by J. C. Owens
The lessons went well, with the boys giving him wary looks and not a disrespectful comment to be heard. Perhaps what he was feeling was projecting upon them, their senses telling them he was dangerous, unstable.
Whatever it was, he could only be thankful for the reprieve. He was in no state to handle backtalk.
They mutely gathered up their equipment at the end of the class, putting everything away before filing out silently with many a cautious backward glance.
He meticulously cleaned his own equipment, only to pause as he heard the doors open and the sound of several footsteps.
Not again.
He turned, drawing his sword as he did so.
“Back again, so soon?” he questioned lightly, feeling a surge of vindictive pleasure as Vatner scowled, his followers folding their arms over their chests and standing back, away from them both.
“You invite me with your teasing and sly invitations.”
Andon’s eyebrow rose. “Teasing? Invitations? I am not sure what world you reside in, but I do no such thing. What you perceive is a figment of your own twisted imagination. I have not, nor ever will, give you anything close to an invitation.”
“Shall we test that? I know how much a good practice bout works you up. I freely offer myself. After all, the commander wants us in top shape, and you are the weapons master.”
With his free hand, Andon absently drew a dagger from his belt, never taking his eyes off his adversary. “You want to practice? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He settled into a preparatory stance, both sword and the dagger held ready, motionless.
Vatner grinned, his eyes heated. “I never get tired of watching you fight. It provides good fodder in the night, when there is only me and my hand.”
Andon could not hide the flicker of disgust.
Vatner’s smile widened. “Come, let us practice.”
They circled each other, feinting every now and then, before Vatner rushed him with a chilling battle cry.
Andon would have rolled his eyes if he’d had the time. Vatner might be an ass, but he was a good fighter, fast, if a little predictable. His strength was the thing to watch. If you got in the way of a strike, you were going to feel it for days.
The trick was speed.
Andon held back. It was practice—he had to remember that, no matter how he wished he could use his sword to end the bastard. Therefore, each blow was held, only a tap indicating a strike. Only two men of skill could use this method, always a hair away from true blows.
Andon’s lean body did not have the weight necessary for brute force, so he had channeled all his talents into speed and form. When he had arrived here, Lasrem had arranged for him to train under the previous weapons master, who had been harsh in his teaching. Andon bore the scars of that time, but it had toughened him. He had gained the grudging respect of the man, who had finally named him his successor.
He strove to do better, teach with less brutality. He had his own ideas of how learning should go and he didn’t give a damn about anyone’s opinion.
To his astonishment, Lasrem had backed him all the way.
He whirled, catching the edge of Vatner’s blade and letting it slide off his own even as he continued the swing, almost striking Vatner’s left leg. The man leaped, the strike missing, a wild grin upon his sweat-stained face as he followed Andon, driving him backward, trying to pin him against the nearest wall.
Andon ducked under the next strike, spinning away, back into the open ground where he had the advantage.
“You think that Anisstor captain is going to keep you satisfied?” Vatner’s voice only held a small degree of breathlessness. “Does he know you like it rough? Like multiple cocks reaming you? I don’t think he has what it takes.”
“And you do?” Andon’s breath was steady. “Not that I have noticed. If what you did to me is considered loveplay in your world, I would say that is why you have no lover.” He attacked, catching the edge of Vatner’s sleeve and leaving it dangling by threads. He dodged away from his opponent’s response. “You have nothing to recommend you. Not intelligence, not skill, not enough money.”
Vatner’s growl echoed in the vastness.
“Oh, ho! Don’t like that? You force yourself on me and expect me to see you as a potential partner? How egotistical is that?”
Vatner charged, and Andon stood in place, ducking aside at the last moment as though dodging a maddened animal, his body poised on his toes. He let his sword follow through in a graceful swipe, this time the spine catching Vatner’s fist. The force of the blow sent Vatner’s sword spinning out of his grasp.
He cursed, painfully shaking his hand, glaring at Andon in frustrated humiliation.
Andon stood, smirking coldly. “Would you like to pick it up? You seem off your mark today, Vatner. Usually you are far better, yet now you lost so quickly. Something on your mind?”
Vatner shook his head like a maddened bull, crossing over to his sword, picking it up and examining it carefully before sheathing it with a single angry thrust.
“You reject me, yet accept some newcomer, a stranger to our ranks?” The frustration rang in every word.
“It makes no difference who comes, who leaves. I am not yours and never will be. Did you believe that your brutality was somehow going to make me submit? Then you are a fool.” He swung the sword in an intricate pattern, the sound of the blade parting the air with a dangerous hiss. “If my choice was you or death itself, I would choose death in a heartbeat.”
Vatner’s eyes narrowed as he cradled his hand closely. “I’ll show you why you should choose me freely. Not that Anisstor fool.”
Andon tilted his head. “True mates. Have you heard of that? Sorry to say, but what is done is done. You are no part of this. Let it go and save yourself the trouble.”
Vatner grinned, a slow, mean curling of his lips. “I only have to wait until the next heat. You’ll kneel to me then, little man.” He turned away, gesturing curtly to the watching men, then strode out the doors.
