Gryphon

by Crawford Kilian

  “The power that creates the Gate comes from a tube that reaches deep into the heart of Zarza,” Inge said. “It rises in the Secret Vale, a small valley that separates Udrig's prison from the Valley of the Whitelands. The walls of the Vale are high and steep and covered with the white rain that never melts, with great sheets of ice, and with rock that groans and grumbles under the weight of the ice and the white rain. Always there is the threat that one of the walls of the Vale will fall and cover the mouth of the tube. The power would soon return, but if we were choked off for an instant, Udrig could reach out and suck strength into himself .. .”

  “As happened in the days of the Old One,” Eldra said, with a touch of impatience. “I ask what your people do to keep this from happening?”

  “They stand at the entrance to the Vale, hands on swords, ready to repel anyone who has no right to come there. And they watch the walls above them. When one threatens to fall into the Vale, the Guardians, at great

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  risk to themselves, chop away the masses of ice or frozen white rain so that the rock will stay. These are their main duties.”

  “To repel anyone who has no right to go there,” Eldra murmured. “And who has that right?”

  “Any sanctioned by Sovag, our ruler,” Inge said.

  Teron closed his eyes and recited from memory:

  “ ‘And two will come from the heavens Blown on the sky wind.

  And two will come from the sea Blown on the water wind.

  And two will be evil,

  Seeking to free mighty Udrig.

  And two will be good,

  Seeking to help those holding Udrig.

  The evil ones will seek to open the Gate,

  The Gate the Guardians have watched long and well.

  The good will stand against them in challenge.

  They will fight with the powers of Eliff.

  And only when the mists of time lift, •

  Only then will the battle be ended,

  Only then will the winners be known.’ *

  “The end of the Saga” he said.

  Inge looked frightened rather than pleased. “Be careful with your words, Teron of Korv,” she whispered. “In our land it is heresy for any but a Whitelander to know the old speech.”

  “If we ever get to your land, I’ll remember that,” Teron said, lightly. He motioned her closer to him. “Tell me, if your people here had the chance to fight for their freedom, would they do so?”

  “They speak of little else,” Inge said. “They only await the chance to fight. But they dare not move until they are sure the boats of the fishermen can be taken. Otherwise, how could they leave?”

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  “Tell them to be alert," Teron said. “The time may come soon. Is there a word to signal them that it is time to rise and fight?”

  “A word long agreed upon," she said. “Dreypal In our speech it means ‘to strike; kill the enemy.’ ”

  Teron thought of what lay ahead. “Tell them to have their ears open shortly after sunrise tomorrow. If they hear the word, they are not to hesitate but to strike at once. Tell them not to linger for the pleasure of killing Fenn warriors but to hurry to the shore and take the fishing boats and return home.”

  “You know that this will happen?”

  “I cannot predict the future,” Teron said. “But I believe that it will happen—if I live to walk away from the Deathcourt.”

  “There is no chance of that!”

  “What the mind of Korox has devised, mine should be able to counter,” he said. “Go now, Inge. The Seventh and I would talk together of tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need me to keep you warm?”

  “Not this night,” he said gently.

  She called to the guard and was let out. Eldra said as soon as the door was closed, “Do the Whitelanders really believe in their Saga, that they are the first Zarzans?”

  “Don’t you believe in the Song of Vacor and EldraP" “Of course, but.. .”

  He smiled at her. “You ask me to believe in your be-, lief yet you question that of another. Each has an equal logic.”

  “I do not see the similarity,” Eldra snapped. “Besides what has logic to do with belief?”

  “Very little,” he admitted, “I find myself believing what I rejected just days ago. Then I denied the reality of Eliff and Udrig, now I begin to understand.” He shrugged. “Who am I to deny the Whitelanders their SagaF’

  Her brief irritation had disappeared. Her smile was

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  gentle. “Blow out the torches, Teron. It's late and we need sleep.”

  He quenched the torches, and when he returned to the center of the room, she was already in bed. He undressed and joined her. The only light came from the dying fire. They lay silently for some time.

