Gryphon in Glory (4 page)

“Try what, my Lord?” Instinctively I gave him the honor title.

“Imgry"—with one hand he caressed his chin where an old scar made a half-discernible seam—"has always been one to plan—to dare—if another bears the burden of the action. I would say that it is now in his mind to meet with some of those in the Waste—and not the outlaws or scavengers—to perhaps propose an alliance.”

Anger burned in me. “Using my lord,” I burst out, “because he is of mixed blood and perhaps, that being so, some of those who wander or abide there might then feel kinship? He uses men hardly, does this Imgry!”

“It is because he does,” Jervon replied, “that perhaps, in the end, he will impose peace in this land. He is not loved, but he is obeyed, and that obedience draws together men who might not otherwise be held to any strong purpose.”

“But the Waste . . .” Lord Imgry's qualities of leadership meant nothing to me. “Kerovan has been there—he barely lived when he went up against one Power. And he has no longer access to this.” My hand covered the gryphon. “He is not trained or armored against what prowls there. May Imgry be everlastingly cursed!” My hands curled talon-wise. I wished that I were a hawk to tear at the face of that cold and devious lord.

“Your lord must have chosen to do this. Imgry could not have forced him so.” Elys still held the now shrouded cup. “There is that in him"—she spoke as if Kerovan were before her, or else that she indeed knew him well—"which would not yield if he wished it not. He is"—she shook her head slowly—"he is unlike any I have met before. A man of two natures, each held at bay lest they lead him to destruction. Within him is locked Power he does not want. He might even ride his present road because he seeks the peace of death.”

How could she know him thus? Unless there was in her the gift of what the Wisewomen call the True Sight.

“No!” I was on my feet, looking around as if I could seize a weapon to destroy her words. I fought to master my fear as I said then, “If he is in the Waste, there, too, I go!”

“The Waste"—Jervon might have been speaking to an impatient child—"is very large. You have no guide—”

“But I do!” I did not know whence came my conviction as my hand was tight on the gryphon. “There is this—and I shall learn how to use it!”

“Perhaps that is possible,” Elys said slowly. “But are there the seeds of Power in you?” She arose and began studying my face. “No, you do not know what you can do—not yet. However, this is the road you will follow—” Jervon started to speak. She stopped him with a gesture. “This is a choice she has already made, for good or ill. What remains . . .” Now she looked at him instead. “The Waste and a man who may or may not be found, a task which may or may not be beyond the doing. We have been only drifting, you and I, do we now make a choice also?”

His frown grew darker but he said at once, “If so be your will.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Not
my
will. The day is past when I choose to ride and you follow. We go as of one mind or not at all.”

I looked eagerly from one to the other. This Elys might not be one of the Old Ones, but she controlled a fraction of Power learning and through that might be able to claim kin-right with the Waste roamers. I had spoken of a guide, but I knew not how to make use of it. This was no venture of theirs, save I wanted to ride in their company. Their closeness of spirit was warm to my heart, so I clung to the fancy that being with them longer I could learn the secret of that—enough of it to smooth my way with Kerovan.

Jervon hitched at his swordbelt. “Might as well ride one way as another,” he commented. “Also I think that your Kerovan"—now he spoke to me—"since he was dispatched by Imgry, would head directly westward from the headquarters. Thus we go south if we would pick up his trail.”

“I have heard that Lord Imgry buys much of the salvaged Waste metal for the forging of arms,” I said. “Therefore there must be a going and coming of those who deal in that. Perhaps Kerovan would follow their trails.”

“Well enough. Let morning come and this mist rise—then we ride south and west. If there lies any trace of such a trail we can cut it so in time.”

The mist that imprisoned us did not rise during the rest of that day, still clinging heavy as night came. I watched it uneasily as the darkness grew, for I kept thinking that, from the comers of my eyes, I now and then caught a hint of movement within it which was not the billows of the fog itself, but rather as if something more tangible hovered there, using it as a cloak from which to spy on us.

Jervon ventured out from time to time coming back with armloads of dead wood, which he piled close to hand. Only when the dark really deepened Elys put an end to that. She confirmed my own suspicions when she produced from her belt purse a slender stick of blue.

With this in her right hand and her left raised so that her slender fingers were free to move in complex patterns, she proceeded to draw lines on the pavement, fencing in our campsite, including the mounts, which Jervon had hobbled and brought closer to the fire. What Elys finished at last was a star of five points, setting the lines true with skillful accuracy, though the labor wore away her strange pen.

In each of the outflung points she proceeded to add an intricate symbol, thus locking us in. The horses had been restless for some time past, throwing up their heads, snorting, staring into the mist with signs for growing uneasiness. However, once her work was complete, they quieted.

