by J. C. Owens
“Whoa,” Xaxter whispered, and Daren could only agree. He himself was a good fighter, better than good if what others said was true, but he had never seen anything to rival the speed of the weapons master.
The stark silence allowed them to hear the words from below.
“So you are ready for steel, are you, Garte? You would face me? I do not teach when I have a blade in my hand, I fight. Are you ready for that, little boy?”
Garte’s breath rasped, his fingers wrapped around Andon’s forearm that was pressing down on his throat.
His wide eyes were fastened on Andon with pure horror, and he finally seemed to realize that an answer was required, because he shook his head frantically.
Andon rose to his feet with eerie grace, then offered his hand to Garte, who eyed it with fear and caution mixed, before accepting it, and being pulled to his feet.
“I am patient with my students, Garte, but I have my limits. You might be Vatner’s youngest brother, but that holds no weight in the salle. You disrespect me again, in any form, I will show you no mercy here.” He raised his gaze and let it trail over the other boys. “That goes for all of you. Is that understood?”
Fervent nods all around.
“Then let us work.”
Daren realized that he had a growing fascination with this man. Nothing was what it seemed with him.
“Did you see that?” Xaxter whispered. “That prowl, that speed, dominance. I think I am in love. Please say I can have him.”
Daren rolled his eyes, chasing away the faint feeling of annoyance, as though he resented Xaxter’s imaginary claim.
“I think you would be biting off more than you can chew, Xax.” Paulsa’s tone held fond amusement.
“Who cares? I would die happy.” Xaxter’s fervent words made the others choke with silent laughter.
“I think you need to leave the weapons master alone,” Daren warned. “From everything I am hearing and now seeing, he has no patience with those who disrespect him.”
“It would not be disrespect, believe me,” Xaxter drawled.
They fell back into silence, watching.
Andon felt only relief when the class was over and the boys filed out wearily. They had come together, the attitude was gone, and they actually listened and, to a degree, learned.
It remained to be seen whether that would last into tomorrow.
He walked slowly to the side bench where water and towels resided and wiped his face clean of the dust that was a perpetual part of working here.
Then a drink, long and cold, quenching his thirst and washing away the dust that seemed to have coated his mouth.
He sank down upon the bench, feeling weariness creep over his senses, so that he felt heavy and listless. All he had ever known was conflict. Everything was a battle. In his youth he had gloried in it, worn his victories and defeats as invisible armor.
Now? Now he was worn and tired, and wished only for the solitude that would ensure a degree of peace. Without Vren at his side, there was nothing to hope for, nothing to strive to gain. It was all dust.
He sat and just breathed for a while, trying to get his thoughts calm, his energy up. The next class would be worse. That would be the older students, the ones who were close to graduating, the ones who admired and strove to mimic the older riders. The ones who listened to the gossip and wanted to challenge the weapons master in order to gain fame and notoriety.
Today, he could defeat them. In the future? The mental exhaustion he was feeling right now could weaken him, make him vulnerable.
A direct challenge he could win, but an attack from the shadows, as happened so often, would not be so clear-cut.
He heard the doors creak open and the sound of footsteps as though his thoughts had summoned them. He stiffened, instincts flaring to life, and rose to his feet, reaching behind the bench for his sword.
When he turned back, they were there. Vatner and five others, watching him with looks ranging from cold hatred to heated lust.
He widened his stance, gripping the sword a little tighter.
“I canceled your class,” Vatner said. “I think you need a little teaching of your own. Seems you like to bully your students.”
Andon laughed, the sound ringing in the massive space. “Bully? You would know about that, wouldn’t you, Vatner? I heard about the cadet you put into the medical wing last week for not being fast enough to saddle his grif.”
Vatner’s smirk wavered, fury simmering in his eyes. “You will respect Garte, or I will flay the flesh from your bones.”
Andon tilted his head, letting a cold smile incite his opponent. “I will teach as I see fit, and you can go fuck yourself, Vatner. Your little minions might bolster your ego, but I know what you are in truth, and it is nothing so glorious as you would have others believe.”
There was a hiss of steel as Vatner drew his sword, the others following suit.
“You must like pain, Andon. You search for it so diligently. If you would just…”
“Just warm your bed, like you want so much? Not in this lifetime—or the next.”
“So you are fucking the commander?” Jealousy flitted across Vatner’s face, drawing it into something dark and ugly.
“Everyone says so.”
“When I finish with you, you will beg to obey me alone, beg to submit.”
Andon burst into outright laughter. “Truly? If you hold such misbegotten dreams, you know me not at all. I submit to no man.”
“Then I will be the first.” Vatner sprang forward, sword raised, the others close behind him. Then he skidded to a halt, frustration and confusion battling for dominance in his expression.
Andon had crouched, prepared, but Vatner’s sudden odd behavior threw him completely. He edged to the side so he could look behind him, where Vatner was staring.
“Well, this seems like a pretty party,” a man said from behind him. “Is anyone invited?”
