“I’m more worried about Jet’s part of the plan.”
“Because he hasn’t healed?”
She sighed. “It’s difficult to answer that. He’s done all the healing the Keeper’s light could promote, given that I wasn’t able to tend him until days after he was injured. But he should take more time to rest. Are we sure this is a wise idea?”
Aoth grunted. “It’s difficult to answer that. Taking on undead and dark fey, we’re likely to need all the strength we can muster.”
“But will it even work? Yhelbruna said the Three would incline the wild griffons to serve those who defeat the undead. So far, no one truly has.”
“Which means that at this point, goddesses and spirits don’t figure in, and in the absence of their prompting, the griffons will act in accordance with their nature. That’s to follow the leader of the pride, and if Jet defeats the golden beast, he’ll be the leader.”
“But the golden beast’s no ordinary griffon. It’s a telthor.”
“And Jet’s the product of enchantments I cast not just on him but his bloodline going back for generations.”
“I’m not concerned because I underestimate him. It’s because I care about him and know you love him.”
Aoth snorted. “If I ever said such a thing to him, he’d mock me forever after. But you’re right, I do, and I argued when he broached his scheme on the journey back from the Ashenwood. But maybe he needs this fight to test himself. He doesn’t want to go on living except in the knowledge that he’s still as strong as ever.”
Cera frowned. “That’s foolish and arrogant too.”
“For a human being, maybe, but that’s not what he is.”
“No,” she said, trying to banish worry from her tone, “he’s the mighty, fearless creature who fought Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos, and obviously, he’ll be fine. So we’ll stop fretting over him and conclude our reunion properly.” She lifted her hand from his and glided her fingertips down his stomach.
* * * * *
The golden griffon was soaring high above the hilly ground north of Immilmar. Jet flew in at a higher altitude still. It would be foolish to cede the advantage of the high air before the duel had even begun.
As he made his approach, he felt an impulse to take stock of his wings and see if they were aching even a little, but he thrust the urge away. Whether he was hale or still impaired, it was too late to worry about it now.
A prickly sensation, almost stinging but not quite, danced over his body, and the blueness of the sky brightened and darkened from one moment to the next. He’d experienced the same phenomena on his previous visit. He was crossing the intangible barrier the hathrans had established to contain the feral griffons. Fortunately, because the original spell hadn’t targeted him, it had no power to keep him out.
Their feathers bronze and brown in the sunlight, common griffons flew toward him. They might well remember seeing him before, and on that occasion, he’d fled from them, or so they would have believed. They likely expected him either to do the same again or set down on the ground in submission.
Instead, he shrieked a challenge that caused the wild griffons to assess his attitude, size, and manifest strength anew. Then they all veered off in various directions, declining a confrontation and in the process clearing an expanse of empty air between him and their golden leader.
The king griffon was even larger than Jet, and no scarring or bald patches marred his plumage and pelt as they gleamed like polished metal in the sun. Now that his followers had failed to dominate the newcomer, he deigned to take notice of Jet himself. Opening his beak, he gave a piercing scream of his own to demand deference.
Jet simultaneously circled right and climbed even higher, the start of a corkscrew path that might allow him to plunge down at the golden griffon from above and with the wind at his back. His actions conveyed his defiance as clearly as any cry, and, pinions beating, blue eyes glaring, the other beast began maneuvering too.
Perhaps because he’d been restlessly flying around and around his invisible cage for so long and knew the space inside so intimately, the gold beast almost immediately found a fast-flowing updraft. The vertical current flung him upward, and in a moment, he possessed the high air. Jet realized he had little hope of reaching the same height swiftly enough for it to matter even if he exerted himself to the utmost.
But it might serve him well to pretend that was what he was doing. So he beat his wings and climbed like a dunce while the king griffon made a lazy-looking circle and positioned himself to dive.
The gold then hurtled downward. Jet kept climbing as if he had yet to perceive the threat or as if he were suicidal.
