The Starward Light_And Other Tales

by Jess E. Owen

  “Stop scowling,” Valdis purred. “It makes you look old. Come, why don’t we watch the lighting of the fires, and—”

  “I’m going hunting,” Stigr said, and didn’t bother to look at her to see the expression he knew was there. Anger at being interrupted, disapproval at the idea of him leaving the aerie while injured.

  Her wing came over his back. “Stigr—”

  “I just need to walk this out.”

  “Then I’ll come with you.” Her wing tightened against his flank.

  Stigr shifted. “I need some air. I’ll be back.”

  “When?”

  “Two days at most.”

  “Your poultice—”

  “It’s not as bad as he makes it out to be, my mate.” He touched his beak quickly to her ear and slid out from under her wing, picking a trail at random he knew would lead him out of the aerie. She knew him well enough, loved him well enough, that she didn’t protest, didn’t call after him, and didn’t follow.

  BY SUNSET, THE RAIN had cleared to a smattering of dreary clouds and listless, dim evening sky. What sun there was cast long shadows over the red and ochre landscape, damp and dark. Stigr hobbled along after a fresh rabbit trail, stubbornly ignoring the increased throbbing in his hind leg. A fresh poultice would’ve helped, but he was closer to the rabbit den than the aerie by now, and he’d told Valdis two days. He couldn’t very well go back after a single afternoon and admit both defeat at hunting and surrender to pain.

  Pain is a sign of life, Baldr’s father had told him once. Stigr tried to remember if he’d ever told that to Shard.

  “The lack of pain,” Stigr grunted, “means Tyr has taken you under his wing, and you might as well . . .”

  A cool breeze picked up and he froze as the warm, red-meat scent of rabbit drifted across his nostrils. He’d developed a taste for red meat, though, like the wolves, he still observed the proper respect when he killed. He had to.

  At the thought of Catori, of the Star Isle, of the sweet pines and the scent of the ocean, such unexpected longing and regret washed over Stigr that he forgot the rabbit briefly and sank to the ground.

  When he stopped, every aching muscle and bruise from his fall caught up to him, and his legs threatened to cramp from his loping run into the desert. Drawing a long, calming breath, he cast a look over his wing and squinted. He could still see the spires of the aerie, but doubted the sentries could see him. In the distance, he saw a gryfon flying, but in the deceptive evening light, couldn’t tell if it flew toward him, or away.

  After resting a moment, Stigr forced himself to stand, to move, to feel the pain and walk on anyway. He ducked his head like a wolf, and followed the rabbit trail. The light dimmed, and the damp earth grew steadily colder around him. The trail meandered from brushy spot to sheltering rocks, but Stigr was patient, and didn’t mind hunting in the dark, if it came to that.

  The wind shifted, and Stigr smelled not rabbit, but something else.

  Something far more dangerous. His skin prickled, and he lurched to a stop, staring around. Too late, he remembered Rok’s casual observation of possible lions in their territory, but none of the day sentries had mentioned them, so clearly the big cats were testing the boundaries at night.

  Stupid, stupid . . .

  He could continue on and investigate himself—but not even he was stupid or stubborn enough for that. Friendly lions would not trespass, and he did not want to meet unfriendly lions in the dark—flightless, and alone.

  Stigr turned to begin the long trek back to the Dawn Spire, and came face-to-face with Rok, landing hard in front of him. The gryfon he’d seen, flying . . .

  “Rok,” he muttered, half accusation, half embarrassing relief. His fellow sentry looked refreshed and alert, and was the best thing Stigr had seen all evening. “Valdis sent you.”

  “She didn’t have to,” Rok said, his tone breezy, but eyes flicking about toward the shadows. If there were lions, they hid themselves well in the scattered rocks, brush, and the beginning of the sweep of long grass several leaps windward. “She said you went hunting.”

  “So you followed me.”

  “I’d rather have accompanied you, if only you’d asked me.” Rok’s gaze settled on Stigr at last, and in the twilight Stigr saw a myriad of things in his friend’s face—deep fondness, frustration, worry. Baldr had given him such looks, once. He’d feared Stigr’s stubbornness and recklessness might land him in trouble one day.

  Of course, in the end, it was Stigr who had failed to protect his wingbrother.