  Finally Eldra said, “Do you truly believe that Eliff will give a hundred slaves a way to defeat on army of Fenn warriors?”

  “If he gives me a way to leave the Deathcourt alive,” Teron said. He attempted to keep his voice light. “Perhaps Eliff will supply me with an idea while I sleep. With sleep comes dreams, and with dreams—who knows? We joined our powers already to save my life. This strength my be given us again.”

  “You say ‘given,’ Teron. Then no more doubt remains in you?”

  “If any does, it is small,” he said.

  He felt her leaving die bed. He saw her by their clothes. Then she came back, her body glowing softly in the flicker of the fire. When she lay down, she moved so that her side touched his. Her hand groped out, closing over his fingers.

  “Your mind is disturbed by thoughts of tomorrow,” she said. “I cannot reach you.”

  “You’re a woman as well as a Seventh,” he said bluntly. “Your being this close creates its own kind of disturbance.”

  She said nothing, but her hand moved again and something slipped over his finger. The ring made of hair. Then the ring Pandro had made for her was put into his palm.

  Her voice was soft and warm against his ear. “My being close does help me reach you in another way, Teron. And I am a woman as well as a Seventh.” Even more softly, she said, “Be gentle of me, Teron. In the ways of men I’m not a woman but a child.”

  He took her hand and slipped the hair ring onto her finger.

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  XI

  TERON AWOKE well before the sun topped the eastern peaks. He looked down at Eldra, sleeping gently, and touched her cheek with his fingertips. She stirred and murmured, “Teron?” but did not awake. Smiling, he washed and dressed. His smile slipped as he glanced out the window to see the morning light brightening. He had forgotten what lay so close ahead.

  From the bed, Eldra said sleepily, “Did you dream, Teron?”

  “I dreamed,” he admitted. “I dreamed of birds.”

  She said a little breathlessly, “Of hunter birds seeking a fat carveen?”

  “A flock of sharp-beaked birds,” he said. “If those are hunter birds, then I dreamed of them. And I saw, on a wall, a well-fed bird with gold and red and gray feathering. My dream ended.”

  “Teron, I dreamed the same dream. But I saw the hunter birds circling above the carveen. It was in morning light such as this . ..” She joined him at the window. Below them was the desolate emptiness of the Death- court

  He had never really looked at it before. Now he noticed the high walls on three sides; they enclosed an area of some twenty by forty yards. On the near side, below so that Teron could not see clearly, was the wall of the castle itself. The other walls were of solid stone, high and blank.

  “There!”

  On the wall directly opposite, Teron saw the fat carveen. It was preening itself, ruffling up gold feathers to show red and then gray beneath. Its crested head bobbed energetically in the strengthening light. Abruptly, it ceased its cleaning and cocked its head to listen.

  “Up above,” Eldra said. She poi
nted and Teron fol-

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  lowed the line of her finger. Coming into view was a flock of birds, flying in a circular pattern as they moved in the direction of the castle.

  “Hunter birds,” she said. “Ugly things, they always prey on the songbirds in Erul. Watch!”

  The circle of hunter birds was directly above the fat carveen, so high they formed only a thin, dark line against the brightening sky. Then slowly they moved downward, still maintaining their circle. Suddenly they were close enough for Teron to recognize them as the birds in his dream, their sharp, long beaks, their reaching talons. Wide of wing and with a darkness compounded of coal dust and grayish dirt, they were not easy to see against the sunless sky.

  The carveen was unconcerned. It no longer cocked its head but busily made its toilet. The dark birds circling above it might not have existed. Slowly they dropped, maintaining their round flight pattern. Teron realized they would form a circle about the carveen so that, no matter in which direction it sought escape, they would have it trapped. He said as much to Eldra.

