The men were lined up, awaiting Brastigan's order. He gave it, and they started the long ride down from the Dragon's Candle.
* * *
The soldiers rode off, with Brastigan leading. Lottres watched them go. He couldn't decide what he felt. Relief, to be sure. At last, he could relax and learn without his brother's tantrums to distract him. Oh, the glory! To be surrounded by sorcery, breathe in magic and feel it grow within him!
Perhaps he felt some regret, as well, but he wasn't the one crying. Lottres glanced toward Shaelen, unsure of what he had heard. Her lovely face was white and strained in the dim light. Tear tracks glinted on her cheeks as she watched the last mule vanish down the slope.
Frankly, Lottres couldn't understand why Shaelen should miss Brastigan. He was only kind to women when he wanted something from them, and there was only one thing Brastigan ever wanted. Surely Shaelen could sense that.
His fellow thaeme flicked a glance toward Lottres and suddenly knelt by the fire. Her back was to the exit now, her face in shadow. It looked like she was breaking up the coals, but Lottres could tell that was just an excuse.
She had sensed that he was thinking about her. Maybe even knew what he had been thinking. Lottres wondered for a moment if living among wizards might be more complex than he had thought. Did they always feel what the others were thinking and react without a word being said? It seemed unfair. People thought all kinds of things. Lottres had learned that from listening to the men. Mostly, they kept those things to themselves. Even Brastigan did. It was what you said out loud that counted. If no one actually spoke, how could you know what to respond to?
Regardless of that, Lottres had no intention of passing judgment on Shaelen. He went to join her at the fireside, leaving enough room that she could back away if she wanted to.
“I talked to Brastigan,” Lottres told her. “We patched things up, a little.”
Shaelen shrugged. A new suspicion dawned, but this time Lottres was careful to guard his thoughts.
“Did he say something to you?” Lottres probed.
“No,” Shaelen said.
Lottres hesitated, trying to think what else he could say. Finally he offered, “It wasn't your fault.”
“It wasn't your fault, either,” Shaelen answered with a tired smile. “I was split in two. I had no power. I was... nothing.” As she spoke, Shaelen shuddered with remembered horror. “But she had her own experiences, her own feelings. Now that we've rejoined, I have two sets of memories. I'm not sure who I am.”
“I can't imagine,” Lottres said frankly. “I'm still getting used to hearing thoughts.” That was an apology, if she wanted one.
“Don't worry about me.” Shaelen assumed a brisk energy. “It will take time for me to adjust, but I will. And there's no time for self-pity now. Shall I show you how to extinguish the fire?”
“Yes, if you want to,” Lottres said. If she didn't want to say any more, he would have to accept that. “Should I wait for Maess to show me?”
“She didn't say I shouldn't,” Shaelen replied. “You are part of our family now. Each of us will teach you in our own way.”
A family? Lottres couldn't help smiling. Four people hardly seemed enough to call a family.
Shaelen was saying, “Now, this is almost the opposite of the fire arrows you made yesterday. Watch me first.”
Lottres sat back and released a breath to relax his shoulders. He let his eyes slip partially closed, feeling rather than seeing as Shaelen extended her control over the fire. He felt her power growing heavier, like an invisible hand closing into a fist. The yellow coals in the fire ring flickered and grew dim.
“Now you try,” Shaelen said.
He did, clumsily at first. He could feel the fire's energy with his mind. It fluttered, like a small animal held in his hand. Carefully, he squeezed. He saw the coals begin to smother out.
“Good,” Shaelen approved. “If you can finish this, I will release our horses.”
Lottres nodded, concentrating on the fire. He could hear Shaelen moving around, speaking softly to the horses. He called over his shoulder, “Will they seek their home pastures?”
“I don't know.” Shaelen sounded as dispirited as Brastigan had at breakfast. “I suppose I could order them to find Hawkwing House. The Urulai at home might still need them.”
Then Lottres thought of something. “What will we ride?”