  Rok stepped toward him, extending a wing. “No one should hunt alone, especially not in the dark.”

  “Especially not me, is that it?”

  “Yes,” Rok snapped at last, folding his wing and stepping back. “Especially not you. Like it or not, brother, you can’t fly. I respect you as a warrior and an equal, but no sane gryfon wanders alone with rogue lions about. Not when he’s got no one to fight with him, and no way to escape if he’s outnumbered.”

  Stigr snarled, anger flashing up his chest. He almost sprang at Rok, but deep in his core, Stigr knew his friend was not the source of his trouble. He spoke the truth. He spoke the wretched, agonizing truth, as friend would, as a brother. And for a moment, Stigr hated him.

  “Let me help you,” Rok said. “Just let me come with you. No gryfon, part of a pride, should have to do things alone. You’ve spent enough time in this life alone.”

  A noise drew Stigr’s ear back. The scent of lions grew overwhelming.

  He turned from Rok’s angry, earnest face to blare a warning shriek at the waving grasses behind them. “Show yourselves! You foolish cubs are upwind, and I know you’re there.”

  Rok strode up on Stigr’s left. “We’re personal friends to Chief Mbari of the First Plains, and you’re trespassing. Explain yourselves and be gone, or I guarantee you’ll suffer for it.”

  In the dying light, six male lions rose around them. Three from the high grass, two from under sheltering slabs of rock, one from the brush.

  They were surrounded.

  “Tyr’s left talon,” Stigr muttered. He raised his head, trying to look more impressive than he knew he must. His shoulders and hind legs needled with aches and threatened to betray him. “You stand on gryfon territory. We are friendly if you are. Chief Mbari—”

  “We do not answer to Mbari,” growled the largest of them. His wildfire mane stood out with feathers—eagle and gryfon, making him look larger, but slightly off balance, as they were arranged with none of the artistry and grace of the lions Stigr knew.

  “Figures,” Rok said, with a sigh. His tail lashed, switching Stigr across the backs of his hind legs. Stigr managed not to flinch, but the breath nearly left him when his bruise flared.

  The leading lion, nearly a rival to the great Mbari in size, if not years, lumbered forward. “Not all of us enjoy licking the tail feathers of gryfons as much as Mbari does. His days as chief are setting, and soon my time will dawn.”

  “And you are?” Stigr asked incredulously.

  Amber eyes flared and the great lion hissed, baring his magnificent teeth. “I am Baako, the Strongest. My brothers and I will have the First Plains, and do away with these gryfon claims on our hunting grounds.”

  Stigr growled, stepping forward. “Maybe you will, but in the meantime, you’re on our land. This seems a matter for Mbari, not us. You should be on your way.”

  Rok lashed his tail feathers across Stigr’s hind legs again, as if trying to force him to sit down. “Forgive my friend. His lameness gives him ill-temper. We understand your grievance, but have mercy and let us leave in peace.”

  Stigr cast Rok a sharp look, but Rok only gave him an overly piteous glance, and at last Stigr understood. He sank down as if far more exhausted than he was. It stung his pride, but it was better than dying. He was too old to value his pride overly much. “Surely such great warriors as you don’t need to bother with an old, wingless gryfon and a single sentry.”

  “
Baako,” hissed one of the smaller males from the grass. “You promised me feathers for my mane. I would like his black feathers for my mane, as no other lion has such feathers—”

  “Silence,” Baako said, turning to pace a circuit around Rok and Stigr. “Why would you seek the feathers of a lame gryfon? You might as well pull a nestling and pluck its feathers for the tuft on your tail. Look, he wears a flower, perhaps to mark his weakness.”

  Stigr had forgotten the mudding flower. Rok growled at the mention of violence to nestlings, and Stigr’s façade of weariness crumbled. He surged to his feet, flaring his wing. “Come at me, cub. You will not find my feathers easily won, nor my flower a mark of weakness.”

  Tyr made you so strong . . .

  “Ha,” breathed the lion from the grass, and shot forward. With his movement, the rest of the lions leaped from their hiding places and toward the two gryfons.