When the telthor had nearly plunged into striking distance, he gave a scream intended to petrify his prey. Jet, however, took the shriek as his cue to raise one wing, dip the other, and, with the agility Aoth’s prenatal enchantments and a lifetime of aerial combat had produced, dodge out from underneath the gold’s talons.
The gold plummeted through the space he’d just vacated, and now Jet was the one who held the high air and had his talons positioned to stab and seize. He furled his wings and dived after his foe.
The griffon chieftain zigzagged, trying to evade. Steadily closing the distance, Jet compensated as necessary and reached to catch the muscles bunching between the gold’s wings.
An instant before Jet’s talons could strike home, the telthor dodged a final time. Instead of plunging down on his foe’s back, Jet caught the middle of his right wing. Well, that ought to be good enough.
Jet’s aquiline claws clenched in flesh. He raked with his leonine hind legs and lowered his beak to bite. Then the pinion to which he clung lashed with startling violence and flung him off.
Jet snapped his own wings in an effort to close and grab hold once more. But he was too eager, lunging before he’d quite recovered full control of his body. Jet couldn’t dodge when, flinging blood, his foe’s faintly striped golden wing flapped and struck the side of his head.
The blow slapped Jet sideways and stunned him for an instant, and when he looked for the gold, the creature was no longer in front of him. He cast around and located his opponent just as the telthor swooped in from the right.
The gold’s talons stabbed into Jet’s back, then, one foot at a time, released and grabbed anew as he shifted his orientation. The telthor likely wanted to align himself in such a way that he could snap his beak shut on his opponent’s neck.
Jet lashed his wings, tucked his beak down against his chest, and flipped himself and the gold upside down. They tumbled earthward like a stone.
Probably still trying to bring his beak to bear, the griffon chieftain clung to Jet for a moment longer. Then, however, he sprang away to keep himself from slamming to the ground along with his foe.
Jet wrenched his body into the proper attitude for flight, resumed beating his wings, and pulled out of his fall. But in the process, he once again lost track of the gold.
Instinct screamed that he should veer to the right. He did, and, talons outstretched, the telthor hurtled past him.
Jet raced after the gold, and now it was the griffon king’s turn to dodge back and forth. Jet managed to claw the end of a wing anyway, and then the gold spun away from him.
The telthor started to climb away from the wide-eyed, upturned faces of Cera, Jhesrhi, Vandar, Yhelbruna, and the other humans standing in the snow. Jet climbed with him, and, as they spiraled around one another, peered to see how much harm he’d inflicted.
Lots. An ordinary griffon might not even be able to fly with wings so torn and bloody.
Whereas Jet was in better shape. The gold had torn up his back, but the initial strike hadn’t had the momentum of a long dive behind it, and in the moments thereafter, his adversary had been more interested in turning around to use his beak than continuing to rip with his claws.
I’m winning, Jet concluded. I’m stronger and faster than a stinking telthor, and I’m tearing him to shreds. The realization
filled him with exultation.
But the gold wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Blue eyes blazing, he screamed his rage.
And that, Jet decided when his surge of savage satisfaction subsided, was unfortunate. He’d kill the gold if necessary, but he didn’t actually want to. Should he survive, the telthor would be one more attacker to send against the undead, and besides, Jet respected his ferocity.
Still, even wounded, the king griffon was so formidable that if Jet didn’t simply strive for the kill, he could still lose the fight and his own life with it. He tried to think of a tactic that would serve his need and resisted the temptation to consult with Aoth. His master was watching the combat unfold through his eyes and would surely help in any way he could. But Jet had resolved that he’d fight this fight alone.
At first, no idea came to him, and as the telthor circled to attack, he resigned himself to ending the stubborn creature’s life. Then, however, a notion popped into his head.
He flew at the oncoming gold, then abruptly lashed his left wing less vigorously than the right, as though the wounds on his back were hindering him. The uneven beats turned his progress into an awkward wobble.
Eager to take advantage of his seeming distress, the gold drove at him even faster. At the last possible instant, Jet swooped beneath his foe’s gaping beak and outstretched talons with what he hoped sounded like a rasp of tortured effort.
