the riskiest tasks. The kidnapping of the prince proved that.

Still frustrated, Marner headed for the exit. He thanked the heavens that none of the slumbering soldiers had noticed his search. They might have thought that their commander had lost his wits- Hand on the door, Marner suddenly looked back into the darkened chamber.

With the same stealth that had enabled him to already once cross a room full of crack troops without waking any, the general hurried along. His narrowed gaze rapidly shifted from left to right and back again, studying each individual section.

And then he came across the one he sought.

The bed should have been occupied. He had been here long enough for the soldier who used it to return from any necessities. The palace guard lived by strict rules. No one went wandering aimlessly about the building.

So where had Juren gone?

VIII.

Orril D'Marr had not tried any physical torture on either father or son. He had even fed Darot and allowed the child to deal with nature, then had bound the boy again. The Gryphon had been provided with some water, but no one had even suggested that he be released for even a moment. Still, overall the Gryphon had been treated far worse by captors over the decades, including other Aramites.

He knew it was not because of any civil streak. Orril D'Marr was simply letting him see that the wolf raider controlled entirely the situation. The lives of both were his. That, in turn, made it clear that the lives of Troia and the unborn infant were just as much D'Marr's to save or execute.

It was typical of the wolf raider. Orril D'Marr did everything with a mask of indifference draped across his face. Only the results revealed his true, monstrous self.

A slight clatter set every nerve in the Gryphon afire. Two stones remaining. When the next dropped, they would come for Darot.

He eyed the two Aramites left guarding him. One had always been watching him, which had made any plans of escape futile. Of late, however, the two men had become bored. Now they spent more time playing some secretive game of wager than paying attention to their captive. The glances toward the Gryphon had grown less frequent.

The noise made both men look up. One smiled maliciously at him, then both resumed their game.

He had to act now. Surely this time they would forget him long enough . . .

The Gryphon began contorting his legs.

When they had brought him here, his captors had chained his wrists and ankles. They had left his boots on, securing the bonds tight enough to make it impossible for a normal man to slip free his feet. The Gryphon had to a.s.sume that the Quel had been the ones to do that, for surely if the Aramites had done it, they would have realized the error in doing so.

His muscles ached and his bones felt ready to crack, but still he silently twisted his legs, trying to slip his feet free. The long, avian-leonine appendages were narrower than human feet. The special boots kept them set so that he lost no mobility even though he nearly stood on his toes. When transforming to a more human shape, the Gryphon even often left his lower limbs unchanged, since those were not visible. Only around his family did he generally make a full transformation and usually when the occasion allowed him to make use of other, more mundane footwear.

Now that habit offered him his only hope.

The braces squeezed tight against his flesh as he pulled upward. The task was made all the more difficult by his having to keep the chains from rattling.

Darot watched his father, but whether or not he understood what was happening, the Gryphon could not say. To his credit, the child remained silent, drawing no attention to them.

Suddenly, one foot slipped free. The chain rattled slightly as the boot shifted, but the Gryphon managed to keep it from doing enough to attract the guards' attention. His foot remained inside, his toes bent to keep the boot from falling free.

A moment later, the second slipped free. Again the metal links rattled.

One of the Aramites looked up. He tapped his comrade on the shoulder and pointed at the Gryphon.

The two black-armored figures approached, the first drawing his blade. Neither appeared overly-concerned, but both were veteran fighters.

"My son could use water. So could I."

"He'll live without it, if he lives at all," smirked the first. "And we've orders to give you nothing more unless you tell us what we want."

"I'll be happy to tell you mongrels where to go . . . "

"Beast!" The second moved to slap the Gryphon hard with his gauntleted hand. "You'll learn your place!"

The hand flew toward the captive's face.

The Gryphon pulled both feet free, using the rock and the chains on his wrists to swiftly fold his body upward. As he moved, the claws of each toe extended to their full length.

Razor-sharp nails tore out the throats of both men.

Neither had even a chance to gasp out a warning cry. They froze for a moment, then one slumped toward the Gryphon while the other fell back.

With one foot he caught the second, pulling him forward. Both corpses fell on the Gryphon. He heard a m.u.f.fled gasp from Darot, but after that his son quieted.

Slowly the Gryphon let the body on his right slip to the ground. The second he held near. With his free foot, he reached toward the guard's belt.

The keys jangled as he removed them. The body shifted, almost causing the Gryphon to lose the precious items. He quickly compensated, managing to keep the keys snagged on one one claw.

Lowering the second raider, the Gryphon twisted his legs upward, nearly folding himself in half. His back strained and the keys slipped to one side. With a silent curse, he brought them around so that the other foot could seize the one he needed.

Each second he feared either one of the Aramites or a Quel would come in to check on the guards, but the shadowed entrances remained empty. Before him, the cursed clock that D'Marr had wrought with Quel magic continued to shift, the next stone already dimming. The minutes raced by as the Gryphon struggled to get the key into the lock and turn it enough to open the cuff.

The harshness of the click so startled him that he lost his grip on all the keys. They dropped to the hard cavern ground, their crash echoing even more than the opening of the cuff had.

Darot shifted nervously, but the Gryphon stilled him with a shake of his head. Turning his wrist, the king freed his hand, then tugged on the other.

In the tunnels leading to the cavern there came the sounds of hooting.

Grabbing at the keys with his foot, the Gryphon brought them up to his hand. He thrust the princ.i.p.al one in the lock and quickly turned it.

Darot made a soft sound through his gag.

The Gryphon looked toward the tunnels.

A hulking Quel wielding a spear emerged from the darkness, its gem-encrusted, segmented sh.e.l.l glittering in the light of the cavern's own crystals. The narrow red eyes took in the two bodies and the struggling captive . . . then the creature let out a loud cry of warning and charged.

Despite the key, the manacle would not yet open. The Gryphon tugged hard at it as his attacker approached, but still it did not give.

The Quel thrust. The point of the lance came at the Gryphon's chest.

He twisted around, using the remaining chain to enable him to swing out of the weapon's range. The point smashed against the rock, breaking off.

Ignoring the metal cutting into his wrist, the Gryphon propelled himself around the rock, swinging quickly toward his attacker's blind side.

The Quel started to turn, but in comparison to the Gryphon, he moved as if in slow motion. The prisoner wrapped his legs around the broad neck and squeezed.