  Rok leaped between them “Idiot—”

  “Move!” Stigr shouted. He zig-zagged around Rok and hopped up high, letting the lion run right under him. He dropped to the lion’s back and raked his talons along his muscled flank. “You’ll have trouble decorating your mane if I shave it from your neck!”

  The lion screamed in feline fury and whipped around in a circle in an attempt to throw Stigr from his back. Stigr dug in with talons and hind claws and clamped down on a beak-full of ragged mane.

  Baako the Strongest laughed, a surprisingly high, fluting sound, and padded away, apparently content to watch. In the corner of his thrashing vision, Stigr saw Rok, valiantly fending off three lions and attempting to lure them off by alternating between fighting, and flying in short bursts over their heads.

  Stigr’s opponent dropped to the ground, but before he could roll and crush him, Stigr released his grip and sprang away. His already bruised muscles screamed in protest. He staggered back to catch a breath, and felt fire on his hind quarters. A second lion had darted in, claws lashing. Stigr flashed around, springing up and slashing his talons at the same time. He caught the beast’s eye, and was satisfied with his cutting yowl of pain and hasty retreat.

  The first attacker slammed into him again and wicked claws lashed Stigr’s scarred shoulder, his ribs, his belly. Stigr flailed, twisting his head to try and see his opponent’s next movement, only to see yawning jaws lined with long fangs. Yellow teeth snapped shut a feather-breadth from his remaining eye. Stigr shoved his talons up and swiped them down the lion’s face.

  A snarling yowl told him he’d scored, and the lion grasped him by the shoulders and rolled again, slamming Stigr’s back and wing against the damp, hard earth, straddling him.

  Stigr thrashed and squirmed his hind legs between himself and the lion and shoved, hard, against his soft belly. The lion coughed but didn’t budge, and Stigr managed to clamp his talons on the soft, furry throat. He didn’t tear, but he squeezed.

  “Yield and leave our lands,” Stigr gasped, fighting to get the words out around his throbbing muscles. Rather than try to escape the grip, the lion sank his weight against Stigr’s hind claws, then his chest, pressing, using his weight to crush down on him, squeezing the breath from Stigr’s chest.

  “I’ll have your black feathers for my mane,” the lion rasped against his talons, and Stigr smelled his blood. “You fought well. You surprised Baako, I think.”

  Sudden pressure on his own throat was a huge lion paw. Stigr hated to kill, but he tightened his own grip at the lion’s throat—but the great cat pressed down, and Stigr couldn’t catch a breath. His muscles felt slack. His talons on the lion’s throat loosened.

  The lion perked his ears, tilting his head.

  “End it. . .” Stigr gagged, gasping for air, but rather than a swift, honorable kill, the lion seemed curious to watch him suffocate. His paw pressed harder, and Stigr’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint of twilight, then fell black. A soft voice lilted in his ears.

  Tyr made you so strong . . .

  He remembered the Silver Isles. He saw a bright shore, but it was not the shore of his homeland. Golden light from a sun that never set poured around him, and he heard achingly familiar laughter. Baldr. He had both wings, and all his pain had left him.

  All his pain had left him.

  But pain is . . . is . . .

  “You’ve done more than I could have hoped,” said his dead wingbrother from somewhere Stigr couldn’t perceive. “You can rest now. “

  Stigr reveled in immortal wings, in the strength of having no pain.

  “Tyr made you strong,” Baldr said, and Stigr almost saw him, almost, in the endless light. “But you can rest now.”

  But he was no longer living for Baldr’s memory, nor for Shard . . .

  Or for anyone but himself.

  The desperate shriek of another, living gryfon cut through Stigr’s haze. Rok.

  Baldr didn’t need him anymore, but another gryfon did.

  “Come rest . . . “

  “Not yet,” Stigr roared. He turned from his wingbrother and the Sunlit Land and dove, dove—and blazed to consciousness, back in the chilly, damp desert of the Winderost, back to one wing, back to a body wracked with pain.

  A body wracked with life.

  Filled with righteous fury, Stigr slammed his talons against the shocked lion’s muzzle, raking down the pale cheeks to give him a scar that would make him wary of gryfons for the rest of his life.

  The lion yowled and spit and staggered back, shaking his head and cursing. Stigr whirled, wing flaring. It was almost full dark now. He could barely see, but he heard Rok in distress, saw Baako the Strongest knock him to the ground.