He kept right on swooping too, as if he no longer cared about anything but fleeing. The telthor wheeled and plunged after him.
The color of the sky danced from azure to iris and back again. The prickling in the air turned to fiery stinging where it jabbed into Jet’s open wounds. But he didn’t care because, behind him, the gold shrieked in agony when, forgetful of everything but the desire to pursue his adversary, he plunged into Yhelbruna’s zone of forbiddance.
Jet wheeled. The king griffon was doing the same, but more slowly. Bigger than his foe, he had more momentum to contend with, and the ongoing torment inflicted by Yhelbruna’s magic made him flounder.
But he’d still get clear in a few breaths unless Jet prevented it. Lashing his wings as fast as ever in his life, he gained just enough altitude to plunge onto the gold’s back. There, he bit down hard enough to penetrate the feathers on his foe’s neck and draw blood from the hide beneath.
The gold’s wings buffeted Jet’s flanks, and the rest of his body thrashed and flailed. But with hathran magic assailing him, he couldn’t dislodge his adversary.
Jet bit down harder, and then he could taste blood as well as smell it. I’ll take your head if you force me to, he thought. I’m done playing with you.
The gold gave a different cry than before, this one mournful and resigned. It was surrender, but Jet watched him anyway as he let go and sprang away to make it easier for both of them to fly. Normal griffons didn’t lie, but he couldn’t be sure about a telthor.
But evidently neither the Earthmother, the Forest Queen, nor the Moonmaiden had gifted the gold with that particular human propensity because he labored clear of the punishing magic and then swooped earthward as he was supposed to. All the common griffons descended too, to submit to their new chieftain.
Licking blood from the edges of his beak, Jet wondered how he was going to convey the relatively complex commands he’d have to give them in the battle to come. He assured himself he’d manage somehow. For the first time in a while, he felt certain of his ability to accomplish anything he set his mind to.
The wild griffons were the first to spot Aoth and Jet winging in from the south. Still seemingly exhilarated by their liberation from the hathrans’ cage, they screeched, swooped, wheeled, and flew along beside them. Aoth wondered if it perplexed them that their new leader carried a human on his back.
Their commotion alerted the folk down on the ground, where the Storm of Vengeance sat and gleaming golems stood motionless in the snow. Aoth’s lieutenants—for so he chose to consider them, whatever opinions any of them might hold on the matter—assembled to hear what he had to report. Cera’s pretty, round face beamed up at him; Orgurth gave him a grin; and Jhesrhi offered what he’d come to think of as her frown of welcome. Bez wore a crooked, ironic smile; and Vandar, who stood well removed from the Halruaan, a scowl; while Yhelbruna and Shaugar’s masks hid their expressions.
With a final snap of his wings, Jet set down. As Aoth swung himself off the familiar’s back, Vandar asked, “What did you find out?”
“Quite a bit,” Aoth replied. “The Urlingwood may be the crux of everything, but scouting it from the sky was the simplest chore I’ve done since coming to Rashemen. The enemy wasn’t watching for anyone to come spying from on high.”
“They likely don’t see much reason for vigilance,” Cera said. “As far as they know, Aoth Fezim never returned from the North Country, and they’ve either lured all the hathrans and warriors in Immilmar and Urling away to the south, turned them, killed them, or simply fooled them into believing everything’s all right.”
Aoth smiled. “Good appraisal. We’ll make a sellsword of you yet.” He realized his throat was dry and unclipped the water bottle from his belt. “Mind you, some spy in the capital could have noticed the Storm of Vengeance departing and sent word of it, but maybe that message is still on its way. If so, we should move fast.”
“We can if you’ve discovered the information we need,” Yhelbruna said. As usual, her voice was as cold as the wind whistling out of the north, but Aoth had to give her credit. As he understood it, she’d singlehandedly killed the pair of assassins Bez sent after her and didn’t care that, to cope with the present crisis, Old Ones had left their caves without permission and all manner of males were about to invade the sacred forest. Evidently there was more behind her leather mask than condescension.
