Freeforce: The Gryphon Saga

by L. E. Horn

  Enraptured by the black sword, Michael lifted and twisted it to gauge every aspect. Its weight and size suited him to perfection. “Who made it?” he finally asked.

  “It was not made, at least not in the traditional sense. It is a head spike from the crown of a Vertraax.” Karn’s mane fluffed up again, almost hiding the translator. The sunlight caught blue and green iridescent hues in the dark feathers as they moved.

  “Vertraax?” Michael said. “You use their scales for your armor, right?”

  “The Vertraax is a giant animal inhabiting our deserts,” Karn said. “Many years ago we hunted them for their scales. Killing them required thrusting a long spear into an eye to penetrate the brain. The skills acquired during such dangerous hunts helped us to develop our fighting ability. At one time, we considered it a sign of strength to bring one down.” The big Gryph flicked his long tail. “We have always traded their scales to other races for the few things we need to purchase off the planet. The Vertraax feed on a species of worm that consumes crystalline microorganisms within the sand itself. The unique compounds end up within the biological matrix of the Vertraax scales, making them one of the toughest natural materials in the galaxy. We once hunted them in large numbers as the demand for body armor and shielding material increased.”

  Karn paused. “Then we found the Valley of the Vertraax where they go every season to shed their scales. It became unnecessary to hunt them. We now limit our trading to what we can glean from the valley. The only remnant of the Vertraax hunt is the continued development and training of our hunters, a tradition serving us well during this war.” Karn’s feathers flattened against his neck. His ears twitched. “The Vertraax never shed their head spikes. They are even tougher than the scales. Since we stopped hunting them, the only way to acquire the head spikes is if one is lucky enough to stumble across a dead Vertraax. As a result, we have only a handful in our arsenal.”

  Lowering the weapon, Michael met the Gryph’s eyes. “You brought this sword for me?” he asked. “It must be worth a fortune!”

  “It should suit your fighting style.” Karn’s long lips pulled back from his teeth. Michael recognized the expression as the Gryphon equivalent of a human grin, although it looked more frightening than humorous.

  Fighting style indeed. Lose your mind and kill everything in front of you. Hilarious. Michael found he was smiling, the unfamiliar expression pulling at the skin of his face.

  “The downside is the heavy scabbard,” Karn said. “We had to make it from Vertraax scales because the blade slices through other materials.”

  “I think I can cope.” Michael swung the sword once more before lifting the scabbard and sheathing it. At one time, I would have appreciated a motorbike. Now, it’s swords. My life has certainly changed. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Michael slung the sword over a shoulder and grinned at the big Gryph. “I can see why you wanted the translator, but can you turn it off now? I like you better when you speak in monosyllables.”

  Karn snorted and turned to follow him along the path. “Due to your total lack of appreciation for my conversation, I will sing all the way back to camp.”

  On the way down, Michael discovered that although Gryphon language sounded musical to human ears, Karn was completely tone deaf.

  THE REBELLION CONTINUED TO GROW.

  Although led by Drake, the rebel engine was fueled by the Berserker’s rage. Men chanted Michael’s name as they charged into battle, following in the wake of the unstoppable man wielding the obsidian sword.

  Going berserk against the Fang commanders proved easy for Michael. Hatred for the Fang boiled within him, and the rage rose whenever he remembered what they’d done to Lianndra. It never rested far beneath the surface, and it got harder to keep it restrained. The more difficult the mission, the better Michael liked it. Anything that drained the inner turmoil granted him some level of peace.

  Before his change, Michael had many friends. On Earth, he lived a gregarious lifestyle, and even as a soldier in the war, he made strong interpersonal connections. Now, in camp, most humans avoided him. He knew the men might follow him into battle, but they also feared him, watching for the gold flare in his eyes as a sign to walk away.

  It suited Michael that the battles to free the slaves increased in danger with each mission. When the Fang discovered that the Healers freed slaves from their collars, it forced a dramatic change in tactics. Drake and Karn now led their troop into the jungle after carefully targeted units, and they used the waterways to ease the Gryphon’s penetration through the dense foliage. Karn carried Michael into every battle and assisted afterwards in talking the Berserker down.

