by J. C. Owens
That in itself was unusual. Most riders did not care for their grifs and left the hard work to the cadets. For a rider, an officer no less, to be doing so made Daren’s brows rise.
Even with all the changes he had brought into being back home, knowing that care and support between rider and grif were necessary for true bonding, it was still rare for upper echelon officers to tend to the grif’s grooming. It was a time-consuming, dirty job, and yet completely satisfying to those who loved their grifs utterly. So it was startling to meet someone devoted to their grif enough to do this, especially in such a place as Farfall, where it would be viewed with scorn and derision.
Captain Andon was stripped to the waist, sweat gleaming in the cool morning air, denoting that he had been working for some time. A morning riser then, so opposite to Daren, who loathed the early hours and sought to sleep in on his days off, something hard won with Gretnel impatient and restless to face the day.
He revised his estimate of Andon being lean. He was thin. Overly thin, his backbone defined, ribs more visible than could truly be healthy. Scars. Lots of scars littering the pale skin. In the clear morning sun, his grim face seemed more gaunt than Daren had noticed last night at the meal.
He elbowed Gretnel’s foreleg, and the grif ceased his annoyed posturing, letting his mane lay down over his neck. With head held high and an exaggerated stiff-legged gait, the male grif made his way to a sand pit to the left of the female, ignoring her so much it was laughable.
Daren rolled his eyes and followed.
“She’s beautiful,” he said to Andon as he approached the sand pits. “Can I ask her name?”
Andon paused and glanced over at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion, his whole body radiating tension and a preparation for conflict that seemed odd given that Daren had made no hostile move.
The silence was broken by Gretnel, who had flung his temper into his bathing, sand flying everywhere as his wings dug into the fine grit. His grunts and contortions were much louder and theatrical than normal.
The female did not open her eyes or give him the slightest encouragement.
“Why do you want to know?” The level of hostility in Andon’s tone was jarring.
“Because it is polite to address her by her name. My grif’s name is Gretnel. He may or may not respond to it, according to his mood.”
Something in Andon’s eyes flickered, a hint of surprise perhaps. He had not been expecting that answer, that was clear enough, and why should he? Here, bound in tradition, people looked upon a grif’s name as something to call them with, chastise them with. It was not considered the grif’s own possession any more than the saddle would be.
For Daren to state differently was a challenge of its own.
The other captain glanced at Gretnel with a frown, but his eyes softened as he watched the display that was a peeved male griffon proving he had not the slightest bit of interest in the female next to him.
“Are you always so welcoming to new people?” Daren kept his tone light, a hint of humor in the words, but their effect was the complete opposite of what he had intended.
Andon closed off. It was like watching a huge gate slamming down, blocking the man behind it, and keeping all others on the other side.
“You will find, Captain, that I am this way to everyone. You have warranted no special treatment.” The words were pure ice, matching the look in those pale eyes.
The female griffon stood up abruptly, giving a great shake to settle her mane and remove any lingering sand. Her look at Daren was fierce, unlike any grif he had ever encountered, the look of a predator…
Gretnel pushed in front of him, growling low in his throat, ears pinned back.
The female eyed him, not in the least intimidated. Her massive wing stretched out and drew Andon back to her, bringing him close against her body and shielding him from view before the man climbed up her side like a monkey, finally straddling her neck and holding to her mane.
The female gave a keening cry that echoed across the grounds. She leaped into the sky, leaving swirls of disturbed air that swept sand upward, half blinding both Daren and Gretnel.
Blinking away grit, Daren watched in absolute amazement as Andon and his grif soared ever higher, until they were mere dots to his vision.
Never had he seen anyone insane enough to ride without harness and gear…
His eyes widened. Black female… In that moment he knew the female’s name.
Ceris.
In her way, she was the most famous griffon known.
Wilds born, imprinting upon a young man who had no links to the military. It was the stuff of legends. No one dealt with the wild ones. They were dangerous, unfriendly and completely unpredictable.
In ancient times it had been different, and men and grifs had found each other naturally, with no connection to the military, forming a lasting, true bond. Then a plague had swept the country, decimating riders and grifs alike. The crown had offered a cure—for a price.
The price had been that every grif would come under the control of the king, become part of the military that was needed to repel the wyverns. Contact with the wild populations had ceased. Controlled breeding took place. Things had never returned to the way they were, even after hundreds of years. Newer generations forgot things had ever been different…or they believed it all to have been a myth…
But it was still said by some that back then, grifs had mated for life, unlike the weak, temporary bonds that presided now. It was speculated that was the reason for the current scarcity of grifs. That somehow, some way, the ancients had known something that had been lost over the years.
Gretnel made a sound in his throat, not deterred in the least by Ceris’s reputation. The knowledge of her background seemed to make the male more determined, more attracted.
Daren tilted his head, still squinting into the painfully blue sky.
Interesting.