Nor, I discovered, did I myself now have that sense of being watched by the unseen.

I shared journey food from my own store with my new companions as we settled down in the warmth of the fire, agreeing upon taking watches turn about to feed the flames. Elys, by lot. was the first sentry. Wrapped in my cloak, not laying aside my mail, I strove to sleep, crossing my hands over the gryphon on my breast.

Jervon awakened me at the proper time and I watched the paling of the stars as morning drew near. For the mist had withdrawn, save for a ragged wisp or two. The star drawn for our protection held a faint light of its own. I studied it and wondered how one learned such lore. The Dalesfolk believed that only one born with the Talent could be taught, though we had Wisewomen, healers, gatherers of herb lore, and the like. Yet there had been the Lady Math—my aunt.

She had taken the lesser vows of the Dames, and to all such this kind of learning was a sin. Still, in the last hour of her life, she had brought forth a curiously carven wand—before sending me forth from our threatened keep—saying she would have her own kind of vengeance against the despoilers and murderers besetting us. The keep had burst apart in flame and flying stones, taking to their deaths most of those who had dared invade its inner walls.

That the destruction had come by her will I had never doubted, though I do not know what Power she had called upon in that hour or how she had summoned it.

Might it be that some of full Dales-blood, wary as they were of the brooding past, did indeed share a ghost of Old talent. Perhaps children born and nurtured in this haunted land were really apart from the parent stock. I had never considered that before.

It was our custom to look askance on anything that smacked of such learning. Those proven of half-blood were avoided, looked upon by most as . . . In the name of my dear lord, I refused to use, even in my mind, that ugly name. What of the rest of us who bore no outward stigmata? Did we also carry traits of strangeness that were not as obvious as my lord's cloven feet, his eyes of amber yellow, but that could, if known, exile us quickly?

Was this an argument I could use with Kerovan? If I could but display a little of the talent, prove to him that I was not as pure blooded as he believed . . . I moved restlessly around the fire, longing for the coming of true morning. Had I found an ally in Elys, one who would train me if I had that which would be fertile ground for learning?

It took many years to make a Wisewoman, it was said. I had no such time to spend. I remembered once again that meeting with Neevor, that stranger of the Waste who had said the crystal gryphon was a key, which I only could use when the time came. If so—surely his words argued I had some command of Power.

I wanted to shake Elys awake, demand that she aid me. But I fought against impatience, kept my desires in check for the proper time. This was not a matter that could be rushed, my mind told my heart—but oh, how my heart raged for action!

Kerovan

I
MGRY MAY HAVE THOUGHT HIMSELF PERSUASIVE; THE FINAL DECI
sion was my own. I had listened to his summing up of what he believed the enemy wanted—and of what might be done in return by making contact with some authority within the Waste, to give a warning—and make an offer. The latter, to be sure, was an arrogant gesture on his part, for what had we to offer that could match those forces the Old Ones commanded? I did not have the ambition that drove Imgry. On the other hand, if by some fluke of fortune, I might succeed, I would have achieved something that the Dalesman must admit only a despised half- blood would dare to attempt.

He offered me a command, but I refused it. He did not like that. I think he wanted no ambassador to have too much freedom.

“One man,” he had said, “to go alone is too high a risk.”

“One
man,
Lord Imgry? Look at me. Ask any in this hall if I am in their eyes a man. You have made me your envoy because of my heritage. Then let me go as if I am truly of the blood you deem me. I shall ride openly and wait to see what fortune will send. What I can do, I shall. I promise nothing.”

Reluctant as he was, he knew I spoke the truth. Nor was he niggardly with equipment. I was offered, and accepted, mail, sword, and helm, new-fashioned of the salvaged metal from the Waste. All men knew that this was the best, an alloy we had no equal for in the making of fine armament.

I chose horses, three of them, from the lines. The mounts from the eastern Dales (there were all too few of those left now) were of little use in the west. Nor did I want hill-bred stock, for, hardy and tough as those were, the Waste was partly desert. A mount used to the plentiful waters of mountain springs could not stand the heat and lack of forage and drink.

What I took were such beasts as were used by the Waste scavengers. Luckily, in that sweep Imgry had ordered to gather all available mounts, these had appeared. Slightly larger than mountain-bred pontes, they were gaunt, with long necks out of proportion to their bodies. Their eyes were unusually large and heavily lidded, well lashed to screen out glare of sun and wind-borne grit. Their hooves were broader than normal, meant for the traversing of shifting sand. They had a reputation for being vicious, and it was always necessary to hobble or tether them at night.

Two I would ride turn and turn about, and the third would serve as a pack animal. It took me four days of careful preparation, of selecting supplies. And I did not dream again on those nights between.