  When two Healers walked out of the jungle to join the rebellion, they brought news of the disbanding FHR divisions, and the collection of their peers for return to the Motherships. Drake pumped newly freed slaves for information about where the Fang had taken the women, but so far, no one knew. Locating the Healers from the disbanded divisions became Drake’s latest desperate obsession. The Healers had vanished.

  Thoughts of the Healers rounded up by the Fang fed into Michael’s rage. Success in battle often hinged on the big man’s ability to release the Berserker at just the right time, and Michael found it useful to visualize the monster within a cage in the darkest depths of his mind. To control it, he had to keep the bars intact. What started as a slight rattle soon became a crescendo of internal conflict, a clashing of metal and echoing screams heralding the coming Beast.

  Michael found life easier when they were on a campaign. In the early stages of Lianndra’s healing, he stayed away from the rebel camp. Even with her on the path to recovery, he couldn’t trust himself where it concerned Lianndra. When they were in camp, he dropped his bedroll on the fringes or headed for the cliffs. Sometimes Drake stayed with him, but often the pressures of organizing the ever-growing group kept the captain busy.

  Michael told himself he didn’t mind being alone. It took the pressure off pretending he was normal, as if the Berserker wasn’t as much a part of him as his right arm. The downside was that solitude offered him no distraction from his thoughts. During the day, he could keep himself occupied with many things. At night Lianndra took over his mind, tormenting him until the only relief was the coming of dawn.

  EWTK’FISK SAT IN HER DIMLY lit private quarters, staring out her single external portal. She could see Tarin as a curving brown and green surface far below. The planetary shield was barely visible as a faint glimmer in the starlight.

  She opened her fist and let the dust of the disintegrated datachrys sift through her clawed fingers to the floor. If she believed this report, the reassuring glimmer did not have long to exist. The massive plasma cannon neared completion, and the Tlok’mk rebellion still did not have any concrete plan in place to stop it.

  Without the rebellion’s intercession, the shield would fail under the cannon’s onslaught. It was only a matter of time.

  Her gaze returned to the planet, her thoughts occupied with Gryphon images. Can you stop it? Do you have any more surprises to reveal, or are you at the end of your resilience? I fear the eventual fate of my species may ride on your ingenuity. Without your help, it seems our rebellion will fail. Muscled shoulders slumped as Ewtk’fisk pressed her fanged snout to the cold portal. I understand if you do not believe me, but my twin hearts ride right along with the humans upon your backs.

  THE POLISHED AXE BLADE CAUGHT the last rays of the setting sun and Michael squinted at its edge. That’s as good as it will get. He set the axe aside and moved onto his knife. Just enough light left to finish.

  He sat on a rocky outcropping with his back to a steep cliff. The rebel camp of Gryphon and humans stretched out before him. A large fire pit marked the camp’s center, close to the triage tent where the Healers worked on the latest casualties.

  Last night’s raid nearly spelled disaster. The Fang set a trap, placing a fighting unit within easy striking distance for the rebels, and concealing a laser cannon hi
gh in a tree. Only quick thinking by Drake and Michael’s Berserker rage enabled them to escape without being decimated. Deep in his bestial fury, Michael scaled the tree and single-handedly took out the laser, but the group suffered many injuries. The Healer tent had been a center of frantic activity all day.

  This development meant another change in tactics. Michael considered possibilities as he sharpened an assortment of weapons. Ever since Karn gifted him with the Vertraax sword, he seldom used anything else in battle. Still, attending to his other weapons occupied his hands, and thinking about tactics kept his mind busy.

  I have the sharpest knives in the army, he thought.

  A soft step alerted him to Andrea’s advance long before the woman got close to him. His hearing had improved, another change to go along with his enhanced sense of smell. He doubted even Wilf could sneak up on him now.

