Gryphon in Glory

4 Kerovan

Imgry may have thought himself persuasive; the final decision 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.

To keep my horses better tempered, tethered as they were away from grass and water, I crumpled journey cakes upon a rock. They nosed at them avidly, paying no attention as I made them secure for the night before I crawled into the space I had cleared.

There was only the one entrance, though overhead was no roof. The rocks tilted slightly inward so that the open space above was small. I pulled before the door itself my saddle and the bags of supplies, using them as a barricade. This night I wished that I had some comrade-at-arms to share watch and watch. Instead I must depend upon that faculty any soldier learns, the art of awaking into instant awareness at the least change in his surroundings. Once more I laid my sword, bare-bladed, at my side, while I sought sleep.

If any danger prowled the night it did not come near my refuge. However, I was awakened at dawn by that same shattering scream my mount had earlier given when he first sniffed the wind from the Waste. I crawled out to discover all three of the horses pulling furiously at their halters, rearing and pawing at the rocks.

Though I used all the art I knew to soothe them, I discovered, once I had loaded and saddled, there was little I could do with them. They were determined to head back to the oasis and perforce I had to allow that, since they needed grazing and water. They could have it as I broke my own fast.

Thus the sun was about an hour above the horizon when we set forth again toward the heights. Gradually the country changed. The desert stretch became a brown-gray soil that rooted clumps of grass, seared by the sun. As we passed, my led horses strove to snatch mouthfuls of the stuff, their elongated necks aiding them to so feed. Bushes were next, then trees, some of which my animals made wide detours to avoid.

I trusted to their instincts for they knew this land far better than I. Near midday I saw the first moving thing. The clumps of brush had become so thick that we must swing well to avoid them, and on such a side venture I caught a glimpse of more open land.

Crossing that was a rider. Though he was distant I could not mistake the glint of sun reflected from armor. His horse was unlike my three; there was no sign of the long neck.

He rode with the ease of a man who knew exactly where he was going. I did not think him a scavenger—though he could be an outlaw. Or . . . this might be the very kind of contact I had been sent to seek! I loosened my sword in its sheath and headed out into the open willing to let myself be sighted, in spite of possible risk.

Certainly his mount was of better stock than the desert-bred nags I had selected, for, though he did not appear to be going at more than a comfortable trot, he continued to draw ahead. Nor did he seem aware that I followed.

Not too far before him stretched a spread of woodland. I wanted to catch up before he vanished into its shade. If I were to meet with trouble I desired such confrontation in the open. So I urged my mount to a faster pace, though he snorted and jerked at the reins angrily.

The stranger was almost under the shadow of the trees when the ill-tempered beast I bestrode actively protested our chase. Voicing one of those screams, he arose with his forefeet pawing the air. The other two used their advantage at the same moment to pull back on their lead cords. Perforce I was brought to a speedy halt.

Viciously my mount continued to rear and kick, attempting to attack his own companions. I had my hands very full striving to control the three of them. What suddenly pierced the din they were creating was a whistle, commanding, imperative.

My horses set all four feet to the ground again. Still their eyes rolled to show the whites, ribbons of foam dripped to the earth they had torn up with their hooves. However, now all three stood as if as well rooted as the trees not too far away.

Taking as tight a grip on reins and lead ropes as I could. I looked around.

The rider I had trailed had finally swung about and was heading toward me, the gait of his mount a smooth flowing gallop. Indeed that horse was different. As large as a lowland-bred stallion, it possessed a strangely dappled hide such as I had never seen before; shades of gray-brown merged into one another so there was no clearly spotted pattern, only a suggestion of such.

His horsecloth was not woven, but rather formed by the skin of some beast—silver gray and also spotted. As he drew nearer I recognized it for the tanned hide of a snow cat, one of the rarest and yet most deadly and cunning beasts to roam the heights within the Dales.

He, himself, wore armor of the same silver-gray as the skin. The helm, which overshadowed his face until he seemed half masked, was surmounted by a beautifully carven crouching cat of that species. There were yellow jewels of eyes in the cat head, and, by some trick of the sun, they appeared to blink as if the thing were alive and merely resting on a perch, watching me curiously.

The stranger rode only a short distance toward me before he pulled up his shadow-patterned horse. My three beasts sweated, stared wild-eyed, gave the impression they were possessed by terror. Yet this other had, as far as I could see, made no gesture suggesting attack. His sword still rested in sheath, its heavy pommel forming the head of a cat, while the belt he wore was again of fur and its buckle a snarling feline head.

Though he had halted some distance away, I could see those cat heads clearly. They loomed as if they were the House sign of some clan.

We sat so for some moments of silence, eyeing each other across that gap he had chosen to keep between us. Now I was able to make out more plainly his features. He was young, I thought, perhaps near my own age. His face was smooth—but that was not strange, for many of the Dalesmen grew little or very scant beards until they were well past the middle span of life.

His skin was brown, and his eyes were slightly elongated, sloping up a little under straight brows. The more I studied him, the surer I became I had found one who called this Waste, or some place like it, his home. This was no strayed Dalesman. His accoutrements were too finely wrought, his mount a superb animal. Also, though he looked fully human, yet I did not need that light warmth at my wrist to tell me that this was one who possessed Power of one kind or another.

He regarded me with an equally intent study. I was certain he had not missed the sight of my hooves in the special stirrups I had devised. Did he know of any of my kind? Were there any of my kind or kin—or was I merely half-misshapen hybrid, and so, in the eyes of any true blood here, as much a mistake of birth as I was in the Dales?

I knew that without any warning it was useless for me to approach him closer. It was plain that my three animals held him in odd terror. They shivered, while foam still gathered at the corners of their mouths.

Since he had not drawn steel—did he think that I was so unworthy a foe, so helpless that he need not defend himself in that way—dare I accept him as neutral? There was no other choice. I would do what I had to.

Taking a chance, I dropped my reins and raised my hands palm out. The silk-fine mesh of my mail fell a little back from my wrist and the sunlight made a blue flame of that band.

Was it a passport, something that would gain me recognition in this place, at this time? I could only wait on the stranger’s answer to me.