“I have,” he answered, then took a swig of icy iron water. “We’ll find the bulk of the enemy, including all the ones who really matter, in or near the stand of very old weir trees just west of the center of the wood.”
She nodded. “That comes as no surprise.”
“Well, this last bit of intelligence might, and unfortunately, it’s not good news. In toward the weirs, the forest gets darker, enough so that Jet and I saw vampires and wraiths slinking around in the gloom. We’ll have to contend with them even though we’re going in by day.”
“I brought Amaunator’s light into the deathways,” Cera said. “If need be, I can carry it back into the Urlingwood too.” She smiled at Yhelbruna. “Although I’d welcome help from any hathrans or Old Ones who offer devotions to the Yellow Sun.”
“You’ll have it,” Yhelbruna said. “But Captain Fezim is correct. It is by no means ‘good news’ that the Shadowfell is already overlapping the heart of the forest in such an overt way. It indicates the balance of forces has tilted even farther than I expected.”
Vandar started to raise his hand as though to squeeze Yhelbruna’s shoulder but then appeared to remember that such familiarity, however kindly intended, might be deemed disrespectful. He contented himself with saying, “We’ll go in at first light, and by the end of the day, the durthans, skeleton snakes, patchwork men, and whatever will all be gone. Then you’ll heal the forest, and that will be that.”
“I hope so,” she replied, and Aoth thought he detected a hint of gratitude in her tone. But her voice reverted to ice when she turned her head to speak to the circle at large. “There’s one more thing I need to say. This is a battle for the soul of Rashemen, and we won’t risk annihilating it ourselves in the course of striving to save it. No matter how dire the need may seem, no one will fight using fire magic. Is that understood?”
“I assume that order is directed to me most of all,” Jhesrhi said. “Don’t worry. I know other spells.”
A wisp of steam rose from the puddle of melted snow around her boots.
* * * * *
People sometimes claimed that any man who dared enter the Urlingwood would instantly fall over dead. Vandar had never credited that tale and ce
rtainly didn’t now that he and his companions had Yhelbruna’s blessing to purge the forest of evil. Still, he felt a twinge of anxiety as he stalked into the trees and wondered how many of the Old Ones, and of the berserkers he, Yhelbruna, Cera, and Jhesrhi had managed to assemble on the sly, were similarly uneasy.
At any rate, once they were all inside, that tiny worry fell away, leaving him free to fret over more legitimate concerns. At the moment, Aoth was flying above the treetops. So was Bez, not that any Rashemi would take orders from him, regardless. That left Vandar to command the warriors on the ground.
He wondered if he was he up to the task, whether he would lead them all to their deaths as he had his lodge brothers.
Hanging at his side, the red sword whispered to assure him his worries were nonsensical, that he was a great hero headed for a glorious victory, and it would have eased him to give himself over to its encouragement. It was heartening to be reminded that he possessed such powerful magic, and he only wished he still carried the crimson spear as well.
Still, he mustn’t simply succumb to the blade’s influence. If he let the fey weapon’s confidence become his own, so too would its recklessness and battle lust, and he and his comrades wanted to advance as far as possible by stealth.
Suddenly, striding beside him, Yhelbruna raised her hand. “Stop,” she whispered.
Vandar obeyed. So did all the folk and jointed automatons marching beside and behind them. Apparently she’d used magic to make the soft command audible to all.
He scanned the white snowdrifts and black tree trunks and limbs ahead. Had he and his allies arrived at the periphery of the unnatural twilight? He couldn’t tell. Even denuded of their leaves, the weave of branches overhead was thick enough to block a goodly portion of the silvery winter sunlight in a purely natural fashion.
He did know he couldn’t see any particular reason for the halt. “What is it?” he murmured from the corner of his mouth.
“I sense dark fey,” she answered. “The durthans’ allies, most likely, but perhaps I can still persuade them to let us pass without a fight.” She eased a bluewood wand from a sheath on her belt, and, waving it lazily back and forth, crooned words as soft and soothing as a lullaby.
Prophet of the Dead: Forgotten Realms Page 26