  He glanced up as Andrea approached. The tall Healer looked exhausted from her shift healing wounds as well as running scouting duty overnight. She chose a seat near him but seemed careful not to touch him, no doubt sensing his uneasy mood. Such caution still took him by surprise. He wondered how long it would take him to get used to people being wary around him. That Andrea—whom he now considered a friend—would be so careful, sent a pang through his heart.

  Guess this is what happens when they see you rip Fang in half with your bare hands.

  ANDREA STUDIED MICHAEL AS HE worked on his knife with his sharpening stone. The fading light emphasized his striking facial features reflecting off the bumps beneath his lips that gave evidence of the retractable fangs. His jaw had broadened, his brow and eye sockets became a touch more pronounced. Long fingers on big hands worked with surprising dexterity while he stroked the knife back and forth along the stone.

  She sighed and bit into a small ration bar. Life is never simple. When you stopped and looked around, you recognized the high price individuals paid while fighting the Fang war. Many have died, and others are missing pieces, yet still fighting. The mental scars were, in many ways, worse than the physical ones. A man sobbing softly after losing a comrade. A birdlike alien staring endlessly into the darkness. Everywhere you look, there is sadness and suffering.

  The sobbing man made her think of Lianndra. Her friend recuperated physically from her torture experience, but she was a long way from recovering mentally. Lianndra had returned to healing the injured, but she had changed. When Andrea worked alongside her, Lianndra was remote—all business and never laughing. The tall Healer missed the sarcastic banter of their early slave days that helped pass the time and kept them sane.

  As a founding member of the rebellion, Lianndra was important to the ongoing planning, along with Michael. When they were in the same tent during the meetings the two kept to opposite sides, their joint tension palpable. Andrea caught Drake occasionally meeting Michael’s gaze during the discussions. She had no doubt the captain was checking for gold in the big man’s eyes.

  The rest of the time, Michael and Lianndra focused on staying away from each other. In fact, Lianndra rarely talked to anyone other than Andrea and Hannah. At first, Andrea asked Michael to give the blonde Healer space, but now she wondered if it had been such a great idea. The Fang brutalized Lianndra. Only strong people can endure an experience like that without something breaking inside, she thought. Love happens to be one thing that could make all the difference.

  Now she sensed a strong barrier between Michael and Lianndra, and didn’t know how to break it down.

  From sleeping so close to her, Andrea knew Lianndra’s nights remained filled with nightmares. Some nights her friend still woke up screaming. She knew Michael used several strategies to avoid Lianndra’s screams. He slept during the day, avoided the camp altogether, and went on every mission to take himself as far away as he could.

  Meanwhile, Drake assigned Lianndra to the main rebel camp. They couldn’t risk her having a nightmare episode while in the jungle, where they often shadowed a unit for days before moving in. Andrea led a small group of Healers on each rescue trip. She and Hannah missed their friend’s presence on these endeavors. There were few Healers capable of matching Lianndra’s abilities when a situation called for an innovative approach.

  When not busy with Lianndra, Andrea often sat near Michael, offering him her silent support. If she could fix him, she would. Until then, she remained one of the few humans who dared come near him.

  As if he could go berserk at any moment, she thought sadly. Michael’s journey from man to Berserker still shocked Andrea. It’s amazing our Healer blood could wreak such havoc in him. Why didn’t it have the same effect on us? The Fang must have controlled it somehow, but it’s running wild in Michael. I wonder if it has finished its work, or if there are still more surprises in store?

  Michael tested the knife on his finger. He was obviously more distracted by his thoughts than he appeared. The knife cut deep and blood dripped. Andrea made a move to reach out to him, but even as she did, the cut started to heal.

  She frowned. Even experienced Healers focused when mending their own minor injuries, although they did it with ease. She knew Michael didn’t have any official training but assumed he’d been following the Healers’ lead.

  He’s seen us do it often enough. He gets covered in cuts during the battles, but I’ve never seen him seek out the assistance of a Healer. I assumed he knew how to do it himself.

  Yet it was almost as if the cut healed without Michael having to think about it. The tall Healer looked at him.

