Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 03 - The Silver Gryphon.txt

by The Silver Gryphon [lit]

  wreathe among the trees. First, a few wisps formed and wafted through the

  forest of columns, disappearing and reforming again, like the ghosts of

  floating snakes. Then the ropes and swaths of fog thickened and joined

  together, until Tad and Blade were surrounded on all sides by it. Then, lastly,

  it began to thicken, until they could not see the trunks of trees more than two

  or three gryphon-lengths away.

  Up above, the sounds of birds, animals, and insects continued unabated.

  Down below, under the cover of the fog, animal sounds increased. Perhaps,

  now that they are concealed, they feel bold enough to call, Tad thought. Or

  perhaps they are calling to one another because they cannot see each other.

  It is an interesting question.

  Neither the fog nor the heavy overcast that had shadowed them for the

  past two days had given them any great amount of trouble, but Tad felt a

  difference in the air today. Gryphons were supremely sensitive to changes in

  the weather, and he knew by the feeling behind his nares and the way his

  feathers felt against his skin that they were going to have a real storm today.

  Storms around here seemed to stretch for leagues, so there would be no

  moving out of its path unless they were very lucky. If he had been alone, he

  might have taken a chance and tried to climb above the clouds—but he dared

  not with the basket in tow. Unpredictable winds could catch it and send it and

  him tumbling; lightning could incinerate either him or Blade, or both, in a

  heartbeat.

  No, if the storm threatened, they would have to go to ground quickly, before

  deadly updrafts or wind-shear caught them unaware. Then they would have to

  make a quick camp and get shelter before they were drenched. If the storm

  was over quickly and he was still dry, they could take to the air again to make

  a little more distance before nightfall; but if he was drenched, he would have

  to wait until his wings were dry, which would probably take all night.

  He said nothing to Blade, but she must have felt the same urgency.

  Perhaps long association with him had made her weather-sensitive, too; at

  any rate, without skimping on her checks, she hurried through the

  preparations. Sooner than he had expected, she was done. She made a quick

  final check of the campsite as he shook himself, checking the harness for

  loose spots.

  While she continued to police the campsite, he stretched and did wing-

  exercises, carefully loosening and warming up every muscle, even those he

  didn’t normally use in flying. He faced away from the campsite, sunk his talons

  deeply into the ground, and energetically beat his wings as if he was trying to

  lift the earth itself. He twisted, writhed, and stretched, in a series of dancerlike

  movements designed to make sure every muscle was ready to do what he

  had asked it to. Then, when he finally felt no sense of strain no matter which

  way he moved, he looked at Blade.

  “Ready?” she called, as she made her way back through the fog toward the

  basket.

  He nodded. “Let’s get in the air,” he replied. “There’s a storm coming.”

  “I thought so.” She removed the stakes holding the basket firmly to the

  ground and tossed them in, then vaulted into the basket herself. She shifted a

  few things with a deft sensitivity to the weight and balance within it, then

  settled into place with both hands clutching the front of the basket.

  That was his signal. With powerful wingstrokes, he rose slowly into the air.

  Leaves and dust scattered across the forest floor in the wind of his creation,

  and Blade narrowed her eyes against it.

  He rose about three lengths into the air before encountering the momentary

  resistance of the basket beneath him. But the spell was still holding firm, and

  the pull against the harness was no more than if he had been hauling a deer-

  carcass instead of the massive basket.

  Immediately, he felt something mildly wrong. The basket felt heavier, and

  now he noticed a stiffness in his muscles that had not been there when he

  finished his warm-ups.

  Is it the damp and chill?

  No matter; he was committed now, and he dared not abort the takeoff. He

  simply worked a little harder, made his wingbeats a little deeper, strained a

  little more against the harness.

  Blade hung on as the basket lurched up off the ground; this was the

  moment when it was possible to overset the basket, or novice riders tumbled

  out. He and the basket rose together through the trees in a series of jerks,

  propelled by the powerful downthrust of his wings.

  He was breathing harder than he should have. What is the matter with me?

  Did I get less sleep than I thought? Or did I eat too much? The thought of the

  mushrooms hung uneasily in his mind; they were not poisonous, but what if

  they had some subtle weakening effect on him?

  But if they had, wouldn’t he have noticed it last night? Wouldn’t he have

  noticed as he was warming up?

  Not necessarily. . . .

  In the next moment, they were above the layer of fog that clung to the earth

  and shrouded the leaf-littered ground, hiding it. He looked up, and the

  spreading branches of the canopy rushed to meet them.

