by Mark McCabe
It had pained him to take the life of such a magnificent creature and he had only done so because his hand had been forced. Gryphons were rarely seen in either Tenamos or Liricor and seldom had any contact with the other sentient inhabitants of the land. They lived long lives, longer, Kell knew, than those of him or his colleagues. The passing of such a beast was, therefore, a singular event in the history of the land.
The beast in question, only the second he had ever encountered, had for some unknown reason turned its obdurate rage on the elves of the Great Forest, Elpelas, that hugged the southern coastline of Tenamos, and had been systematically destroying their woodland dwellings when their elders had called on Kell for assistance. He had responded as was his duty and had attempted to reason with the creature.
The gryphon was sentient and as such Kell had been able to establish a mind link with it, akin to normal speech but communicating directly, mind to mind, without the use of language as such, a little-used skill he and his fellow Guardians had been taught by Tanis. It had been to no avail, however. The gryphon had seemed determined to personally rid Ilythia of every elf it could find and it quickly turned its fury on him when he made some passive attempts to dissuade it from the ruinous course it had chosen. Whether its blind rage was caused by illness or by some real or imagined transgression by the elves was never established. In the end, he had no choice but to try to kill it. The battle that had ensued had been the toughest Kell had ever endured and he had barely escaped with his life.
The creature had been all but impervious to the effects of magic. In battle, it attacked with a swiftness unsurpassed by any other creature and with a battle-lust that fuelled its murderous intent but did nothing to blunt its amazing tactical acuity. Kell had been lucky in the end to stumble on the one spell that seemed to draw a response from the beast, a muted response but one that had slowed the gryphon just long enough to ensure its defeat.
It was after the battle, when Kell had sought out its lair, that he had found its one offspring. It was only a fledgling, even if it was already the size of a large lion, and in his guilt, he had taken pity on the poor thing. He had named it Thyfur, and had raised it and cared for it, even though the task kept him from returning to Cloudtopper for some time. He took the opportunity to strengthen his acquaintance with the elves, and it was at that time that he had first met and befriended their near neighbours, the quicklings, although his friendship with Nim came much later.
Thyfur had grown rapidly and, with no parent to guide it or tutor it, had quickly bonded with its foster parent, Kell. Over time it had become a fierce and loyal companion, a true friend, and Mishra knows, thought Kell, how few of those the Guardians had. ‘Mage’ it called him, though it knew his name well enough. The creature was almost as strong in intellect as it was in body. It was the first being other than his colleagues he had ever considered an equal.
Eventually, as is the way of things in nature, the beast had outgrown its need for the wizard and they had parted. Though the leave-taking had been a sorrowful one, Kell knew that he had neglected his responsibilities as a Guardian for too long and that Thyfur, like all creatures that move from adolescence to adulthood, needed to see what he could achieve on his own. The beast also longed to search for others of his own kind.
The bonds of closeness and friendship remained strong, however, and the mind link the Guardian and the gryphon had established enabled them to maintain contact, even over the longest of distances. Few though such contacts were over the centuries that had passed since then, each knew he could call on the other in direst need, though neither had needed to do so in all of the years since that time, until now.
What had drawn Thyfur’s mother to Tenamos remained a mystery to Kell. The gryphons’ normal haunts, he later learnt from Thyfur, lay far out on the very edges of the world, among the wild creatures that roamed far from the shores of the two largest land masses. Theirs were lands that Kell knew little of and the gryphon seemed reluctant to enlighten him further.
Rarely did Thyfur make the long passage across the seas to Tenamos and it had been more than half a century since the two friends had last renewed their acquaintance. Kell was grateful his friend had so readily agreed to his recent request for help.
The wizard knew he was exposing Thyfur to great risk by drawing him into the contest between the Guardians. He also knew, however, that should Golkar overcome the last of his colleagues and become the sole Guardian of Ilythia, the wizard’s madness would then be unfettered and all the creatures of this world, no matter where they resided, would be at risk. All this he had explained to Thyfur. The gryphon clearly understood what was at stake and had agreed to stand with him. Indeed, instinctively, it quickly formed an intense hatred for Golkar. It was the nature of gryphons to be like that, fiercely loyal in friendship, deadly and murderous to their foes.
An enemy of thine is an enemy of mine, mage, the beast had said to Kell. I would no more stand by while your life was in peril than would you should I be in danger.
And so Kell waited for Golkar. Neither of his fellow Guardians had ever known of the existence of Thyfur. Certainly, Kell knew that they would have known something at least of the gryphons. They may each even have had their own experiences with these and other creatures which Kell himself knew little or nothing about. But this friendship would come as a shock. Thyfur was an incomparable ally. Golkar had sought the aid of another; now he would see that Kell did not stand alone either. Let us see what will come of this, thought Kell. Let us see now how far Golkar’s strength has grown.
~~~
The thud of booted feet on the staircase below them signalled to Dain and Bardor that the trap they had set for the sligs was ready to be sprung. They had heard the thick, guttural voices of the warriors as they had argued in the room below and now the heavy steps on the wooden planks of the staircase indicated that their search of the ground floor had been completed. As anticipated, they intended to search the upper rooms of the dwelling as well. It had taken no genius of foresight to predict this. Their pattern of clearing the town house by house was now well established.