  He looked back at her, his eyes silver with faint golden highlights. For a moment, the pupils expanded until the irises were mere silver rings surrounding blackness and she thought she saw liquid pooling in the corners. Then he blinked and stood.

  “Good night,” he said, and headed into the darkness.

  HE LOOMED OVER HER, HIS breath hot on her face. She strained against the ropes, trying to rotate her wrists enough to bring her claws into play against the slave who crouched over her. As trapped in her dream as she’d been in real life, she couldn’t quite do it. He used his knife to cut through her hair concealment as she snarled and twisted. The Fang commander stood nearby with his mouth open, revealing pointed teeth. The slave nicked her skin in the most sensitive of spots, and she swore she would kill him if he attempted what he clearly intended to do.

  Spurred on by his collar and pure lust, he’d gone ahead. As soon as his flesh touched hers, she lashed out with her healing power and shredded his heart.

  She remembered the shock of his death, the moment when the life left his eyes and his entire body collapsed on top of her. The Fang commander snarled and kicked her so hard he almost snapped her neck. As the other men pulled the body away, the human FHR captain fabricated more creative ways to accomplish his goal, without skin contact. If she’d not been a Healer, she would have died then, but something in her refused to give up, or give in.

  Although her heart pounded, this time Lianndra woke without screaming. She improved at ending the nightmares on her terms. Talking with Hannah helped her deal with the mental and emotional trauma. Unbeknownst to her friend, Lianndra never spoke of one thing—no one knew she’d killed a man. The fact she could harm easily with her healing talent frightened her.

  What if I got angry at someone I liked? I could accidentally kill a friend—or a lover.

  Her mind, as always, veered away from thoughts of Michael. Lianndra rolled out of her bedroll. I won’t fall asleep again. The night is still young . . .

  The cool air moved in over the grasslands after dark. She lengthened her hair in response, fluffing it to trap warmth against her body. She crept past Andrea, who lay asleep in her bedroll. Hannah was most likely with Drake. Lianndra nodded to the closest perimeter guard and started climbing the rocks.

  It surprised her just how much she missed her tail. The two remaining feet did not provide much assistance while climbing. The tail remained the most animal-like change the Fang had made to her, and she often loathed it for that
reason. Nonetheless, she’d treated it like a fifth limb. She hadn’t recognized how often she relied on it until she lost it.

  I wonder if I should regrow my tail, she pondered as she climbed. It would require a lot of energy to re-create the cells and grow it back, but I can do it. Yet part of her held back. She wasn’t ready to examine her reluctance because it raised questions she couldn’t answer. Not yet, anyway.

  To cover the ugly stump, she’d grown a thick tuft of long, golden hair from the end. As she moved, she found the back and forth metronome swish of it soothing. It proved rather useful for swatting the small biting insects that tormented everyone at night, a fact she acknowledged with some embarrassment. Does it make me more animal than human? Would I rather slap at them with my hands?

  The cliff flattened out toward the top and soon she could walk, the light of the twin moons illuminating her way. A whiff of something familiar caused her to pause, but she forced herself to continue.

  Michael, somewhere close.

  As usual, guilt overcame her when she thought of him, so she tried to concentrate on navigating the rocky path. I would never have shared my blood with him if I’d even suspected the Fang mutagens could affect him. I’ve saved his life, but now he has to live as I am, as something no longer quite human.

  Lianndra retained foggy memories of when Michael crashed into the camp with the feral gleam in his eyes and the long canines bared for blood. He’d nearly torn the Fang commander in two. More recently, Andrea mentioned Michael’s struggles with the Berserker, and how isolated he’d become. It seemed they had lost the gentle, gregarious soul Lianndra had known.

  I have achieved what even Fang enslavement could not. I’ve turned Michael into a monster. I’ll never forgive myself.

  Some days, it was almost more than she could bear.

  She found a flat spot where she could sit back against a boulder and look at the stars. If she stared long enough, she could let her mind drift and forget her guilt.