  He willed strength into his muscles, strained toward the light. A thousand

  birds screamed alarm to see them, then fell silent with shock, as the laden

  gryphon labored up through the branches. He threaded his way through the

  hole left in the canopy after the death of some millennium-old forest giant,

  while below him, Blade shifted and released her holds to fend off reaching

  branches that threatened to foul the ropes or catch on the basket itself. She

  used a long pole with a crosspiece tied to the far end, cut last night for this

  specific purpose. As they burst through the last of the branches into the open

  air, she dropped the pole. They would not need it for the next descent, and it

  was too long to carry with them without causing problems.

  The contrast between the gloom below the trees and the overcast

  brightness above dazzled Tad until his eyes adjusted; he did not pause,

  however, for he needed more height. He might not be able to see clearly, but

  there was no doubt which way he had to go. “Down” was the direction of the

  dragging on his harness; he rowed his wings in great heaves in answer to that

  steady pull, and by the time his eyes cleared, he was as far above the canopy

  as the branches were above the forest floor.

  That was enough. He angled out into level flight, taking his direction from

  his own inner senses, and now the basket hung true beneath him, no longer

  bobbing with every wingbeat. Blade did not release her hold on the edges, for

  she might have to shift her weight to compensate for sudden changes in the

  wind, but she did allow herself some relaxation.

  As soon as they leveled out and he was certain that there were no strange

  winds to contend with, Tad took a survey of the weather. His weather-sense

  had not betrayed him; the clouds hung low, fat-bellied and gray with unshed

  water. He could not scent rain on the air yet, but it was just a matter of time.

  These were not yet storm c
louds; the storm, when it came, would roar down

  at them out of clouds that would tower thousands of lengths above their slate-

  blue bottoms.

  If they were extraordinarily lucky, they might manage to fly out from under

  this weather system before it developed into a storm, but he was not going to

  count on it. From the wind, they were flying in the same direction that this

  storm was going, which made it very likely that they would actually be flying

  into the teeth of it rather than away from it.

  I’II have plenty of warning before we get into trouble. In fact, I’ll see activity

  in plenty of time to land.

  He might even feel it long before he saw it. We aren‘t making the best time

  right now, he noted ruefully. In spite of the careful warmup, he still felt— not

  stiff, not strained, but vaguely achy.

  Am I coming down with something? Or did I just eat too much this

  morning? He drove westward, moving as quickly as he could, watching the

  horizon for the telltale flickers of the lightning that would herald the storm

  front. He hoped he was not coming down with a fever; although gryphons

  were not prone to such infections, they were not completely unknown. This

  would be a bad time and place to get sick—although, if it proved to be a real

  emergency, Blade could use the light teleson set they carried with them to call

  for help. Now that magic was working again, even rudimentary mind-magic

  like hers could be amplified by the teleson to carry all the way back to White

  Gryphon. It would be work, but she could get help.

  It’s probably just from sleeping in the damp. I’ve never had to sleep in a

  tent on damp ground before. Now, for the first time, he had a hint of how he

  might feel in years to come, when his joints began to ache and stiffen. No

  wonder his father moved so deliberately! And he had thought it was just an

  affectation, to increase his appearance of dignity!

  I don’t think I’m going to like getting old.

  He flew on for some distance—and was very glad that they were not

  making this journey afoot. He had just traversed territory it would probably

  take days to cross on the ground, and all within a few marks. It wasn’t even

  noon yet!

  Now he scented water, and the air felt heavy and thick, and another

  explanation for his flying difficulties occurred to him. This is not good air for

  flying. It may not be me at all; it may only be the atmosphere that is weighing

  us down. It was as difficult to fly in thick air as in thin, though in different ways,

  and the extra exertion necessary would certainly be enough reason for the

  ache in his joints!

  There was still no sign of the coming storm, but it could not be far off now.

  He strained his eyes, hunting for that elusive flicker of blue-white light among

  the clouds—

  Tadrith had no real warning, just a sudden lurching sensation in the pit of

  his stomach, as if he had been caught in a burst of wind and been hurled up,

  then dropped. His head spun with disorientation for a moment, and he

  gasped.

  Then—the magic on the basket was broken, like water draining out of a

  broken pot, all in the blink of an eye.

  And the moment it vanished, the basket regained its real weight—the full

  weight of Blade, all their supplies, and the basket itself.

  With nothing more holding it up than one very shocked gryphon.

  It dropped like a stone, and pulled him, shrieking in strangled surprise, with

  it.

  The harness cut into his shoulders; the sudden jerk drove the breath from

  his lungs and all thoughts from his mind. He pumped his wings frantically and

  with complete futility against the weight that hauled him down; below him,

  Blade shouted and sawed at the basket-ropes, trying to cut him free.

  He had to slow their fall! She was never going to get him loose—even if the

  ropes were cut, she would still plummet to her death! He wouldn’t leave her!