The voice belonged to the captain from Anisstor, with his riders behind him. The captain’s green eyes swept over Vatner and his group before sliding to Andon and away.
“There seems to be a conflict here. Can I offer my services to solve the problem?” The captain’s tone was politely inquiring, but Andon could see his hand upon his sword. His riders stood in perfect imitation.
Vatner was fairly trembling with thwarted violence. “With all respect, this is none of your business.”
“With all respect, it is. Six against one? I thought the corps held more honor than this.”
Daren’s voice was so calm that Andon felt himself almost leaning toward it. It was so similar to Vren’s way of speaking, that perfect composure that had kept Andon together even during the worst of times.
“You need to leave,” Vatner spat, unable to keep up even a sliver of courtesy in his anger.
“I need to stay,” Daren countered with calm resolution that held firm against the emotions swirling in the space around them.
Vatner snarled, fingers flexing around his sword hilt, his heated gaze swinging back to Andon.
“So you have defenders now? It won’t last, once they know what you are like.” He returned his cold gaze to Daren. “You are making a great mistake in defending this man.”
“I have made many ‘great mistakes’ in my life. I will stand by this one, thank you.”
Vatner snarled once more, then with a last slicing look at Andon, he sheathed his sword, swirled on his heel and left the salle, the others close behind. The door shut with a resounding slam and the echoes reverberated through the massive space.
“Well, that was thrilling.” Xaxter’s tone was wry. “What an asshole. Not often you find someone that can stick their head that far up their ass. Must be a talent.”
Daren’s lips quirked for a moment before he took several steps closer to Andon, standing some distance away, respecting that the other man would be defensive and wary. After all, he did not know them. Their defense might seem heaven sent, but there would not be trust. For
good reason, if the previous altercation was any indication of what was going on here. It surprised him that Lasrem, who seemed so fond of Andon, would allow this nonsense to occur on the base.
“Does Commander Lasrem know about how you are treated here?” he asked, keeping his tone mild.
“I am no child to hide behind his protection.” Andon sheathed the sword, a sign of peace, though those cold eyes showed no sign of warming to them.
“Yet this air of toxicity is good for no one. Not you, not the boys coming through here, not for the morale at the base. You should not have to protect yourself from fellow riders, and the boys should not be encountering such things when they are so impressionable.”
Andon fell silent, lips thin and tight, his body tense in the manner of a wild animal freshly cornered.
“I will be telling the commander of this,” Daren said. “He deserves to know. This must end, here and now.”
“You will only make it worse,” Andon snapped, arms folding over his chest. “These are not men who attack in daylight but from shadows. There is no stopping that, and your defense has ensured that they will find me in my own wing house.”
“Well then, we will be moving into your barracks, and we will see them try.”
Andon’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “No. You will not. I live alone and I like it that way.”
“For now, it will have to be different.” Daren felt calm certainty, as though this were good and right, as though some higher force were directing him.
“Stay away from me, or you will damn well regret it! I can protect myself, have for years.” Andon turned away, swept up his possessions and strode for the door, anger in every line of him.
“We’ll be near then, just in case.”
They heard a snarl, and then the door opened, before slamming shut with considerable force.
When the echoes died away, Olnar grunted. “Well, this has livened things up.”
“I thought this was going to be a boring assignment,” Cansi, always ready for a scrap, said in anticipation. “The next six months look quite promising now.”
“I think he needs us, Captain.” Paulsa was the soul of compassion. “Did you see the wariness? Like an abused animal. That is a man who hurts to the core.”
“I think he does need us,” Daren replied softly. “Whether he understands that or not.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Andon fled to the safety of his remote room with his heart pounding, dread overwhelming him. By the time he reached it, Ceris was awake and waiting, wings flared, feeling his fear and responding to it.
He went straight to her. Her wing curled around him, shutting the world out, enclosing him in warmth and safety. Here was the reason he still lived, the only thing that kept him on this plane of existence.
If he should die, so would she, and he could not bear the thought of harming her in any way, shape, or form. She was the only being that loved him without reservation, without judgment or demands.
She gave a purring sound, deep in her throat, a sign of love that he never grew tired of, never took for granted. That this amazing creature had chosen him, stayed with him, was always more than he could truly comprehend.
As a boy, Andon had dreamed of becoming a rider, but the circumstances of his birth, child of a prostitute, born in the slums of the city of Rumlow, made such a dream utterly impossible.
Rumlow lay at the base of the Quartic Mountains, home of the wild griffon-salants, and he often slipped away from the filth and noise of the city to the peace of the mountain slopes. Occasionally, he had seen the grifs flying far above, and he would long for the freedom of flight and for the companionship such a creature would bring.
He could not see them as others did, a mere beast to do their bidding once tamed. He saw them as the wild beings that they were, envying them their freedom and independence.
The time he spent wandering in the wilds seemed to cleanse him from the poverty and despair that characterized the slums of Rumlow. Here was fresh air and beauty all around him. By the time he was a teenager, he had spent days out in the forests that grew thickly along the lower slopes. There was no one to care if he returned or not. His mother was so drug-addled that she would probably not even recognize him, and he had never known his father. He was a street child, plain and simple, living on scraps and the mercy of a few kind souls who had known him since birth.
