But I’m damned if I’ll perform for you, Conn. You’ll get me the way I feel—too tired to move a muscle, with nothing left over for anything or anyone, not even myself.
He stood there a moment longer, and experimentally prodded her with his toe once or twice.
Very romantic, Conn.
But she had seen people fallen so deeply asleep that nothing short of an earthquake would wake them. She knew how to simulate the same thing. She remained absolutely limp, neither resisting the push from his toe, nor reacting to it. Finally he muttered something uncomplimentary and left the tent.
She stayed in the same position in a kind of wary stupor; there was no telling how Conn would react to having his wishes flaunted. He might just linger outside the tent, waiting to see if she moved or even came out. He might even come back with a bucket of cold water…
No, he won’t do that. He wouldn’t want to use the bedroll if it had been soaked.
But he might find some other way of waking her up and return with it.
It’s a good thing he won’t be able to find a messenger-bird now that it’s past sunset. He’d probably bring one back here and have it shriek in my ear. The little beggars love dramatics; he wouldn’t have any trouble getting one to cooperate.
But nothing happened, and when her arm fell asleep, she finally turned over, keeping her eyes cracked to mere slits.
There was a light right outside her tent, and if there had been anyone lurking out there he’d have shown up as a silhouette against the canvas. There wasn’t a sign of Conn, and as her arm came back to life and she sat up, swearing softly, he didn’t come bursting into the tent.
She sighed and massaged her left hand with her right, cursing as it tingled and burned. Her eyes felt dry, and gritty, as if she’d been caught in a sandstorm. She left off massaging her hand and rubbed them; it didn’t stop the itching, but at least they didn’t feel quite so dry anymore.
This end of camp was silent—frighteningly silent. Anyone not on duty was sleeping, wasting not a single moment in any other pursuits. As she listened, she heard the deliberate pacing of a sentry up and down the rows of tents, and the rustle of flags in the breeze, the creaking of guy-ropes and the flapping of loose canvas.
And something muttered just overhead.
She peered up, where the tent-supports met in a cross. There was a tiny creature up there, perched on the poles.”
She got to her feet, somehow, and reached up to it without thinking. Only as her hand touched it and she felt feathers did it occur to her that it could have been anything—a rat, a bat, some nasty little mage-accident.
But it wasn’t; it was only a messenger-bird. She slipped her fingers under its breast-feathers as it woke and muttered sleepily, and it transferred its hold on the pole to a perch on her hand.
She brought it down, carefully. While they were very tame, they were also known to nip when they were startled. She scratched it with one finger around its neck-ruff while it slowly woke, grumbled to itself, and then, finally, pulled away and fluffed itself up.
It tilted its head and looked up at her; obligingly, she got into the light from outside so that it could see her face and identify her. It snapped its beak meditatively once or twice, then roused all its feathers again, and spoke.
Canceling your appointment tonight, it said in Amberdrake’s voice—and it was uncanny the way the tiny bird was able to imitate sheer exhaustion overlaying the words and making him slur his sentences. Too tired. Tomorrow, if we can. ’M sorry.
She sat back down again, obscurely disappointed. Not that she was up to so much as a walk to the mess-tent, much less halfway across camp! And he certainly wasn’t up to giving her any kind of a massage, not after the way she’d seen him slaving today.
But we could have talked, she thought wistfully. We could have cried on each other’s shoulders… comforted each other.
Suddenly she realized that she no longer thought of him as “the kestra’chern Amberdrake”—not even as her Healer. She wanted to tell him every grisly detail—the men that had died under her hands, the fighters who were never going to see, or walk, or use a weapon again. She wanted to weep on his shoulder, and then offer him that same comfort back again. She needed it, and she guessed that he did, too. His friends were as mind-sick and exhausted as he was, and would be in no position to console him.
Or else they have others they would rather turn to.
If only he hadn’t canceled the appointment! If only she could go to him…
Well, why not? came the unbidden thought. Friends don’t need appointments to see each other.