  There was no time to try magic, no chance to concentrate enough for a

  spell, and what could he do, anyway? With his heart pounding in his ears, and

  his vision clouded with the strain, he tried to make his wings move faster,

  harder, scoop in more air. Surely, if he just tried hard enough, he could at

  least slow the basket! Fear sent him more energy, fueling the frantic

  wingbeats.

  His wing-muscles howled in agony, burning with pain, as if a million tiny

  demons were sticking him with red-hot daggers. His foreclaws scrabbled

  uselessly at the empty air, as if some part of him thought he might be able to

  catch and hold something.

  His mind jabbered as they plummeted down toward the forest canopy.

  He did not even have enough control to pick where they were going to hit.

  Below him, he thought Blade was screaming; he couldn’t hear her through

  the pounding in his ears. His vision went red with the strain. . . .

  Then they hit the trees.

  That slowed them. As they crashed through the tree-tops, he felt the basket

  lighten a little; and for a moment he had hope that the springy boughs might

  actually catch and hold them.

  But the basket was too heavy, and the branches not strong nor thick

  enough. As the basket dragged him down into the gloom, he realized

  belatedly that hitting trees with wings spread wide was not a good idea for a

  flying creature.

  He was jerked a little sideways as the basket encountered more branches,

  which was not good for him; instead of dropping through the hole the basket

  made, he hit undamaged tree limbs with an open wing.

  Pain shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

  Then, there was only darkness.

  Four

  Jor some reason, Blade had never been the kind who sat frozen with shock

  when something dreadful happened. She had always acted; there was an

  even chance that whatever she did in an emergency, it would be the right

  thing. Without even thinking about it, Blade had her crossdraw knife out in an

  attempt to cut Tad free as they all plummeted toward the tree canopy below.

  She sawed frantically at the ropes holding him a helpless prisoner of gravity,

  but it was obviously of no use; they were falling too fast and there were too

  many ropes to cut.

  We’re dead, she thought absently, but her body wasn’t convinced of that,

  and just before they hit the treetops, she dropped into the bottom of the

  basket, curled into a protective ball.

  The basket lurched about as they hit tree limbs and broke through them. As

  wood crashed and splintered all around her, she was thrown around in the

  basket among all the lashed-down equipment like another loose piece of junk.

  Something hit her shoulder hard and she heard herself scream. The pain was

  like an explosion of stars in her head. Then, mercifully, she blacked out.

  Her head hurt. Her head hurt a lot. And her shoulder hurt even more; with

  every beat of her heart it throbbed black agony, and every time she took a

  breath or made the tiniest movement, it lanced red fire down her arm and

  side. She concentrated on that pain without opening her eyes; if she couldn’t

  get that under control, she wouldn’t be able to move. If she couldn’t move,


  she, and probably Tad, would lie here until something came to eat them.

  Surround the pain and isolate it. Then accept it. Stop fighting it. Don’t fear

  it. Pain is only information, it is up to you how you wish to interpret it. You

  control it. Her father’s lessons came back as she controlled her breathing; she

  hadn’t ever used them on anything worse than a sprained wrist before, but to

  her surprise, they worked just as well on this serious injury.

  Make it a part of you. An unimportant part. Now let the body numb it, let the

  body flood it with its own defenses. Blade knew the body could produce its

  own painkillers; the trick was to convince it to produce enough of them. And to

  convince it that at the moment, pain was getting in the way of survival. . . .

  Slowly—too slowly—it worked. She opened her eyes.

  The basket was on its side, a couple of wagon-lengths away from her. It

  looked as if she had been tossed free when, or just before, it hit the ground.

  Fortunately her lashings holding the cargo in place had held, or she

  probably would have been killed by her own equipment.

  The basket lay in a mess of broken branches, wilting leaves draped

  everywhere. It didn’t look like it was ever going to be useful for anything again.

  Probably a fair share of the equipment is worthless now, too, she thought

  dispassionately. It was easy to be dispassionate; she was still in shock. I’m

  alive. That’s more than I thought a few moments ago.

  She sat up slowly, being very careful of whatever injury made her shoulder

  hurt so badly. With her good hand, her left, she probed delicately at her

  shoulder and bit her lip, drawing blood, when her fingers touched loose bone

  that grated.

  Broken collarbone. I’ll have to immobilize the right arm. No wonder it hurts

  like the Haighlei hells! Well, so much for doing any lifting or wielding any

  weapons.

  Her questing fingers ran over her face and head without encountering

  anything worse than a goose-egg knot on her skull and more spatters of

  congealing blood. With the same care as before, she stretched out her right

  leg, then her left.

  Bruises. Lots and lots of bruises, which just at the moment she couldn’t feel

  at all.

  I must be black and blue from head to toe. That could be bad; she’d start to