By the Silver Wind (60 page)
J
ESS HAS BEEN CREATING
works of fantasy art and fiction for over a decade, and founded her own publishing company, Five Elements Press, to publish her own works and someday, that of others. She's a proud member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators and the Authors of the Flathead. She lives with her husband in the mountains of northwest Montana, which offer daily inspiration for creating worlds of wise, wild creatures, magic, and adventure. Jess can be contacted directly through her website,
www.jessowen.com
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Books by Jess E. Owen
The Summer
King Chronicles
~~
Song
of the Summer King
Skyfire
A Shard
of Sun
By the Silver Wind
Watch for the next gryfon novel
Greetings, traveler.
Have you come to hear the tales of the Second Age? Many have been lost, for dim is the memory of that dark time. Some names will be known to you, others remain lost in the shifting winds of Time.
Four tales I will tell tonight.
One. In a time of fear and uncertainty, when gryfons knew not of Tyr and Tor, and heeded only the wind and the strongest talons, one rose from the red dust of the Winderost to challenge the cruel and dangerous warlords who held sway . . .
Two. Once, the gryfons were like the Nameless birds, and all mated only to members of their clans. All feathers the same, all beaks, all eyes, all hearts—until two different and yet kindred hearts sparked an ember across bloodlines that would fan to a flame and ignite the minds of all . . .
Three. You know the old songs and the prophecies, which seem to have been sung by the First Wind itself. But that is not so. Before there were prophecies and songs, there were prophets, and singers . . .
Four. Long ago when the world seemed small, one bold band of gryfons sought freedom from their oppressive pride by striking out across an unknown sea, either to perish at the will of the winds, or perhaps, discover a new life . . .
I am called Hugin. I am a traveler too, though where I go is another tale. I will end, when the world hatches and all things end, by flying to bright Tyr’s shoulder in the Sunlit Land, and telling him all the tales of the world. I keep the stories, so that none will ever be forgotten.
These are the heroes of the Second Age.
R
ain lashed the dry earth, thick thunderheads cloaking the tepid summer afternoon in false twilight. A gryfess tore across the ground in long, desperate leaps, her glistening black wings soaked through, useless and heavy at her sides. The kit grasped by the nape in her beak should have been yowling with indignity, but he swung, limp and silent, as she ran. Angrboda couldn’t worry about that now. Perhaps the Wind was sucked from him, keeping him mercifully quiet, but he still lived. She had to hope.
Her five pursuers had lost her in the storm, but now she knew they were catching up, running, as she was, like lions. She heard them shouting, far behind, threats and lies that they wouldn’t harm her or the kit.
To answer would have been to drop the kit. Angrboda thought of leaping into the air, but her sodden wings wouldn’t allow it. Surely the sea dwellers would have mercy on her.
Chest splintering in pain as she wheezed through her nostrils and the gaps around her kit, she ran, silent. No one could possibly be less merciful than the carrion-eating thieves and murderers running behind her.
Over the rain that drummed and finally soaked the earth to create swampy grass and clinging mug, Angrboda at last heard the murmuring roar of the sea.
Salt air hit her face. She stretched her strong, short legs, as if reaching for the sea itself, rather than the distinct change of scent markings that created their border with the strange, enigmatic sea dwellers.
Warning shouts came from above. The sea dwellers, warning her away from their border. She stopped, gasping around the kit, and stared as two sleek gryfons plummeted from the clouds, shedding the rain as easily as gulls.
A female, her wings rich grey, her head and chest pale as starlight, strode up so close that her beak nearly touched Angrboda's. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Behind her, a male who matched her in every way studied her with quiet, un-hostile curiosity.
Angrboda set the kit hesitantly in the mud at her talons, heart stuttering to see how he leaned, limp and silent, against her feet.
“They will kill my son. Please, you must take him. This is the only place he’ll be safe.”
The female’s red eyes widened, aghast, and she looked over at the male. “He won’t be safe here. And neither will you.”
“I won’t stay. I will leave him, and tell them he perished.” Angrboda flattened her ears, her chest aching from the fast flight and the sprinting, her heart fragmenting as the kit sat in the mud, eyes closed. “You must have mercy. You must take him.”
Before any could speak again, a cold, hard wind rushed them, flattening their feathers, rushing the rain against them like stinging nettles. Angrboda gasped and huddled down, blocking the silent kit from the worst of it.
The female sea dweller sucked a sharp breath and backed away fast, nearly bumping into her companion.
He flicked his ears forward as the rush of wind died. “The Star Wind. We must heed it, Rind.”
“You don’t know what it’s asking,” she said sharply. “It could be a warning.”
“A Star Wind? A Star Wind, not a Night Wind, blew when she asked this of us.”
Rind’s ears flattened, and she eyed the kit.
Angrboda’s heart swelled and she nudged the pile of soaked fluff, trying to warm him. “My son, you will be safe by the sea, and you will never know war.”
“Angrboda!”
“Wretch!”
“Thief!”
The calls came from her pursuers, cruel servants to her former mate. “All winds keep you,” she said to the sea dwellers, backing away, lashing her tail, backing across the invisible border where the scent changed. “His name is Aegir.”
“And his father?” the male asked.
Angrboda’s heart darkened. “I will not tell you. And if you ever guess it, I beg you not to tell him.”
Without further words, she turned and loped fast toward her pursuers, wailing. “He is dead! He is dead, because of you! The sea dwellers will eat him like savages, and I will never know my son!”
Savage growls and the gryfess’s sudden, agonized shriek turned Rind’s belly. She look at her brother, then at the kit, who did look dead. “We what will do?”
“I’ll take him to my nest,” her brother murmured. “He will make a good companion to Vandil.”
“I hope your mate agrees.” She huffed. “The Winds keep you, brother. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
But he was already scooping up the sodden, muddy, savage’s kit. At the touch of his beak, the strange silence broke, and the kit loosed a challenging, full-throated cry.
~oOo~