That was true enough, but…
Dear gods, it was a long walk! She held the little bird in her cupped hand, petting its back and head absently as it chuckled in content. Just the bare thought of that walk was enough to make her weep. He might have exhausted his Healing powers, but she had been lifting and reaching, pulling and hauling, all day. Small wonder her muscles burned with fatigue, and felt about as strong as a glass of water.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel of the path between the rows of tents, drawing nearer, but they were too light to be Conn’s, so she dismissed them as she tried to muster the strength just to stand. If I can get to my feet, maybe I can get as far as the mess-tent. If I can get as far as the mess-tent, maybe I can get to the bath-house. If I can get that far—
The footsteps paused just outside her door-flap, and the silhouette against the canvas was not at all familiar. Until the man turned sideways, as if to go back the way he came.
“Amberdrake?” she said aloud, incredulously. The man outside paused in mid-step, and turned back to the door-flap. “Winterhart?” Amberdrake said cautiously. “I thought you were probably asleep.”
“I—I’m too tired to sleep, if that makes any sense,” she replied, so grateful that he was here that she couldn’t think of anything else. “Oh please, come in! I was just trying to get up the energy to come visit you!”
He pushed open the tent-flap and looked down at her, sitting on her bedroll, little messenger-bird in her hands. “You got my message…” he said hesitantly.
“Since when do friends need an appointment to talk?” she retorted, and was rewarded with his slow, grateful smile. “I had the feeling we both needed someone to talk to, tonight.”
“You’ll never know how much,” he sighed, collapsing on the bedroll beside her.
As she looked at him, sitting there in the shadows of the tent and wanting nothing more than to talk, a warmth started somewhere inside her and began to spread, as if a cold place within had thawed at long last, and the warmth was reaching every part of her.
“Would you like to start first, or may I?” he asked, courteous as always.
He needed her! He needed her, and not the other way around! She sensed the pain inside him, an ache that was so seldom eased that he no longer expected to find relief for it. How long had he been carrying this burden of grief? Certainly longer than just today.
“You first,” she said, acting on generous impulse. “I think you must need to talk more than I do—after all, you were the one who made the long walk here.”
It was too dark to see his face, but she sensed that he was startled. “Perhaps I do…” he said slowly.
She put the bird on the dressing-stand, and reached out and took one of his hands. It was cold; she cupped it in both of hers to warm it.
Sharing the warmth; sometimes that’s all that’s needed, I think…
* * *
Skan wheeled sideways and left an opening for Zhaneel to stoop on the pursuing makaar. The one behind him, intent upon making the Black Gryphon into shredded flesh, was a nasty, mottled deep blue, with freshly broken horns still bleeding from colliding with another of his misshapen brethren. Skandranon acted as the lure for Zhaneel’s stoops, flying against the thin clouds to show up better from the ground. The gryfalcon, high above, saw through the wispy clouds easily, and it was simplicity to time when she would fall upon the pur
suing makaar.
On time, a cracking sound followed by a descending scream marked Zhaneel’s arrival behind him, and she shot past and under him at well over three times his speed. Skandranon’s eyes blazed with approval, as they did every time Zhaneel fought beside him. He went into his followup while she arced upwards to retake her position of superior altitude, higher than any makaar could fly.
Beautiful! And it’s working. She’s unstoppable when she is in her element, and the new makaar are more fragile than the last breed. Two breeds since Kili… wonder if he’s still alive? Tchah, next group…
While the battle raged behind and below them, they managed to keep most of the makaar occupied so they wouldn’t harry the retreat. Retreat! Another one! And I warned Urtho to fortify and trap the valley to at least slow Ma’ar’s advance, but we ran too thin on time and resources. Now our troops are beating their way back from the latest rout, and the best the gryphons can do is keep the makaar busy dying. Granted, it’s fun, but all in all I’d rather be fat and happy in a warm tent, feeding Zhaneel tidbits of rabbit.