* * *
After a long and satisfying flight that settled his anger and soothed Andon’s mind, they arrived back mid-morning. He had an hour or so before his first cadet class of the day. Fortunately, it was the youngest group, the boys least likely to have attitude toward him.
He saw Ceris settled in her nest and spent some time just stroking her head until her eyes closed and she slipped fully into sleep.
Only then could he bear to leave her.
It was a long walk to the main building that housed the kitchens and the dining hall. He kept his eyes front and center, and although those he passed always stared, there were only a few that muttered imprecations in his direction. They knew better than to engage him in a confrontation, because he would shred them with words alone, while complying with military rules that prohibited physical fighting.
He slipped within an old, barely used side door and into a section of the building that smelt like age itself, dry, dusty, with an air of the past. One day, perhaps, this would be renovated to match the rest of the base, but for now, it served as a vital connection to the kitchens.
With silent tread, he made his way down the passage, his movement stirring cobwebs as he passed. In time, he reached a storage room, just off the main kitchen. Here were cleanliness and order, a welcome respite from the decay he had just encountered.
He opened the small, narrow door with caution, but as usual at this time of day, there was no one within the small room beyond. He slipped through, unfolding the small sack he carried.
Food platters lay upon a table, the remnants of the morning meal. He sorted through the food with swift efficiency, choosing as much as he could that would last the day without spoiling. Meats and cheese he ate immediately, little caring that it might be beginning to spoil. He had no room to be fussy.
When the little sack was full, he slipped back through the door, closing it carefully in his wake. He heaved a sigh of relief after finally making it back outside. It was always tense gathering the food. He feared someone finding him, telling others of the weapons master’s strange hab
its.
He could not understand their fascination with all gossip relating to him. He was merely a man, a broken, damaged man, who refused to expose himself to the morning and noon meals, when the commander was absent and the abuse unchecked. Even though he could throw insults back into the teeth of his tormenters, and even though they were wary of his fighting ability, he hated enduring the choking tension in the room and the weight of their glares. He could not eat with their hostility and contempt souring the atmosphere. This way was easier.
Now there was a new threat. These strangers from Anisstor.
Their leader had seemed pleasant enough when Andon watched him during the suppertime introduction, but then, that would soon change.
Once Vatner, Byrant, and Habnin got a hold of Captain Phalnir and whispered poison in his ear, he would change his manner toward Andon. It was the way of things, and he had long since given up any feeling of hope that it would change.
He finally made it back to his wing house. It was always such a relief to pass into the shadowed embrace of the old barracks, to know he was home.
He and Ceris might be alone here, but that was how it must be.
He would not make the mistake he had made with Vren again.
Solitude was far preferable to grief.
* * *
Daren had a meeting with Commander Lasrem that morning, and at the end of the briefing, he could not help a question or two.
“Captain Andon Grazon, his grif really is the wild one that everyone speaks of?”
Lasrem squinted at him, his manner cooling considerably. “He is. He is also this base’s weapons master and damn good at it.”
There was protection there, a hint of caring that made Daren’s brow rise slowly. Perhaps the rumors he had heard at the morning meal were true then. That Andon was the commander’s lover and favored unfairly.
Daren gave a mild nod in answer. “I saw him this morning, riding with no harness. It was amazing, like a glimpse into our past.”
Lasrem eyed him before leaning back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. He regarded Daren in silence for some time before answering.
“Andon is not your regular rider and never will be. He learned in far different circumstances than military rigidness would ever allow. I believe it has made him a better man, a better rider.”
Daren gave a little laugh, eyes crinkling. “I can’t refute that, Commander. Fairly stole my breath away when he took off. It was terrifying to me, but beautiful at the same time.”
Something in Lasrem’s posture relaxed ever so slightly. “He has a grace and power within him that few can claim. When you see him fight, you will know what I mean. He has a class in an hour at the salle. If you get the chance, take your riders with you and watch. It will arm you against all you will hear about him.”
“He is not well liked, I take it?” Daren’s tone was even and without judgment.
“Those here are blinded by their own prejudices. Andon is a good man, but his manner comes from what the world has made him. To him, everyone is an enemy. There are very few who have ever made it behind the walls he creates. The only one who truly could claim that honor died two months ago.”
“The wing that encountered the wyvern swarm?”
“Yes. Andon’s friend, Captain Vren Jaling, was killed in that skirmish. Now, he is more closed off than I have ever seen him, and therefore, his manner is colder as well. I tell you this in the hopes that you will be wise enough to disregard the rumors and hatred you will hear of him and see the truth of the matter yourself.” Commander Lasrem’s protectiveness was fully evident now, warning in those dark eyes.
Daren nodded. “I have seen and experienced too much in my life to ever judge a man swiftly and by the word of others.”
“Good. I am not asking you to befriend him.” Lasrem’s faint smile was wry. “He is abrasive and hostile enough to drive anyone away. I am just asking you to be fair in your perceptions.”