I refused the map Imgry had played with during our interview. Such sites as were marked on it had come by word of mouth from scavengers, who were not to be trusted, being always jealous of their sources of supply.

When Riwal and I had traveled the Road of Exile, that had been well to the north. The road that had led me to the place where Rogear and my mother had wrought their black incantations was also in that direction—barren and desolate. If there was any life now to be found in the Waste I felt I would discover it elsewhere—though the Old Ones could not be judged by our standards. Still they must need water, sustenance of some kind, shelters more than a jumble of ruins.

Thus I decided to strike straight west, following for the first part of my journey the faint trail left by the scavengers bringing in metal for Imgry's forges.

I rode out in the early morning saying no farewells. The night before I had met with Imgry for the last time. He spoke again of the urgency for carrying my warning of invasion to any of authority I might find—of his complete certainty that somewhere in the unknown west lay whatever it was that the invaders really sought. He did not come to watch me out of sight—I was merely a dart he had launched. If I struck true, that was good; if I failed . . . Well, all he could do had been done.

My mount fought control, but when I was well away from the camp and headed west he settled down, while the two on lead ropes came easily enough. All of them from time to time held high their narrow heads, expanding red-lined nostrils as if they searched for some scent that was of importance.

We were four days along, the last three well into a scrub wilderness, before the one I rode cried out, making a sound like an eerie scream. The other two answered him, their weird cries echoing back from jagged-topped heights, which overhung the path so darkly we moved through shadows as thick as twilight. The walls of that cut grew increasingly high, drawing together overhead. Then the two cliffs actually met, forming an arch into an even darker day.

My mount broke into a fast trot I did not try to restrain. The others quickened stride in turn. We passed through a rough- walled tunnel to come out into a brighter light than I had seen for hours.

Here was the Waste. No remnant of any path remained, only bare rock as footing, though that was crossed here and there by a runnel of coarse sand. The land itself was a rolling plain. In the far distance were shadows against the sky, which I thought must mark highlands. For want of a better guide I fastened on those as my goal.

The led horses were no longer content to trail behind, but moved up, one on either side of my mount, matching their pace to his, as if they also had riders and we were readying for a charge. I thought that they were at home in this country and perhaps they could, by their attitude, give me warning of other life forms we might encounter though who, or what, could live in such a land as this I found hard to guess.

I made camp while the sun was still up in the afternoon sky, for my horses had come directly to a dip in the land, at the bottom of which there was a sluggish stream pushing out of the ground, running for a space, only to be swallowed once more by the greedy earth. However, along its banks grew grass and several stunted bushes. Out of the nearest of those clumps burst winged creatures. They moved with speed, but I saw that they were black of feather and their heads, hanging downward on oddly crooked necks, were rawly red as if new plucked.

Their squawks were as unnatural as the cries of the horses had been and they circled overhead, plainly angry at being disturbed. I did not like the sight of them. There was something foul about their black bodies and those naked heads.

What had drawn them into the brush made itself plain within a moment or two. For a noisome stench of something dead, and dead for some time, arose strongly, as my horse half leaped, half slid down to the water's edge.

He plunged his muzzle deep into the water, his companions copying that action as speedily. I slid out of the saddle, made my tether ropes fast to the nearest bush. Then, though I disliked the business, I went to see what lay where the still-screaming birds had been busy.

Bird beak and blazing sun had done nasty work, but there remained enough to perceive that this had once been a near-human form—though very small. A child—here? I tried not to breathe as I made myself move closer. Whatever it had been alive, it was no kin to Dalesmen. The body, where flesh still remained, was furred with a bristly brown hair standing stiffly up from the roots. The head and face were so destroyed I could not trace any features, and for that I was glad. Both fingers and toes ended in great hooked claws, in some of which clods of earth still clung. The thing lay half in a scooped out pit as if it had been digging frantically to escape whatever fate had struck it down.

Using branches I broke from a bush, I rolled the thing farther into the hole and tossed rocks and sand over it. I had no intention of leaving it uncovered were I to camp here.

As I worked I kept glancing around. Whatever had killed this creature might just still linger—though there was very little cover about and I did not believe that the birds would have been feeding, or my horses would have entered the oasis, had there been danger.

I picketed my mounts as far from that rude grave as I could, and I did not drink of the water myself, rather relied on what I carried in my saddle bottle. The shape and size of the dead creature intrigued me.

There are many legends of things that have ventured or blundered out of the Waste in times past, of monsters and demons, which men, during the early days of our people in the Dales, had fought, killed, or been slain by. I had heard of great scaled reptiles with talons and beaks, of furred creatures near as tall as a keep tower, of smaller flyers with stinger tails carrying a fell poison. Then there were those in human form who could persuade a man they were kin, then ensorcel or kill him.