  Stigr leaped and landed on the lion’s back and slapped him the face with his wing, slashing feathers across his eyes as he dug talons into the tawny pelt. His breath and strength were nearly gone, but he would fight for Rok, would fight for his own life, would teach these lions a lesson they would not soon forget.

  “Rok, fly!”

  “Will not . . .” Rok crawled to his feet, flaring his wings and ramping up to challenge the two remaining lions who still had the stomach to fight.

  “You will!”

  “When you’re done over there, come and make me!” Rok’s wit dissolved to a growl as another lion jumped for him.

  “Off me, wretch!” Baako whirled and ramped, and still Stigr held fast. “You’re nothing but a wingless, sightless—”

  “I am Stigr, son-of-Ragr, warrior of the Dawn Spire, wyrm-slayer, and you will leave my lands!”

  “Ha—!” Baako jerked around, bucked hard, and Stigr lost his grip.

  The lion flung him to the ground and leaped, bearing over him.

  Claws came at his throat and Stigr wondered if he’d flown free of the Sunlit Land only to go right back—when gryfon roars and screams fell down on them, followed by ten strapping members of the King’s Guard, led by Asvander himself.

  Baako’s brothers didn’t have the heart for that fight, and fled into the grass and the dark.

  “After them!” barked Asvander, landing in a hard lope. “See they make it to the border, and stay there.”

  Eight of the guard broke off, harrying the lions through the dark. Asvander and the other sentry, Stigr knew it was Valdis’ brother Mar by his scent, stalked toward Baako.

  The lion shoved off of Stigr, but hesitated. “You will regret this day, when we—”

  Rok jumped forward and slapped the lion across the rump with his talons. Baako hissed, spooked, and spun to face the lanky sentry. “Off you go,” Rok growled, raising his talons again.

  “Leave our lands, or face death,” Asvander said coolly. Stigr scraped himself off the ground and stood on wobbly but unbroken limbs, also staring down the lion, for what his stare was worth.

  At last, Baako bared his fangs in a final hiss, turned tail, and bounded into the dark.

  “After him,” Asvander rumbled to Mar.

  “A pleasure,” growled the old sentry, and jumped into the air. Stigr watched him with a pang of envy, then felt a warm wing pr
ess to him.

  “All one piece?” Rok peered around, ears perked, as if expecting to see bits of Stigr scattered around the ground. There were quite a few feathers, but that was all.

  “Just about. You?”

  “Still flying,” Rok said. “And now with another good tale for the fires.”

  “I’m taking all these,” Stigr said, hobbling to gather what feathers he could find in the dark. He didn’t want scavenging lions claiming any of them.

  “Every one,” Rok agreed. “You can disperse them among your young admirers.”

  Stigr snorted.

  Rok picked up a single tail feather, ever helpful, and turned to Asvander. “You’ve got excellent timing, First Sentinel.” He mantled halfway to Asvander, who clicked his beak in irritation.

  “You’re lucky we saw you flying off on your own at all. You might’ve warned me, or at least said where you were going.” He rounded on Stigr. “What were you trying to prove, hunting lions?”

  “I was actually hunting rabbits,” Stigr mumbled, and found his tongue dry and gummy, as disturbing, quivering waves of weakness trembled up his legs. Hungry, injured, exhausted. That summed him up, but he tried to stand tall and straight in front of the First Sentinel, a pile of his own feathers at his feet.

  “I honestly can’t say I didn’t know this would happen,” Rok said, and Stigr found himself unable to process the words, and wondered if Rok meant it that way. “Although Stigr might’ve. That Vanir gift for prophecy, and all—”

  “Be still,” Asvander said wearily, and Rok obeyed, though Stigr knew it was only because Asvander would back up the order with talons, if necessary. “We’ll stay here tonight, and get you back to the healer tomorrow, Stigr.”

  “What about me?” Rok asked. “I need a healer too.”

  “What you need is more duties to fill your time,” Asvander said.

  Stigr shook his head, trying to clear some dizziness. “I can walk . . .” but the thought of walking back to the aerie buckled him at every joint and he felt to the dirt with a huff, and a groan.