As he pressed his body against the cool stone of the wall beside the stairwell, Dain wondered who was the hunter here and who was the quarry. He and Bardor might have laid the ambush but it remained to be seen if they could pull it off, and they were the ones with no other means of escape, not the sligs. If anything went other than as intended, he knew how quickly the tables would be turned and the hunter would become the prey.
At least they were evenly matched. From the voices they had heard, and now from the footsteps, it seemed that there were only two of the beasts in the house. Though the sligs were trained warriors, accustomed to battle, this form of street fighting was hardly their preferred mode of combat. The Algarians would also have the advantage of surprise.
The warriors were ascending the stairs slowly, their leisurely approach probably more the product of apathy than it was of caution. They didn’t appear to be taking the prospect of encountering anyone very seriously at all and were making little if any attempt to conceal their presence in the house. From the creak of the floorboards under their steps, the two Algarians could follow their progress up the staircase with some precision.
Dain held his breath as the thud on the steps indicated their opponents were approaching the arched entryway to the upper floor. Gripping his weapon tightly, he found that the warmth of the sword hilt against his skin did nothing to appease his nervousness. Looking across at Bardor, he could see his companion was in no better state than he was. The bow he held, though drawn and with an arrow nocked and ready to fire, shook in the cooper’s hands. Dain wasn’t concerned.
He had learnt to appreciate the nervousness that preceded a fight, knowing the adrenalin rush it produced would be sorely needed once battle was joined. He also knew that his friend would not let him down. They had been fighting side by side since the first day of the slig assault. Dain knew his man well. At this moment, there was n
o one he would rather have at his side.
Opening his mouth to draw in a lung-full of oxygen, Dain prepared to act. As the third last step creaked under the weight of the slig warrior, Dain swung into the open archway, plunging his sword with all his might towards the startled warrior that appeared in the entryway. As he swung, he sensed Bardor moving to guard his exposed shoulder.
Like the true warrior he was, the surprised slig somehow managed to bring his own blade up to parry the one that suddenly appeared in front of him, but to no avail. It all happened too quickly for him to achieve anything more than a glancing blow that turned Dain’s thrust slightly up and to the right, protecting the slig’s abdomen but only at the expense of other more vital organs. As Dain recognised the all too familiar sickening feeling of his blade plunging deep into flesh, he pushed down with every ounce of his strength, burying the sword even deeper still and toppling the slig backwards with the combined effect of his weight and the force of his thrust. With no chance to arrest his own forward motion, Dain found himself caught up in the tumble of bodies careering back down the staircase the sligs had just ascended. As he fell, he desperately tried to maintain control of his descent, glimpsing for one brief moment in the tumble of arms and legs the second slig who had obviously been unable to retain his own footing as his companion hurtled back on to him so unexpectedly. Within moments, the melee of bodies reached the bottom of the staircase.
As the bodies thudded into the floorboards at the foot of the staircase, Dain quickly rolled to his side, ignoring the stabbing pain in his knee and fumbling for the knife in his belt as he did so. He had let go of his sword as soon as the fall had commenced, knowing there was nothing to be gained in trying to hold on to it. It would do more good right where it was, buried deep within the chest of the leading warrior.
Scrambling to his feet and knowing his opponents would be frantically trying to do the same, Dain was relieved to see an arrow thud into the chest of the second of the sligs, just as he was about to regain his footing. As he teetered, still on his knees, a second arrow punched into his neck. With a sickening gurgle, the slig slumped back on to the floorboards, twisting awkwardly and scrabbling vainly to staunch the sudden flow of blood from the wound in his throat.
As planned, Bardor had followed the tumble of bodies down the staircase and had taken advantage of the confusion to inflict further damage on their opponents before they had a chance to recover. Incredibly, despite his injuries, the slig struggled to rise again, brandishing his axe in one hand as he did so. The arrow protruding from either side of his neck lent a macabre air to the scene that, for the briefest of moments, stunned the two Algarians. Realising that to hesitate was to die, Dain forced himself into motion again, flinging his body at the warrior with reckless indifference to their disparity in size and weight.
It was like running into a stone wall. Dain wondered who took the most damage from his lunge, him or the slig. He didn’t waste any time thinking about it, though. His aim was to get close enough to use his blade before the slig could get his axe up in position to swing it, and use it he did. While he grappled for the slig’s weapon arm with one hand, he used the other with murderous efficiency, plunging his knife time and time again into the beast’s scaly neck until finally it ceased to struggle and he felt the body slump lifelessly beneath him.
As he lay there, panting for breath and wondering what wounds if any he had taken himself in the scramble, he hoped the sudden silence meant that the battle was over and that his and his companion’s luck had held yet again.
He couldn’t attribute their success to anything more than that. In the past few days, he had come to learn at least one thing about combat. Survival depended as much if not more on good fortune as it did on skill. A twist here, a missed step there, any one of a thousand small and seemingly inconsequential things could determine the eventual outcome of a contest when it came to armed conflict.