  “They are more clever than that,” she said. “Watch. As they come down, two will fly above their circle to prevent the carveen from going upward. The rest . . .” She broke off as the birds settled in formation, hover- .ing just above the wall. As if one had given a signal, all but the two guarding the air above, drove straight in, their beaks aimed at the carveen like spears. It appeared to become aware of them at the last moment. With a flurry of feathers, it flew up. The two birds above darted down; the circle of birds tilted upward. To Teron, the carveen appeared to have no chance to escape being skewered on those sharp beaks.

  Then, without breaking its wing rhythm, it suddenly turned over, stroked downward and then up at an angle and straight away into the sky, skimming below the hunter birds which were frantically trying to pull out of their pattern to keep from thrusting their beaks into one another. For a moment there was turmoil. Two of

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  the hunter birds fell, dragging with them two others their sharp beaks had impaled. The others flew after the swiftly disappearing carveen, screeching their anger.

  “That was your dream?" Teron was alert, excited.

  “Exactly that,” she said. She sensed the difference in him. “Does it have meaning, Teron? Has our joining given you powers to defeat Davok?”

  “So many questions,” he laughed. He kissed her gently. He stared down into the still empty Deathcourt. His voice held a note of surprise as he heard himself say, “Praise Eliff!”

  She moved to his side. “Teron!”

  His fingers caught hers as they looked together into the Deathcourt at the tiny flicker of light making a pattern there, a pattern that could have only one meaning to Teron.

  “A liffi!” he breathed.

  Her voice was agonized. "The sun is almost clear of the eastern mountains, and the bowmen are below. Do you know what the liffi means, Teron?”

  “I know,” he said. He kissed her again. “Davok will be here soon. Stay back from the window and be ready to leave.” He checked his clothing and his belt and set his spellcap jauntily on his head. “Have Inge sent in and tell her to ready her people.”

  He opened his belt, took out two tiny nose filters and put them into his nostrils. “A stage effect,” he said.

  She moved to him and kissed him with shivering violence. As he gently set her aside, he knew that she would be at the window watching, not cowering in some comer.

  A sword hilt banged on the door. “Spellmaker!”

  “I’m ready,” Teron answered.

  The door was flung open. Teron stepped into the corridor and joined Davok. “Well, spellmaker?”

  “I had a dream,” Teron said. “A dream of you, being gutted by your own men while Korox stood by laughing.” He increased his pace, laughing at Davok’s roar of anger. “The sun will soon touch the top of the Death-

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  court wall, Davok. Don’t keep your bowmen waiting.”

  Davok glowered at him. “What land of trick are you plotting now, spellmaker?”

  Teron shook his head. "What kind of trick would you suggest, Davok? You have my spellstaff. Would you suggest I shoot flame out of my fingers to bum your bowmen’s arrows?”

  “You know a great deal about our method of execution, spellmaker.”

  “Ask Korox,” Teron said. “He sees all; he hears all; and he may well tell all.”

  Leaving Davok with his mouth open to form words that never came, he fell in between four guards and let them march him smartly down the stairs and out into the Deathcourt.

  The sun was up now, and its first rays were reaching for the top of the Deathcourt wall. A group of bowmen, close to twenty, stood waiting. The four guards marched Teron to the center of the court where a dark spot had been made with stone. He was instructed to stand there. Then the bowmen formed a circle around him no more than fifteen yards across.

  Teron glanced through their ranks to where Davok stood in a doorway, his arm raised, his eyes on the wall of the Deathcourt.

  His deep voice roared, “Prepare yourselves!”

  The bowmen went to one knee, bows lifted, “Draw!” They pulled back their arrows. Teron saw that the tips were tiny,"like the ends of darts. His death would not be easy should he fail.

  “Kill!”

  Before the word was fully free of Davok’s throat, Teron was flat on the ground. His arm whipped out and down as he fell. The small capsule he had taken from his belt smashed quickly and completely.

  A fraction of a breath later, Teron’s ears were filled with the twang of bowstrings whose release could not be stopped. The keening of arrows filled the air above his head. At almost the same instant a cloud of smoke,

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  foul enough to turn the gut of a strong-bellied man, billowed into the air.