Before Shaelen could answer, Lottres felt a jab at his mind. He tried to block. Too late. Lottres winced and hissed with pain. Shaelen gave him a sympathetic glance.
“You must keep your guard up, Thaeme.” Yriatt's voice came brisk and clear. “Just because there are no eppagadrocca here doesn't mean there are none anywhere. Do not take it for granted that Father and I will protect you.”
“I won't, Maess,” Lottres mumbled. He sounded as sulky as Brastigan. With an effort, he made himself sound more willing. “I will try harder.”
“See that you do. Shaelen,” Yriatt went on with a trace of gentleness, “hold the horses there for a time. I have summoned the griffins, and I don't want them distracted.”
“Yes, Maess.”
Shaelen had been just about to remove her horse's bridle. Now she slumped by the cooling ashes, the reins hanging slack from her hand.
“Griffins?” asked Lottres, who had been concentrating on his breathing.
“For us to ride,” Shaelen said. “If Maess and Maen both fly, we must fly, too. We couldn't keep up, otherwise.”
“Oh,” Lottres said.
Inside, he felt a thrill of joy. Riding griffins? None of his brothers had ever done that! Lottres grinned. Oh, yes—this was why he wanted to be a wizard.
“There will be no pack beasts,” Shaelen went on, “and we can take very little with us. Go through your things, heart-kin. Bring only what you must have. We will replace the rest in Carthell, if we can.”
Lottres did as he was told. In truth, there was little he considered essential. His sword and armor, he already wore. The maps, he no longer needed. He rolled one change of clothing into a tight bundle and strapped it across his back. Shaelen did the same, except that she was armed with bow and arrows rather than a sword. Lottres was sorry he had returned the bow he borrowed from Javes. He wondered if he could make his sword blade flame.
Shaelen spoke softly to the horses. With her fingers, she gently combed the mane of her white mare. Lottres had helped calm animals before, but he had never summoned one. He held his breath for a moment, checking his mental guard. Then he extended his senses, trying to feel what Yriatt was doing.
She was aware of him at once. He felt a quick probe against his shields. When they held, Yriatt seemed to accept his presence.
“Come up, if you want to see more,” she told him.
“I'm going up top,” Lottres called to Shaelen.
Without waiting for a reply, he strode from the rock shelter through the narrow crack where they had entered. Lottres picked his way over the tumbled rocks, climbing eagerly. He emerged onto the wide, flat stone that formed the cave's roof just as the first griffin landed.
Lottres had never seen a griffin this close before. A stylized, heraldic likeness certainly didn't do them justice. The griffin had a long, feline body and great paws tipped with savage claws. It had a huge, hooked beak with a ruff of black tipped feathers behind it, almost like a lion's mane. Its broad span of dark gold wings was also edged with black.
The magnificent creature prowled before Yriatt, tail lashing and crest flared erect. Its beak opened for a hoarse screech. The second griffin circled above, clearly undecided about whether to alight. For a moment Lottres thought the one on the ground might charge Yriatt, but she lowered her hands. Lottres felt her power around him, a choking cloud. He struggled for breath, and knew the pressure on the griffins must be even more intense. The first griffin shook its head, an almost human gesture. It folded its hind legs to sit, golden eyes bewildered. The bristling feathers relaxed and lay smooth against its neck.
>
Yriatt approached confidently. She passed her hands over the cruel curve of beak, letting the griffin take in her scent. As she did so, the second griffin landed quietly. This one was slightly smaller, its markings not so dark. It was still looked intimidatingly large compared to Lottres.
“These are males, young ones,” Yriatt explained calmly. “They are old enough to leave their pride in search of new territory. I have persuaded them to do so today.”
“How much do they understand?” Lottres asked. “Do you speak to them in words?”
Yriatt shook her head. “In essence, I have convinced them we are a new pride of griffins. Once Father and I assume our true forms, they will be more submissive.”
“I'm sure,” Lottres chuckled. He couldn't help laughing as he recalled how large the dragons were. Any creature with sense would be submissive.