In broad daylight, the Black Gryphon wasn’t the most effective at stealthiness, so he and Zhaneel had worked out this particular style of combat on the way. It had turned into a predictable pattern by now, and the new makaar had apparently figured out that it took Zhaneel a certain amount of time to regain her aerial advantage. It was no longer quite so easy to kill makaar, but at least the makaar at this battle were down to manageable numbers. There couldn’t be more than thirty.
Another flight of makaar-four, this time, in a height-staggered diamond—closed on Skandranon sooner than the previous flights had. They were going to clash with him behind Zhaneel’s upward flight path, too soon for her to strike at them, but too close for Skan to make an effective stoop of his own. The result—they could chase Skan and exhaust him, at their leisure, unless he slowed and fell to strike at them.
Either result reduces my chances of survival significantly, and I am not interested in that at all. Isn’t there something better you could be doing, stupid gryphon? Maybe eating. Or dancing. Dancing—
Ah! Now that is something the makaar wouldn’t expect. They’re counting on me speeding past them, or slowing—but if I pull up and stop, that might just break up their formation. Makaar without a formation are also known as scattered bodies. This may be fun again after all!
So, that hertasi backspin-pointe that Poidon had shown him before the Harvest festival could finally come to some use, if his back could stand up to the deceleration. Amberdrake’s Healing, coupled with Tamsin and Cinnabar’s periodic care, should have his tendons and muscles in good enough shape to handle it. Since he was a broadwing, cupping enough air to stop should not be a problem, but the speed was going to be a critical factor.
Zhaneel was about to clear the cloud layer on her upswing, but couldn’t know what was going on behind her. She’d be expecting Skandranon to be in the next quarterspan, and he wouldn’t be there on time; she’d stay on station until she located him. If he slowed his flight too much right now, the makaar could guess his intention and swarm him. And even if…
You’ll talk yourself out of doing anything at all, while those four uglies are debating what sauce to put on your bones! Honestly, gryphon, you should know better. Urtho’s given you more than wings, you know. You have a brain to think with. That brain’s learned spells, you silly side of beef, and the makaar won’t be expecting that. Makaar only act on what they expect, remember? They’re expecting you to be dead, dead, dead, not the proud father of little gryphlets.
Basic dazzling should do the job, but that took a moment of time and repose—repose? Who told you that? It takes a moment of concentration, nothing more, you worrying lump. You can’t do it while you’re flying, but you can do it while you’re falling. Falling should be in your immediate future, if you can do the backspin-pointe. You only need one calm moment.
The makaar gained and shrieked at him, Skan recognized Kili in the lead, and that immediate future became now. Skandranon pointed his beak towards the clouds, and arched his body backwards. The air rushing against his throat was nearly enough to stop the blood-flow to his head, despite the cushioning effects of his feathers. Slowly and deliberately, in what seemed like years of constant effort, he changed the angle of attack of his broad wings until he kited upwards. His forward speed was decreasing rapidly, and in this deadly game, speed and endurance were all that kept a flier alive.
To the makaar, it must have appeared at first that he was surrendering. The old maxim of trading speed for altitude held true—as long as Skandranon kept his wings at a good angle of attack. He would be higher, but then eventually he’d come to a stall, and stop completely. Then, as his old enemy Kili surely knew, he would fall, and four makaar were sure to slice him open as he hurtled towards the unforgiving ground.
Zhaneel, if this doesn’t work, don’t tell anyone I did something this stupid, please?
The makaar screamed their glee as he slowed in midair, his arms and wings spread. Kili started to shriek a victory-cry. He straightened his body in midair with one leg pulled close, the other at pointe. The Black Gryphon hung at the apogee of his climb for a moment.
A calm moment.
Just one calm moment…
* * *
Zhaneel pumped her wings furiously, still game for the hunt but growing physically weary. The air was thin above the filmy layer of clouds that she and the Black Gryphon were using for cover, and her lungs had trouble supplying her body for long up here. Her claws hurt from hammering makaar, too.