  Teron rose swiftly, hidden in it, oriented himself and threw a second capsule toward the castle wall. Again he dropped flat.

  A few more arrows came now, but their singing was lost in the screams from those skewered by the aim of their comrades and the retching of those gagging on the smoke. Teron scuttled crab fashion from the circle, blinking his eyes as the smoke made them water. He kept his mouth closed, breathing through his nose filters.

  When he was clear of the billow of smoke that covered the circle, he saw the results of his second bomb. It had exploded near the doorway where Davok stood. It had not yet fully thickened. Teron saw the guards were already down, and Davok was clinging to the edge of the doorway, gasping and fighting to keep from retching up his insides.

  Teron drew a deep breath of clean air. “Dreypa!” he cried. “Dreypa!” He heard his voice taken up almost at once, and the word pulsed through the air as it was passed on inside and out. Teron sucked in more air and plunged into the now thick billow of smoke hiding the doorway.

  He ran against Davok, reached up and caught him by the collar. Then, opening the door to the castle corridor, he pulled Davok through and kicked the door shut. He stepped aside to allow Davok enough fresh air to bring him to his feet.

  As Davok managed to stand, Teron drew a tiny instrument from his belt and stepped forward. He came up against Davok’s broad back, one arm about the thick neck, his free hand lightly touching the needle sharp instrument to Davok’s flesh.

  “Feel this, Davok, but make no move. It was a gift from the Calix of Mell, famous for his poisons. What you feel is a poisoned needle. One mistake and it will pierce your hide. You won’t die from it. Though you’ll wish to. You will become as a beast, running on all

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  fours and slavering, gnawing bones and filth until someone ends your madness with a spear or sword blow.” “You lie!”

  “The truth of what I say can be proved easily,” Teron said. He maneuvered Davok toward the doorway they had come through. “Open it The smoke should be cleared by now. Take a look at your Deathcourt!” Da
vok jerked open the door and cursed. Out of his twenty bowmen and dozen guards, all were down; some dead, the others too ill to rise.

  “Think what I can do when the Seventh and I have the powers of Eliff at our command, Davok!”

  Davok sagged in Ter on’s grip and something like a whimper of fear came from his throat. Teron could feel the tautness of his muscles and he refused to be fooled by this display of cowardice. Davok said, “What do you want of me, spellmaker?”

  “Tell the archers hiding in the doorways ahead to put down their bows. Have the Seventh brought to me —unharmed—in the central hall. Then lead us both to Bator and the manuscript.”

  “I told you, the old fool has hidden it. It is useless to go to him.”

  , “Maybe I want to talk,” Teron said dryly. “Oh, and have my spellstaff given to the Seventh.”

  Davok hesitated. Teron increased the pressure of the needle slightly. Davok roared, “Put your bows down, you aheadbTouch not the spellmaker nor me!”

  As he and Teron paced steadily forward, he roared out his other orders. They reached the great hall and waited in the doorway. Soon Eldra appeared. She saw Teron and started forward with a tiny cry of relief. He waved her off and she stopped.

  “My spellstaff will shortly be given you,” Teron said to her. He winked. “You know what to do.”

  “I know,” she said, as if she truly did.

  The staff came and Eldra grasped it in both hands. Then Davok led the way, muttering curses, up a flight of stairs and another and then a third. On each landing

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  stood guards, but he waved them aside. On the third landing, he paused before a doorway. He sneered. “You waste time, spellmaker. I tell you that Bator will let no one see the manuscript.”

  Eldra came up the stairs, walking backward, the spell- staff in her hands. The guards who had been on the landings below followed warily, keeping their distance. “I will speak to Bator,” she said. “I am his Seventh.”

  Davok drew a key from his belt and unlocked the door at the top of the landing. Two guards stood by, hands on swords, but they made no move. She swung the staff in their direction and they scooted along the wall to tumble down the first few stairs. They stopped when they reached their fellow guards coming up.