“I understand, Commander. I will speak to my riders and there will be no disrespect of another captain. Not under my command.”
Lasrem’s expression softened. “Well said. Thasin chose well when he sent you. I just hope that open-mindedness continues.”
CHAPTER THREE
The salle was vast and had been recently renovated, the ancient stonework meticulously cleaned. New paint gave a cheerful air to the tiered seating, and the windows in the high arched roof seemed clean, allowing the sunlight to penetrate deeply into the building. Below them, young boys were paired off, sparring with staves in hand.
Daren seated himself some distance up, out of direct sight, his riders settling beside and behind him. He had discussed the commander’s insight with all of them and made sure that they understood that no matter how abrasive Captain Andon Grazon might be, they were not to engage in any disrespect.
That did not sit well with either Xaxter or Cansi, the two rebels of the bunch, but they respected him enough to grumble an agreement. He would have to keep an eye on them. Their hot tempers had gotten them into trouble on several occasions, and only their need to follow him kept them in line at all.
He ignored their whispering and low-voiced comments, and focused his attention upon the weapons master. The boys were terrified of the man, that much was clear within the first few moments, a fact that made Daren frown with concern. It took some time to realize that there was absolutely nothing that Andon did that could be considered frightening, if you did not include his habitual grim, tight expression.
That alone could not account for this fear. More possible was that the boys had heard all the rumors and labeled Andon as a monster of sorts. To young boys fresh from the academy and privileged lives, no doubt he did seem a taskmaster out of a nightmare, but Daren saw much more than that.
Andon was firm, steady, without allowing them an inch of room to shirk the lessons or play the fool. He did not raise his voice, did not threaten or posture. He guided the boys through each exercise with a patience Daren knew he himself could never have mustered.
Daren had a mix of fond and terrifying memories of his own teacher, a man who’d had none of this delicacy of learning. His training had been hard and brutal and left him with scars to mind and body. It had also made him strong. He had never considered there could be a different way.
Yet here it was. The boys were far more advanced that Daren would have expected this age group to be, a testament to their teacher. There were no arguments or angry shouts from the boys. If a conflict arose, Andon pulled them apart and spoke sternly to them both, a lesson on controlling temper lest it overcome them.
Daren found himself nodding at some of the speeches that floated up to their position. The man was well spoken, with a slight, almost musical lilt to his voice. It wasn’t a dialect Daren had ever encountered before.
“Harlton province.” Olnar leaned closer to whisper. “He must be from Harlton with that accent. Explains the long hair as well.”
Daren’s brow rose. Harlton was on the outskirts of their kingdom, far to the northwest, nestled alongside the Quartic Mountains. A place of wild ones. The man was far, far from home and kin then, a fact that no doubt added to his isolation.
Not to mention the area being a hotbed of rebel recruitment…
“He’s good,” Xaxter murmured grudgingly. “If I had had a teacher like that…”
The opinion seemed to be universal among his riders, and the mood lightened as they whispered about some of their experiences, blunted now by time and distance into something humorous.
As his riders talked, Daren watched in silence as Andon worked the youngsters, trying to get a better sense of the man. The boys might be frightened of him, but Daren could see the care in the man’s actions. His teaching methods were sound and of top quality. These boys might realize this in the future, when their lives were on the line and what they had learned could well save them.
The class wound to a close. The boys gathered the staves and stacked them neatly near t
he door, under Andon’s keen eye. As per tradition, they all bowed to him as they left.
Andon turned back to the salle, slowly stretching his arms and shoulders before going into contortions to limber up his body. Obviously the next class was going to be more intense.
A short while later, a group of youths came strolling through the doors, all swagger and boisterous wrestling with each other.
Andon straightened, turned to face them with an expressionless face, his arms folding as he awaited their presence before him.
The lead boy watched him with a malicious grin as he took his time leading his followers forward. There was a not-so-subtle insult in the actions, enough to make Daren curl his hands into fists. He would have been backhanded if he ever showed such disrespect to his old teacher.
Andon’s eyes narrowed, but he showed no other reaction.
When at last the boys grouped sloppily in front of him, he gestured to the stored weapons. “We will be working with wooden swords today. I think you have finally graduated from the staves.”
“I think I would rather have a real sword today. I think I have come much farther than that. Perhaps you don’t want us to gain that talent?” The lead boy’s grin widened, the malice clearly shown now.
The other boys sucked in a breath, then watched with some trepidation as Andon unfolded his arms, leaving them hanging at his sides, relaxed.
He smiled, and the temperature in the building seemed to drop several degrees. He moved toward the boy, and the movement could only be called stalking, like a cat on the hunt.
The boy’s eyes widened, the smirk falling away, and he took a single step backward.
There was a blur of motion, and the boy was on the ground, Andon pinning him by the throat, lips drawn back in a snarl.