Unexpectedly, he felt another sharp mental probe. He held it off.
“That is better,” Yriatt said. “You may approach, Thaeme. Familiarize yourself with them, and let them know you.”
Lottres took his time, for he felt nervous about the wild steeds. The amber eyes of the smaller griffin regarded him warily.
“I am a griffin,” he projected.
The griffin responded by folding its wings and flopping on its side, for all the world like one of the cats in Crutham Keep's stable. Its tail made lazy loops on the stone. Lottres touched the griffin experimentally. To his surprise, its coat was made up of feathers rather than fur. They were short and stiff, not downy. The griffin's wings gave a restless snap. Lottres stepped back to avoid being knocked over.
From a safer distance, he looked at the griffin carefully and tried to think how he would ride it. With a horse, you straddled the back right up against the shoulders. If you did that on a griffin, its wings couldn't work freely, yet if you sat across its haunches, your weight would be too far back and the creature couldn't keep its balance.
Ymell's voice came to them. “I will be with you in a moment.”
“Very well, Father,” Yriatt replied.
Lottres turned to look toward the mound. With a pang, he saw the last mule disappear. He felt Ymell close the gateway and saw the stone begin to rise.
“I have released the horses, Maess,” Shaelen said.
Her voice startled Lottres. Turning, he saw her scramble up to the stone roof by the same path he had used. Some of the strain eased from her expression as she gazed upon the two griffins.
“Magnificent creatures,” Shaelen marveled.
“Indeed,” Yriatt said, but her gaze was fixed on Shaelen, and it didn't take magic to guess her concerns.
Lottres felt something shift. He looked toward the mound again. Ymell had resumed his dragon form. He sat up on his haunches, wings partially open for balance, and began to work the standing stone loose. Moments later, he winged overhead with his huge burden, only to drop behind the rocky bones of the ridge and vanish.
Lottres blinked as if waking from a dream. Yriatt wouldn't like it if he failed another of her painful tests, so he turned back to the griffins and the problem they presented. Both creatures had turned their heads, watching warily as Ymell passed above them. Lottres considered them.
Really, the only place to sit was over the haunches. Perhaps he could do that and lean forward, stretching his length along its back to help balance his weight. If he held onto its neck with both arms, the wings should be able to move freely.
Since the griffins were still on the ground, Lottres approached the smaller one.
“I'm a griffin,” Lottres thought at it.
Speaking softly, he stroked its flank with his hands. Lottres crouched against the griffin's side. He gradually leaned forward, taking care not to slide over its wings in a way that might break any feathers.
“I'm your friend,” Lottres said.
He continued moving around, stroking the griffin gently and leaning against it briefly, until finally he stretched full length along its back.
Abruptly, the griffin turned and snapped at Lottres's head. He froze, not daring to breathe. The griffin pulled at a lock of hair that fell below Lottres's helmet. It mouthed the brown strands, released them, and took up another clump.
“He is preening you,” Yriatt said, amused.
“I'm sure I need it,” Lottres answered. It had been days since he last washed.
Lottres was still afraid to move, so he lay there and let the griffin comb his hair with its terrible beak. He had seen stable cats groom each other, but hadn't expected wild griffins to share the same behavior. Still, if it kept the creature from attacking, he would endure it.
A silent call alerted them a moment before Ymell's shadow darkened the sky.
“Father is ready,” Yriatt announced. She stepped away, toward the edge of the rock slab. Then, with swift economy, she assumed her dragon form. Her body swelled and expanded, fair skin flushing dark. Robes became wings, hands turned into enormous talons. Her neck extended, and a long tail slid out behind to balance the weight. The dragon shook herself, like a cat rousing from a nap.
The change was so quick, Lottres could hardly follow the swirling energies that charged her flesh. What must it feel like, he wondered, to have such complete control over your body? Could a human like himself ever do that?