But, she was making a difference. Fighting beside the Black Gryphon was everything she had dreamed it could be, and more. They worked so well together, it seemed like nothing could go wrong—but she knew better than to believe such things. Ma’ar and his commanders were cunning, and each strike the gryphon pair made could be their last. That made the elation at every success all the sweeter.
They’d been devastating on the makaar so far today, but the knowledge that it was to cover a withdrawal weighed on her mind. It was one thing to be greeted as heroes for making a glorious advance; it was quite another to dodge the enemy as you ran for home. Things looked bad enough already by the time the army came boiling out of Ma’ar’s ground-Gate, rank after rank of identically uniformed humans with pole arms and bows. Urtho’s mage apparently hadn’t arrived in time to stop Ma’ar’s mage from opening the Gate, so the two gryphons took it upon themselves to disable Ma’ar’s man. Skandranon was unable to hit him until after the majority of Ma’ar’s ground troops had come through, and then the makaar had clouded like gnats.
That had resulted in one of Zhaneel’s proudest moments—the mighty Black Gryphon had gotten his foot caught in the camouflage net the mage had been hiding behind. He was tangled but good, anchored to the ground by the body of the mage, which was also trapped in the downed net, and the mage’s men were advancing on Skandranon from the escarpment below. Zhaneel streaked in and cut the net away with her shears, then pushed the broken body of the mage, net and all, down the rocky slope to slow down the troops while Skan beat his way skyward. Just the kind of rescue she’d dreamed of!
And now, her beloved Black Gryphon was down below the clouds, waiting for her to strike again at the makaar that would inevitably be pursuing him. She lined up on where he should be, readied for her stoop, and peered through the thin clouds—and Skandranon wasn’t there!
Her voice caught and she felt her throat going tight—this high up, her instinct to keen could strangle her, she realized with growing horror. The air was thinner; she couldn’t let herself keen—but where was he? She couldn’t help but cry out in worry!
But sure enough, there was no broadwinged black shape moving relentlessly under the haze of cloud that she could see. He should be right there! That’s where his momentum would have him, and he wasn’t there! She folded her wings and looped in a frantic search for him—
—and then there was a flash of light below her. Her e
yes darted to the location of the dazzling burst, and at the center of a diamond of four stunned makaar was a falling black mass.
Skandranon!
Zhaneel fell upon the helpless makaar, as unstoppable as lightning. No damned makaar were going to harm her beloved!
* * *
Skandranon opened his eyes to find a planet spiraling closer and closer to him at high speed. Given the other things he could have been seeing at the moment—his internal organs dotting the sky, for instance, or makaar-claws in his face—seeing that he was only falling was quite a welcome sight.
There were no makaar below him or to the sides, so he followed another bit of personal philosophy—never look behind you, there may be an arrow gaining—and forced himself to stay stone-still so that gravity could work its magic on him. Another few seconds, and he should be moving quickly enough that his wings would do him some good. Then he would see what shape the makaar behind him were in, and he’d try to find Zhaneel somewhere.
She must be on station by now and looking for him, and he wouldn’t be where he was supposed to be. You’ve lasted this long, sky-dancer, but will you survive what she’ll do to you after the worry you’ll cause her?
Before he could formulate a rebuttal to his own question, the air around him shook from a massive displacement—and a makaar wing entered his vision only a hand’s-breadth from his face!
Kili’s wing!
Skan desperately twisted sideways to bring his claws to bear on the enemy that was only a heartbeat away from disemboweling him. He lashed out with both foreclaws to latch onto the wing, intent upon taking the monster down with him—
—and found Zhaneel screaming past him in triumph, her shears clutched tightly in her hands. She was followed a second later by a mist of dark, cold blood, another wing, and the dying body of the now-wingless makaar flight-leader. Zhaneel arced back to come beside Skandranon and laugh along with him as he dropped the lifeless makaar wing and resumed controlled flight.
The Mage Wars Page 30
