The Golden Griffin (Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  “Stop this! Right now!”

  No longer interested in the sheep, but in getting rid of his pesky rider, the griffin charged into the air, then fell like a stone. Daria’s stomach dropped, and her legs flew up in the air. Only her grip around his neck kept her from falling.

  The griffin flew low over the trees and rolled onto his side. Pine branches lashed her face and pummeled her legs. He lifted up, then came down to try it again. But Daria wasn’t so easily dislodged.

  The tether was trailing behind Talon’s back legs. It caught on a branch and jerked his neck around. The cords snapped with a crack.

  Stunned by the force of the breaking tether, the griffin lurched toward the ground, crashed through the trees, and landed in a thicket of blackberry bushes. Daria sprang free at the last moment. She hit the ground with an oomph and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. The griffin cried out as he tried to free himself from the brambles.

  After she mentally checked herself for broken bones, Daria rose to her feet and wiggled her shoulder in its socket. It would be sore, but she was lucky. The griffin floundered in the bush. He wasn’t injured either, just a few scratches, but he looked helpless with his wings outstretched and his feathers and fur ruffled and dirty. He was good and snagged, too.

  “You silly fool, now look what you’ve done.” She stifled an exasperated laugh. “Come on, let’s get you out of there.”

  Daria made her way to the griffin, cooing softly. He stopped his struggles and stared at her, the glint in his eyes not exactly hostile, but not friendly either. After so much work, here she was, back at the beginning.

  “Now, listen,” she said. “I need a knife to get you out. And my knife is in the bags. But I can’t get to the bags unless you and I agree that you will not take my arm off if I get in there.” She shuffled out of her riding cape and set it on a rock, then held out her hands.

  Talon eyed her calmly. Daria made her way closer, watching for sudden movements. She stroked Talon’s haunch until he stopped twitching, then unbuckled the saddlebags and took out her hunting knife. It took a half-hour to cut the beast free, but at last she hacked the final thorny branch out of the way and stepped back, cold and scratched up from the blackberry bush.

  She gestured. “Come on out. Come on.”

  He waddled out, and she thought for a moment he would spring into the sky and disappear. Fine, let him. She had no intention of chasing him. She put on her cape and waited.

  When it became clear that Talon wasn’t leaving, she fed him a few scraps of dried meat, almost disappointed. Then she stepped back a pace.

  “All right, we need to talk. The sooner we get one thing straight, the sooner we’ll get along.”

  Talon squawked.

  “You are a griffin, and I am a griffin rider. I tell you where to go, and you follow. I will treat you well and will warn you when I put you into danger. But I make the decisions.”

  She sighed at the stubborn look in the griffin’s eyes. “What am I doing here? I need a griffin I can work with. And you are not it.”

  “The problem is not with the griffin,” a voice said behind her.

  Daria turned, startled. An old man sat on the rock where she’d laid her cape. He held an oak staff in his hands and wore a beard that hung to his waist. It was shot with gray. His hands looked strong, and an intelligent gleam shined in his eyes.

  “Narud?”

  He pulled back the hood of his cloak. It was not the old wizard. Her stomach gave a nervous flop.

  “Do you know something about griffins, Old Father?” she asked, cautious.

  “When you’ve lived in these mountains as long as I have, you learn a little bit about a great many things. But first, I’m so hungry I’m ready to gnaw on this rock. Do you have anything to eat?”

  “Of course.”

  Daria retrieved the bread and cheese from her bags, along with her waterskin, filled with green tea to help her maintain her strength for a long day of flying.

  The man ate in silence. When he finished, he lifted the skin and took a long drink. “Ah, nice and chilled.” He pointed at her with the mouth of the skin as he plugged the end. “Good cold mountain air will do that.”

  “Are you still hungry? I have more.”

  “I’m always hungry. But if I eat any more of your food, you won’t have enough for your own supper.”

  “I ate well this morning. If you need the food, it is yours, Old Father.”

