Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol II - By Richard A. Knaak Page 0,432

a hundred names and venting their frustration over the loss of the grand empire on one of those most responsible.

Finally, a voice cut through the din, saying, “That will be enough. I want the beast alive… for now.”

It was the last thing Morgis heard before the culmination of his injuries made him faint.

IV

HE WAS DROWNING. Water filled his lungs, making him choke. Morgis tried to breathe, but all he did was inhale more liquid. The black sea surrounded him and the drake could not find the surface. His heart pounded as the lack of air took its toll.

“Once more,” commanded a voice filled with disdain.

A new wave washed over the drowning drake. He coughed again. Rough hands turned him over and he finally managed to spit up some of the water.

Slowly it registered to him that he rested his forehead against stone.

“Curious. I thought the blue dragons of an aquatic nature. This one looks as capable of life in the sea as a sand rat.”

The comment received several gruff sniggers from various points surrounding Morgis. Spitting out more water, he managed to reply, “We are—are like the whalesss and—ssseals, fool! We hold air inssside—when we are given the chance t-to take it first!”

For his reply Morgis was rewarded with a harsh kick to the side.

“He seems recovered enough,” said the voice that appeared to be in command. “Bind his arms behind him.”

Several pairs of rough hands pulled the drake from the floor. Through bleary orbs, Morgis gradually recognized the interior of the old keep. Worse, he also recognized the guarded form of Leonin, but Kalena was nowhere in sight.

A sudden rage at what the wolf raiders might have done with her enabled Morgis to stand of his own accord. He pulled free of the soldiers, but then the tingling began and once more the drake slipped to one knee.

“There will be none of that.”

To his left, he noted the source of his pain. Although for the most part clad like the other armored figures, the tall, broad-shouldered leader wore not the closed helms of his underlings but rather an open one with an elaborate wolf’s head crest. The savage, lupine head looked nearly alive, a tribute to the dark god in whose image it had been cast. A small ridge of gray fur rode down the back of the helm, the tip just touching the figure’s flowing cloak, also made of fur.

The face within the helm well-matched the savage crest. If this Aramite did not have the blood of the Ravager flowing through his veins, Morgis would have been surprised. Under a thick, curving brow, narrow black eyes glittered dangerously. The nose was long, narrow, almost canine, and the mouth was wide and almost lipless.

“I am Keeper D’Kairn…” he remarked with a politeness belied by his wolfish visage. “.…and you are the drake, Morgis, son of the Dragon King, Blue.”

The last was said with more than a hint of satisfaction and even more than a hint of teeth. D’Kairn’s teeth were not pointed, as Morgis had half-expected, but they looked as capable of biting through flesh and bone as any predator’s.

This was the keeper, the Aramite sorcerer he and the others had been hunting. Unfortunately, no one had told them that not only did D’Kairn have an entourage—some eight scruffy soldiers that Morgis could count—but he also had access to magic strong enough to prevent the drake from assuming his natural form.

“To answer an unspoken question, for days we knew that we were being pursued by fools. But we are far more appropriate in the roles of hunters and so you were allowed to pass, and we kept watch on you instead, waiting for the proper moment.” He stared into the crimson eyes of the beaten drake. “You were no match at all for a keeper.”

“You are a keeper without teeth,” Morgis uttered to his captor. “Or should I say without a single tooth.”

He had the pleasure of seeing D’Kairn’s dark eyes flash before the guards threw him back against the wall. Already softened by their earlier blows, Morgis felt the collision in every bone.

The gloved keeper removed a tiny item from his belt pouch, holding it up for Morgis to see. The pale crystal, perhaps three inches in length, had been shaped to resemble a fang. When Morgis had first seen such an artifact, it had glowed brightly in its wielder’s palm. This one, however, had no life in it whatsoever.

“I still bear the gift of my Lord Ravager,”