Turning his head, Dain watched as Bardor knelt over the body of the other warrior and plunged his knife into his stomach. He knew the cooper wasn’t acting in anger; nor was he finishing the slig off. The brute was clearly as dead as his companion was. Bardor was simply retrieving the two arrows that were sticking out from the warrior’s tunic, just inches away from where Dain had buried his sword. The bolts were precious and their supply was dwindling at an alarming rate. Any opportunity to retrieve them couldn’t be ignored.
Dain turned his head away as his friend pulled the arrows free and wiped them clean on the slig’s tunic. So much killing, he thought, so much blood, and they had all become inured to it so quickly. Could he ever return to a normal life, even if he did somehow survive this war? Would these scenes return to haunt him long after the war was over? Kurandir stank of death and he had contributed to that stench as much as any of those who had fought here.
Taking the hand his companion offered, Dain pulled himself to his feet, the twinge in his knee as he did so reminding him of the knock he had taken in the wild descent of the staircase. “Let’s go,” called Bardor with his eye on the door as Dain retrieved his own weapon from the corpse beside them. “There’s bound to be others close behind them.”
They quickly made their way to the back of the house, Bardor in the lead and Dain struggling to keep up behind him. Now they were moving, he was finding it hard to walk freely on his injured knee. It felt like he’d sprained a muscle or a tendon and it was all he could do to hobble along and try to ignore the sharp pains that were spearing through his leg each time he placed any weight on the joint. Thankfully, they halted for a moment while Bardor peered out through the partially open door into the empty lane beyond.
Once the cooper was satisfied the way was clear, he darted down the lane and into the open door of another house, oblivious to the injury impeding his companion’s capacity to keep up. He knew where they were going. They had chosen the building they were heading for earlier as the most likely spot for their next ambush.
With a quick glance up and down the lane, Dain hobbled after his companion. As he made his way down the thoroughfare, he couldn’t resist a furtive glance back over his shoulder. The emptiness of the streets unnerved him even more than the abandoned houses. Not a soul could be seen. Even the rats seemed to have deserted Kurandir. What right did he have to be moving about as if he owned the place?
As soon as he reached their destination, he darted through the open doorway Bardor had disappeared into only moments earlier. The house that he entered, though equally as deserted as the rest, seemed almost warm and inviting after the unnatural silence of the streets.
“It’s clear,” said Bardor, coming back from a quick inspection of the rest of the house. “What took you so long?”
“I twisted something in my knee on that damned staircase,” grunted Dain, bending and rubbing the joint with his hand. It was sore to the touch and he grimaced with pain as he gently swivelled his leg, trying to see precisely which movement produced a painful response. “This is a young man’s game. It’s not for the likes of me.”
“It’s not a game that I care to play any more, either.”
For the first time, Dain noticed the look of exhaustion on his companion’s face. It reminded him of how drained of energy he himself felt. He knew that it wasn’t physical exertion that was doing it. It was stress, the continual stress of looking over their shoulders, of hand-to-hand fighting where only one of the two combatants could come out alive, of killing and cutting into flesh.
“We’ve been lucky today,” Bardor continued. “How much longer that can hold, I don’t know. If the worst we come out of it with is a sprained knee, it’ll be a miracle.”
Dain nodded. Bardor was right. They were swimming against the tide and they both knew it. All of the Algarians here in Kurandir, if there were any of the others still alive, knew it. They just had to keep going and forget about everything else, forget about tomorrow, forget about their loved ones, forget about their chances of surviving. There would be time enough for that whe
n the job was done. Right here, right now, that’s all that mattered.
Turning his mind back to their task, Dain took in the room they were in. The kitchen provided an ideal spot for their next ambush. It had a small servery that opened into the front room and through which Bardor could cover anyone trying to enter from the front of the house. The back door through which they had entered opened onto the alley, which itself provided a number of opportunities for a swift escape. If the alley itself was blocked then an internal staircase led to the roof. From there they could move quickly without impediment and be streets away before any pursuit got near them.
Dain took a gulp of water from the jug they had left on the table when they had reconnoitred the house earlier, then moved to his assigned position, watching the alley from the rear door. He was tired, and hungry. He longed to stretch out and have a good rest, maybe even a little nap. It was mid-afternoon and they had been at it all day.
As they had expected, the sligs had attacked just before dawn. They had tried to hold them at the gates but that hadn’t lasted long. Since then it had been hand-to-hand fighting, with the sligs having to clear the way street by street, and at times, house by house.
Captain Sulyok and what remained of his Rangers had drilled their little band of farmers and townspeople in the tactics of street fighting as thoroughly as time permitted in preparation for this very eventuality. He had warned them that once the walls were breached there would be no way they could stop the sligs from entering the town. All they could hope for then was to make the inevitable slig advance as drawn out and bloody an affair as they could.
Sulyok had told them the sligs liked open battlefields and had little or no experience of the type of fighting which would be required once they got inside of Kurandir. Usually, that was when a battle ended. Once the walls were breached, the defenders of a town usually surrendered, or they tried to fight their way out through the enemy lines. Sulyok said surrender wasn’t a viable option when the enemy were the sligs.