  “Thank you, but no. I appreciate your generosity. You are a good girl.”

  He rose to his feet and approached the golden griffin. To Daria’s surprise, Talon didn’t pull away or bite, but let the old man stroke his neck and inspect his scratches.

  The man turned to Daria. “You’ve never flown a golden griffin before, have you?”

  “Nobody has,” Daria said.

  “My child, a golden griffin is not like the white-crowned griffins that the riders fly.”

  “I know that. I’m a griffin rider. I—” She caught a look and stopped herself. “I’m sorry, Old Father.”

  A cold wind kicked up from the mountains, and Daria shivered. When the old man returned to the warm rock, she stepped out of the shadow of the pine trees and sat next to him. She put on her cape.

  “Do you mean they can’t be trained?” she asked.

  “They can be trained by the right person.”

  “Someone else, you mean.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t say that. But you need a different tactic. Your white-crowned griffins hunt in packs. And because they hunt in packs, they follow leaders well. They readily accept a human master if she dominates them. Much like a horse, or a dog.”

  “Golden griffins don’t hunt as packs? They fought together against the wasps—I saw them.”

  “Yes, but they have no dominant member of the pack, like their smaller cousins. Think of it like humans. The white-crowned griffins are like the khalifates, where every man knows his place. The golden griffins are the Free Kingdoms.”

  Daria considered the comparison. “The Free Kingdoms have leaders—eorls, barons, knights, kings.”

  “Yes. And the people there are pulled by their leaders, not pushed.”

  “So I need to pull Talon? What does that mean?”

  “Have you tried talking to him?”

  “That’s what I was doing when you told me I was going about this the wrong way.”

  “I don’t mean that. You can speak the language of the griffins, can’t you?”

  “I understand some. No human can speak it. Not really.”

  “Let us see what your friend has to say.”

  He led her back to Talon, where he rested his hand on the griffin’s back. He opened his mouth. Out came the most remarkable series of chirps, squeaks, and squawks. Not a man making a crude attempt at the tongue of the griffins, but rather as if he were one griffin speaking to another. The sound was uncanny. As for the language itself, it was different from how the white-crowned griffins spoke, but Daria picked out a few words.

  “Friend…girl…mountains…”

  The griffin squawked back. The conversation continued back and forth for a few minutes, picking up speed until Daria could no longer understand any of it.

  At last the old man turned to Daria again. “He says he’s grateful you healed his wound, and that you share an enemy in the dragons. But you’re too bossy. So he ignores you.”

  Daria laughed. “What choice do I have? I’m trying to teach him how to fight. Tell him I don’t want to dominate him, just lead.”

  “You tell him.”

  “I told you, I can’t—” she began.

  The old man cut her off. “Then why do you speak it to Joffa when nobody is listening? Why did you speak to Averial?”

  “How do you know about that?” She stared. “Anyway, it’s terrible when I try, and even if I could manage it, that’s not even the same dialect. I barely understood any of what Talon was saying. What if he thinks I’m an idiot?”

  “He alr
eady does. You can hardly make it worse.” The old man smiled as he said this. “Say as much as you can. Talon will understand more than you think.”

  So Daria tried, speaking to Talon as if he could understand the language of her white-crowned griffins. In halting, foolish-sounding noises, Daria told him about her mount Averial, killed by dragons. She asked him to join the riders, told him she would treat him kindly, but that he needed to trust her, to learn how to fly with other griffins into battle.

  When she finished, he squawked a response that sounded remarkably like an agreement.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said to the old man. “I think he said yes. It can’t be that easy, just because I tried to squawk like a griffin.”

  “I may have encouraged him as well.”

  “So that’s it? He’s ready to ride?”

  “Almost. You’ll still have to train him.”

  “Of course. Thank you.” It was all she could do not to embrace the old man. “Can I do something for you, Old Father? Would you like to fly back with me to the aerie for dinner?”