Andon took a breath, settling himself. He was always shaken by these encounters, no matter how he might hide his reactions from any watchers. He sheathed the sword and slid the dagger back into his belt.
“So beautiful, when you are fighting,” Byrant said from the shadows of the salle. “Such a shame you have a surly temper the rest of the time.”
He stiffened, realizing he was not alone. Sometime during the practice with Vatner, Byrant must have slipped into the room.
Of the two, he almost preferred Vatner.
He cast a look of loathing toward the griffon master, before walking toward the bench.
“Tell me, Andon, don’t you miss our times together, when you cried out under my touch?”
“When you gave me pain? No, actually I don’t miss that at all.” Andon turned to face his nemesis, wiping his face with a towel. “Why do you harp on this now? What are you trying to prove?”
“Like Vatner, I am somewhat annoyed that Phalnir should get the prize.”
Andon laughed, a hint of desperation in the sound. “You think me a prize? How foolish could two men possibly be?”
Byrant took several steps closer. Andon readied himself, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“You are the rider of the most coveted griffon that currently exists. The king himself has always considered bringing you to court to breed Ceris to acceptable males. Now, the rumors seem to be true. If that is so, then I will accompany you. As cousin to the king, I am sure I can convince him that I will be a much better mate for you than some unknown from Anisstor.”
Andon eyed him, then shook his head. “Ambition truly makes a fool out of a man. If this is a true mating, then she will accept none other than Gretnel. Have you thought of that?”
Byrant watched him with cold, glittering eyes. “If I possess the rider, then she will do anything at all to keep him safe. Won’t she?”
“I think you misunderstand the strength of this bond. Regardless, you are
barking mad if you think I would consent to such a thing.”
“Who said consent was necessary?” Byrant’s sibilant whisper was chilling in its utter belief. “Don’t start caring for this captain, my boy. I would hate to have to hurt him on your behalf.”
“I think he can stand up for himself,” Andon answered scornfully.
“So can you. And yet you have not. Perhaps you should explain that…” He gestured upward, chuckling as Andon saw Phalnir and his riders watching from far above. Not coming to protect him this time, simply watching.
He glanced back at Byrant, realizing how this had been set up. Byrant had spoken softly and Phalnir had been too high in the stands to hear what had been said. How had he taken this entire encounter?
Byrant gave a mocking bow. “When the king calls for you, as he will, this mating nonsense will be over.”
“I will never allow Ceris to be used like that.” Andon fought back the rage that made him want to strike out at his tormentor.
“Again, who said consent was necessary? You will do as you are told.” He inclined his head briefly, something that might have looked like respect from a distance, before leaving, shutting the doors gently in his wake.
Andon felt a chill wash over him. He had heard nothing of this matter of the king. He would have to speak to Commander Lasrem, ask questions for a change. If it was true, he would flee with Ceris into the wilds once more. There was no way he would stay and be a tame toy for the king while Ceris was forced into matings.
A shiver worked its way down his spine. Things were changing around him, threads and weaving of other people’s making, that he had no concept of, no way to fight.
Fury coursed through him, and he looked up into the stands, narrow-eyed. “Have you seen enough to condemn me yet? Has the worm that Byrant planted worked its way through your thoughts?” He spit on the ground, whirling on his heel to leave.
“Wait!” Phalnir called.
Something made Andon pause by the door, watching with suspicion as Phalnir jogged down the stairs and leaped over the boards onto the salle floor. Andon turned fully to face him, arms crossing over his chest, waiting for the other man to speak.
“I just want to understand what is happening here. You seem so…” The confusion in Phalnir’s tone didn’t appease Andon’s temper in the least.
“Strong? Capable? Do you truly believe that strong, capable people are not raped? Abused? No one is strong all the time, and even if they were, the stress of constantly having to watch your back, being afraid to sleep, wears you down. Sooner or later, you are vulnerable. That is when they strike.”
Phalnir watched him, unblinking, a frown on his brow.
Andon snorted. “Think what you like. I don’t need you to approve of me. I don’t need anyone. Take your protestations of caring, your talk of true mates, and shove them up your ass. Leave me alone. Find another that suits your lofty morals and mate with them.” He turned and left, head held high, back ramrod straight.
Daren watched him go, unable to even decipher what he was feeling or thinking.
Xaxter came to stand by him, watching the empty doorway with rueful amusement. “Well, that went well.”
“You, my captain, are an idiot.” Olnar’s tone was level, but the frown that drew his brows together told of his impatience.
Shocked, Daren turned his head to meet his second’s gaze. He had no idea why Olnar was condemning him.
Olnar’s frown deepened. “You just confirmed everything Captain Grazon was waiting for. He assumed you were going to turn on him, and you did.”
“I didn’t! I just don’t understand…”
“In his view, you just did. Good luck trying to fix this with any speed. If you had your work cut out for you before, it just got ten times worse. Congratulations. Listening to a known bastard, what in the hells were you thinking?”
It was not often Olnar got truly annoyed, and Daren was stunned it was at him. He just needed to understand why Andon would let…
Cansi, who seemed just as angry, snorted. “You don’t get it, do you, sir? I know you grew up with privilege and support. I know that you managed to turn out better than most nobles, but you still don’t understand what it is like to be without any sort of kin, anyone who gives a damn.” Her eyes were fierce. “Do you consider me to be a good fighter?”