“Time to go,” Lottres said to his griffin, though it couldn't understand. He moved to the side, gripping the griffin's neck with his arms and its waist with his knees. The griffin rolled to its feet easily, as if his weight were nothing. Lottres felt a slight pressure against his ribs as his steed opened its wings. Then with a leap, a rush of wind and dust into his eyes, they were airborne.
Lottres closed his eyes for a moment, fighting his dizziness. When he opened them again the rocky hills were dropping away below. Great, leathery dragon wings cut the air. Smaller, feathered griffin wings whistled after them. The lake glittered as they banked for a turn, and Altannath was gone.
This kind of riding would take some getting used to, Lottres discovered. You didn't ride a horse while lying on your belly! He looked around to see where the others were, and felt a twinge in his neck. Lying still, he shut his eyes, not in fear, but to experience the world as the griffin saw it.
Lottres felt the strokes of its powerful wings as if they were its own. He read the many scents of the air. He saw, with stunning clarity, the details of the land passing below them. Only one thing tempered his joy in flight. Somewhere to the south, a pillar of smoke rose black against the sky. Despite the distance, he heard faint screams. It told the griffin nothing, but Lottres understood its meaning all too well.
Glawern had fallen at last.
* * *
There was no need to wonder if his warning had reached Harburg. All the land was preparing for war. The king's highway, at the foot of the Dragon's Candle, was thick with traffic. Enemy soldiers meant looting and murder outside the town walls. The peasants from the countryside sought shelter in Harburg. For others, safety lay in flight to the south. Anyone who could get away from the war was going, and whatever they valued most went with them.
The soldiers followed Brastigan as he bypassed the jostling crowd by riding through fields beside the road. Hay wagons, loaded with people and possessions, struggled along beside them. Drovers wrangled herds of sheep, horses, and even geese. The smell of fear was as thick as the dust in the air.
On either side, farms and cottages stood shuttered and abandoned. Soldiers toiled in the green fields now, not farmers. Carrots and turnips were being torn from the ground at half their usual harvest size. Grain had been cut before it was ripe. It wasn't what you called a soldier's work, ordinarily. But they all knew a harsh truth: the invaders would make free with whatever they found outside the city walls. These soldiers would leave nothing that might help the enemy. No, not even the turnip greens. Whatever couldn't be carried into the city would be burned.
It was well past noon when Brastigan's troop approached the gates of Harburg. His stomach pinched with hun
ger as they joined a line of folk waiting to enter the city. A familiar banner hung over the massive gate. It snapped in a brisk breeze, scented with the stale-salt smell of the harbor. Brastigan regarded the walls of Harburg with a newly critical eye.
The battlements looked in good condition, at least. Boom cranes, borrowed from the wharves, extended over the walls. Sections of wooden hoarding were being raised up to the towers. Other workers dragged garbage from the dry moat or checked the grates over the sewage outfalls. A series of locks connected the harbor to the moat, which likely would be flooded soon.
That, Brastigan had seen before. It was done once or twice a year, when the sewers needed flushing. Every time they did it, the cellar at the Dead Donkey flooded, too. The memory provoked a sour grin.
As they drew nearer the gate, Brastigan realized not everyone was being admitted to Harburg. It seemed the aldermen had forbidden camping in public squares, and the inns were already full. Refugees who didn't have a place to stay were being turned away. This caused a storm of cursing and argument. A full complement of the city guard were on hand to stop fights and help get the bulky wagons turned around.
Brastigan felt almost guilty by the time he finally reached the gate. Since he was a recognizable figure, his party was quickly admitted. They rode through the Butcher's Gate and into Bloody Square. Livestock could only be brought into town through this one gate. Here the butchers of the city did their work. Only a faded odor now remained of those tradesmen. Their market stalls had been replaced by row upon row of barricades.
Barriers nearly blocked the streets leading out of Bloody Square, too. Around the courtyard, Brastigan saw archers in the shops laying out quiver upon quiver of arrows. If the gate was overrun, this would be a bloody square, indeed.
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