  The old man smiled and clenched his staff in his hands. He glanced at the storm clouds that gathered overhead. “Not today, child.”

  “Are you who I think you are?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I cannot see into your head. Perhaps.”

  She was afraid to voice her thoughts. They sounded either presumptuous or blasphemous. Instead, she said, “Before you go, tell me what to do.”

  “About?”

  “The war. The dragon.” She licked her lips. “About Darik.”

  “Those are all vexing questions. Alas, I cannot see beyond the next turn of the wheel. But as for the dragon—I might be able to help.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have no quarrel with dragons, or even wasps and the dragon kin who fly them. So long as they remain in the desert where they belong. Sadly, the dragon kin will not learn from the sorrow of the wars and have united with the enemy again. The dark champions of Toth guard them. Ravagers.”

  “Ravagers.” The word left her unsettled. One had killed Darik’s captain.

  “Why are the dragon kin ordering the dragon to burn our forests? Is it to drive us out of the mountains?”

  “Yes, in part. The fires attack their enemies. Then the charcoal from the burned forest feeds the dragon’s internal fires. The dragon kin won’t stop until the mountains are covered in ash from the northern Wylde to the southern seas. You must stop them.”

  “We’re gathering an army to drive away the dragon, but I don’t see how we can kill it. If only the winged knights of the Cloud Kingdoms would help us.”

  “They won’t. You must do it alone.”

  “I know. But we are so few.”

  “You have plenty of griffins,” he said. “What you need is more riders. The people of the hills have offered to send their sons and daughters.”

  “If we do that, if they join us, we’ll be overwhelmed. Maybe not at once, but eventually. My people will disappear.”

  “You may disappear either way.”

  “Why? Why us?”

  “It is the way of the world, my child,” he said, his tone sad. “But perhaps there will be another path. The wheel, as I said before, has not yet turned. And now I must go, Daria Flockheart.”

  She caught his arm, a bold move now that she’d guessed who he was. But if her touch bothered him, he didn’t show it. “Wait.”

  “Yes, child?”

  “Have you seen Darik? Is he all right?”

  A shadow passed over the man’s face. “He is alive. For now.”

  “He isn’t going to die, is he?”

  “I keep telling you. Not even I can see the future with any clarity. Time is like the mill-wheel, always turning and forever grinding souls beneath it. Even the souls of gods. Some are crushed into chaff, but those souls who endure the weight emerge as soft as flour and as refined. Now, is there anything else?”

  “Old Father, will you bless me before you go?”

  He touched her forehead with his staff, then placed his right hand on her head. “Daria Flockheart, may you know fear and conquer it. May you see the path always before you and choose your flight wisely. May age never harden your heart.”

  He removed his hand and walked away. As he passed the rock, he dropped the staff and stretched his arms. His robe melted, and feathers sprouted along his back and shoulders. In a moment he no longer walked, but flew, a giant horned owl that lifted into the trees. He let out a hoot, then was gone.

  All her life Daria had heard stories about the Mountain Brother, but she never thought she would see him.

  She picked up his staff. The wood was still warm from his touch, and she thought she would take it home and carve something beautiful into its surface.

  Daria returned to Talon’s side. “All right, my friend. Let’s see if we’ve learned any lessons, you and I.” She buried her fingers in his feathers. “I hope so, because we have a dragon to fight.”

  This time, Talon didn’t resist, but moved beneath her touch as if the two of them had flown for years. He leaped into the sky with Daria on his back, and the two of them raced south.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chantmer opened his eyes a fraction and saw that the eunuch still watched him. Chantmer hadn’t slept in the two days since his arrival in Marrabat in an attempt to exhaust Faalam, but the man had yet to fail. He never left the wizard’s side.

  Chantmer sat in the shade of an orange tree with his legs folded. He’d meditated for three hours in the sun, which was still hot this far south, despite the lateness of the season. The orange grove grew in one of the dozens of patios that graced the sultan’s palace. A small fountain sat on each end of the courtyard.