By the time he was sixteen, he was living almost solely in the wild, only rarely venturing back to the city when the weather was bitter. He had learned to sustain himself quite well, learning through trial and error of things such as hunting, trapping, foraging for roots and nuts, berries in the summer. He learned to pound the meat, add fat and berries, before drying it on racks. He grew hard and competent, without the need of another living soul.
It was on a day of hunting that his life would change forever.
He was tracking a mountain sheep, high in the craggy peaks of one of the lower mountains when he heard the sound of claws scraping on stone. He turned with a spear in hand to face the possible threat.
Before him, lightly perched upon a massive rock, was a grif. His eyes widened with fascination, fear and caution a far away notion.
Wild grifs were known for their ferocity. Their size made them more than capable of killing a man. This one was young, perhaps only two or three years old, with the awkwardness of huge wings and a growing body. It was black as night, with a strange white spot in its mane, just to the side of its left ear. Those ears, so long and delicate, were pricked forward, focused upon him. The grif’s golden eyes were intent, but without the predatory glint that he feared.
He gripped his spear more tightly, but made no move to bring it to bear against this foe, if foe it truly was.
So beautiful, so wondrous. If this was how he died, it would be an end worthy of his dreams. Better death by such a creature than by his own kind or by accident or injury upon the mountain.
They had stared at each other, two younglings of such vastly different species, before the grif had taken flight, the wind from the takeoff buffeting Andon to the ground.
He watched it go with wide eyes.
That night, by his fire, he took a chunk of charcoal and a bit of birchbark and attempted to draw what he had seen, wishing fervently to keep a memento of the encounter. His skills left much to be desired, but over the next few days, he managed a crude rendering of the magnificent beast, and hung it in his small shelter. He would lie at night, with the firelight gleaming on the walls of his primitive home, and stare at the drawing, reliving that precious moment over and over. He did not expect such a gift to be repeated.
Several days later, he trekked up to a mountain lake to fish. It was peaceful there, the sky blue and clear, a gentle wind brushing through the spring wildflowers that had begun to bloom.
He felt a vibration and startled, almost losing his fishing pole. He whirled into a crouch, pulling his knife from his belt. Stolen from a merchant’s stall years ago, it was his only protection other than his wits and his speed.
There, a short distance away, was the grif, the same one he had encountered before. It flapped its magnificent wings twice before folding them neatly and sitting, the long furred tail with its spade-like end wrapping around its forelegs, very nearly resembling a cat.
It eyed him with the same curiosity and lack of aggression from before, tilting its broad head one way and then the other to view him. The creature laid its ears back at the flash of the blade in the sun, but made no sign of aggression.
He swallowed hard, slowly straightening, sheathing the knife.
The wind was gently ruffling the grif’s mane, the black fur sleek and glossy. After a moment, it yawned, the massive blocky jaws opening wide and displaying fearsome teeth, sharp and pointed slightly backward.
Andon blinked, then licked his lips, uncertain what to do. If he moved, would it leave? He did not want to chase it off. This chance to see such a being close up again was a wonder he would
not willingly end.
Finally, cautiously, he sank down on his heels, a position he could maintain for hours, as he often had, waiting for prey when hunting.
They stared at each other in silence.
Griffon-salants were beautiful creatures. Massive, yet with incredible dexterity in their movements. Long thick body, ending with a long sinuous furred tail, with a strange flat spade shape at the end, a bony protuberance that could be lethal given its weight. The body was covered with sleek fur, almost invisible it was so fine. Ears similar to a bat’s, but much longer, usually laid flat against the head, unless something of interest perked them up. The wings—Andon could claim total fascination with the complexity of the joints, the way they folded so neatly against the back, again similar to the giant bats that once had colonized the upper reaches of the northern forests. He had seen pictures, paintings, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of seeing the wings close up. It had been proven that griffons were not related to the extinct bats, but the similarity of the wings was puzzling. The hind paws were huge, the front more dexterous and thin, with the forepaws having incredibly long and sharp talons.
The creature made a strange sound in its throat, a rolling sort of purr that rumbled into its chest.
He blinked, then tried to imitate the sound without particular success.
With his luck, he was probably saying something completely rude and inflammatory.
The grif tilted its head in consideration of his sound, ears swiveled forward in intense focus. It chirped then, an incongruous sound from such a massive creature.
He could not prevent a smile at the sound. He chirped back, and it tilted its head almost upside down to regard him.
Andon grinned, fascinated.
The grif rose to its feet, and he assumed it was about to fly away, but instead, it stepped forward, cautious, wings half unfurled, head low.
The primal part of him wanted to run, hide, but he mastered himself and stood firm against its advance. He saw no sign of aggression. Indeed, the wings seemed to be held at an angle denoting passivity, friendly inquiry. He was not sure how he knew or what gave him that impression, but he trusted his instincts.