Riwal had been so enthralled by the Waste mysteries that he had kept records of such stories and had shared them with me. In his cottage he had bits and pieces of old images that he had found—some beautiful, some grotesque, some frightening. However, we could never be sure whether those had been made to resemble actual life forms or were the imaginings of artists who must have dreamed strange dreams. Nowhere could I remember having seen or heard of anything resembling the creature I had just buried.

Its wickedly sharp claws might have been employed for more than digging. With that thought in mind I drew my sword, set it point down in the earth close to hand as I opened my supply bag, found the tough trail rations, and chewed slowly, alert to any sound.

The birds continued to wheel overhead for a time, shrieking their anger. Finally they drew into a flock and, like a noisome black cloud, circled the oasis for a last time, then flew northward over the Waste.

The horses continued to graze, never raising their heads. As a rule their species could not be brought to approach dead things so easily, yet these three had not shied away when we entered the cut. I settled to my dry meal, reminding myself that I must never make the worst possible error—that of judging any life form I found here by the standards of the Dales. I had entered a new and different world.

After the flight of the birds it seemed very quiet—broken only by the sullen gurgle of the water, the sounds made as the horses cropped grass. There was no buzz of insect, no rustle of breeze through the twisted and curled leaves of the bushes. The heat of the westering sun seemed heavier. My mail burdened my shoulders, sweat trickled from beneath the rim of my helm.

Having finished eating, I explored this pocket further. What herbage grew made the most of the water's trickle. Along the banks grass was thick, bushes like solid balls, so intertwined with one another that I thought even a slashing sword could not have cleared a path.

The water issued from a rock-walled bank, the stone of which was smeared with a rusty-red stain reminding me unpleasantly of blood. Another warning against drinking here. That crevice was not natural, I decided, too well shaped—as if it had been set here to pipe in a flow of water for travelers. What kind of travelers?

Downstream I searched with care, but I could discover no signs that any had camped recently. The sand and gravel did preserve here and there formless prints suggesting that it was used by animals native to this harsh land.

What
was
the thing I had buried? I could not force myself to disinter it for another examination. Still, I was troubled by its presence. To establish a camp here, even for the sake of the horses, would be, I decided, too great a risk. This oasis must be a loadstone for any life nearby.

I did linger until the sun was nearly down before I let the horses drink a second time and then headed out into the open country, taking care to pick a way that led across the rockiest section I could find, so we would leave no trail.

Those heights, which I had marked as a goal, were now a black fringe across a rapidly darkening sky. I began to look for shelter, even if it were only an outcropping rock against which I could set my back in case of attack. I finally sighted a stand of stony spires set closely together, and toward that I turned the horses.

There was still light enough to perceive that this was the first indication something living here had needed a home or rough fort. What I had first thought to be spires of natural rock were a building. The structure had been so attuned to its surroundings that you could almost believe it was some freak of nature.

The tall rocks that formed its walls were rough, unworked, set vertically, but very closely, side to side, so that the cracks between were as narrow as their surfaces would allow. They were of the same yellowish-white as all the boulders I had seen hereabouts. What I did not expect was that the interior they guarded was filled by what looked, in this half-light, to be a vast, untidy nest.

Dried brush, clumps of coarse grass torn up by the roots, had been packed to such a depth that the top of the mass reached my waist when I dismounted. I prodded at it with sword point. Under the touch of metal the stuff broke apart, turned to powder, so dried and old it was.

Fastening the horses to one of the side pillars, I set about raking out that mess, using mainly my sword, as there was reluctance in me to touch any of the debris with my hands. At length I drew on my mail gauntlets before I dug into the lower layers.

Something hard rolled against my boot. I looked down into the empty eyeholes of a skull. Manifestly this was the remains of a human, or something near human. I put the thing aside and kept on with my task.

There were more bones, which I had no desire to examine, and a faintly evil smell that grew stronger as I delved deeper, throwing out the fetid, decayed material. I became aware of a persistent itching about my wrist as I tossed out the last I could grub free.

Washing my gauntleted hands with sand, I unfastened the wrist binding and turned back the supple linkage to bare what had become so much a part of me during the months since I had found it—that band of metal I had discovered by chance and which had saved me when Rogear had tried first to blind, and then to kill.

The band glowed; it was warm. The runes carved around it were bright sparks of fire. I stared down, near entranced, until on sudden impulse I thrust my arm into the space between the pillars. The marks flashed even brighter—yet I had had no warning of uneasiness.

Still, from the tall rocks, from which I had scraped the last of the nest, came an answering spark of light, I drew my small boot-top knife and picked out from a rock a scrap of the same blue metal as made up my wrist band, tucking it away in my pouch.