He blinked. “One of the best I have ever faced.”
She inclined her head as silent thanks. “I was raped four times in the academy.”
He whirled on his heel, grasping her shoulders, fury rising. “Who? By the gods, I’ll—”
“No. You won’t. Not on my behalf. I don’t want half the world knowing what happened. I just want you to know that no matter how strong, how capable, there are times you are caught off guard, or there are several of them. No one is immune. Captain Grazon is no exception. Stop seeing the angry image he is projecting and find the man beneath the layers who learned there is no hope, no one to come save him. That is who you need to see.”
She turned away, eyes bright, and Paulsa caught her in her arms, face grim and tight. By that expression, she had not known of this either.
Xaxter reached out and laid a gentle hand on Cansi’s shoulder. She looked up, struggling to regain control of her expression. At his evident concern, she broke down completely.
Xaxter enfolded both of them in his embrace and glanced over at Daren. “She’s right, sir. If you want him, then you are going to have to understand him.”
Daren dropped his face into his palms, groaning. He had completely fucked up.
* * *
Andon knocked on the commander’s office door, his stomach rolling with tension.
Lasrem told him to enter. The commander looked up when he stepped inside, concern in his expression.
“Captain. You need to speak with me?” Lasrem pushed his papers aside. Andon appreciated the gesture, evidence of the man’s intent to fully listen.
He drew a deep breath. “Captain Byrant mentioned something to me, sir. I wish to find out if it holds any truth.”
Lasrem nodded, his eyes narrowing at Byrant’s name.
“He said that the king will likely order that Ceris and I be sent to the capital, sir. That it is not just rumor and gossip.”
Lasrem sighed and sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, before meeting Andon’s stare evenly.
“I don’t know how much of our history you have studied, Andon. I know the academy tries to cover up a lot of what has happened in our country’s past.”
“I don’t know much, sir,” Andon replied, thinking of the ancient temple and the artwork and statues there. From Lasrem’s expression, he suspected he would not like what he was about to learn.
“The current king’s grandfather tried to undermine the relationship between rider and grif, to create breeding programs that had nothing to do with consent. It was this that created the seeds of rebellion, and our current king simply fans the flames. Once, true bonds were normal, common. With interference, they have virtually disappeared. It is rumored that true bonds are more likely to make a female viable. It is my worry that the king will hear of what your grifs have between them and attempt to take her, to use her readiness against her, breed her forcefully to any male he so chooses. I know the king fairly well, and I am familiar with the ruthlessness he can display when he has a plan in mind. I wish I could assure you that he would do no such thing, but then I would be less than honest.”
Andon sank down upon the worn chair that faced the desk. “So it might be true.”
Lasrem nodded. “When I send my reports, I strongly state how important you are to this base, that your training is a vital part of what keeps us safe, what keeps the kingdom safe. Other than that, my hands are tied.” He sighed, leaning forward on the desk, and Andon could see the pain and doubt in his eyes. “I would not have kept it from you, Andon, but I had nothing solid to tell you. I probably should have…”
“No, sir. I understand.” And he
did. It never failed to surprise him how much this man seemed to care about his well being. Unfailingly kind, supportive; he wondered sometimes if this was what a father would be like.
“If the king commands such a thing…” Andon was proud of his steady tone.
“I will inform you immediately.” Something in Lasrem’s gaze told him he knew what Andon would do, and he was not going to stop it.
If he fled with Ceris, he would be hunted. Hunted by his fellow riders, Vatner and Byrant and others, and Commander Lasrem would have to allow it or be accused of treason. Rogue riders and rogue grifs were destroyed. He didn’t want to leave here. To endanger Lasrem. To leave Phalnir—Daren. How could he break apart Ceris and Gretnel? His heart sank as despair shadowed it.
Even if they would throw away their safety and careers to flee with him, where would they go? Would he even be welcomed by the rebels? In his homeland, the rebels were revered; it was the nobles and crown that were quietly reviled. Perhaps they had been right all along. But dare he take that risk? Was there no hope of finding a place where he and Ceris would be accepted, free from political maneuvering and betrayals?
The commander reached out and patted his shoulder, knowledge clear in his eyes. “You do what you need to do, my boy.”
The warmth in his chest was so foreign, it was almost pain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wind was hot, and Daren was thankful for his goggles that kept the occasional blast of sand-laden air out of his eyes. Their patrol, once more guided by those from the base, had run into a sandstorm. They had landed for a while, but their position was too dangerous to maintain, so they had been flying in short runs, landing when the sand got too much, the winds too harsh, the grifs exhausted.
They landed again, and the grifs moved into position, facing outward, forming a circle around their more vulnerable riders.
Wyverns had been known to hunt during sandstorms, sometimes attacking creatures fleeing the blasting clouds of sand. That was how Captain Vren and his wing had been ambushed by a rare swarm. They were however, quite wary of grifs, and certainly a group of them would deter anything less than a swarm.