  Chantmer rose to his feet, stretched, and turned a critical eye toward Faalam. “You look tired, my friend. I release you from your duties so you can sleep.”

  Faalam bowed. “But then I would not be able to serve you, learned master. Sultan Mufashe, light of my life, wishes me to stay with you at all times.”

  If Chantmer had recovered even a portion of his magic, he’d drop a spell on the eunuch’s shoulders that would make him sleep for a week. And then the wizard could get something done, start to gather allies. Mages and conjurers who would help him regain control of the Order and fight Toth. Right now, he only had the confidence of his rescuer to work with. And Roghan’s loyalties were suspect.

  Chantmer turned his back on the eunuch and walked through the gardens. He inspected the orange trees, studied the engravings on the pillars. Kill the eunuch with boredom. Chantmer had lived for two hundred and eighty years; he knew how to be patient.

  “Chantmer?” a voice asked behind him.

  The wizard turned, dismayed that his senses were so dull that someone else had entered the courtyard without his hearing.

  It was one of Roghan’s tattooed apprentices. A young mage, perhaps forty or fifty years old. “The master wishes to speak with you.”

  Chantmer nodded and gave Faalam a half-smile. “I will come, but I must bring my servant. He wouldn’t dare leave me alone with your master.”

  Chantmer and Faalam followed the young mage to the fountain, where the three men washed their feet before entering. Delicate pillars supported the interior walls. They passed a group of young women from Mufashe’s harem, and the girls giggled to see Faalam following the two wizards. The eunuch silenced them with a stern glance, while a second eunuch urged the girls to hurry in the opposite direction.

  They found Roghan in a large chamber with a raised platform at the center, surrounded by his apprentice mages. The glowing tips of a hundred burning incense sticks lit the dark corners of the room. Spread across the platform were square boards lined with nails, and some twenty of Roghan’s apprentices sat cross-legged on top of them. The men were naked except for loin cloths, while the three female mages in the group also wore cloths tied across their breasts. Roghan sat in the center of them on his own board.

  Tw
o of the apprentices tattooed the head mage’s body. One man took a needle and dipped it into a brazier of coals and then smoked the faded inks from Roghan’s skin, leaving behind burned flesh. Working at a second location further down Roghan’s back, a second man used needles dipped in dyes to inscribe a new tattoo over the pink flesh only recently cleaned by the other. The markings themselves consisted of fanciful scenes of battles, runes, geometric designs, and calligraphic writing in the old tongue. Roghan gestured for Chantmer to sit next to him on an empty board.

  Chantmer eyed the nails. “Unnecessary pain disagrees with me.”

  Roghan smiled. “Members of your order destroy their hands to summon spells. That isn’t painful?”

  “Quite. But we focus and bind that pain.”

  “And this is where my order gains its strength. We meditate on nails, we suffer tattoos with no wine or poppy seed to dull the pain.”

  “Minor discomfort compared to the destruction of one’s own hand in face of immediate need.”

  “The strength drawn from a thousand pricks can be as great as anything that your order draws.”

  Chantmer didn’t doubt it. Roghan had raised him from the dead, carved a safe passage through the Desolation, and battled Markal to a draw on the Tothian Way.

  “Nevertheless,” Chantmer said, “your ways are not mine.”

  “So you have nothing to learn here?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I am loyal to my ways. I don’t care to replace them.”

  “Augment. Not replace.”

  The other mages in the room were studying the two men, and a look of irritation flickered across Roghan’s face as he seemed to notice the same thing.

  “Very well, I’ll listen,” Chantmer conceded. “Can you free me of my unwanted helper?”

  “As you wish.” Roghan turned to Faalam. “Leave us, eunuch. We have wizardly business to discuss.”

  To Chantmer’s surprise, Faalam bowed and made his way toward the door. The apprentice who had summoned Chantmer from the patio waited until the eunuch was in the hallway and shut the iron-bound cedar doors.