Gryphon in Glory

6 Kerovan

As I sat with what I hoped was an appearance of ease. The sun shining on that band of metal, I was certain the stranger’s oddly set eyes widened. For a moment, perhaps two breaths, his gaze held on that. Then he dropped his reins in turn, the shadow steed standing quiet, all four feet planted rock fast, as its rider’s hands arose in an answering gesture of peace. At least in this much he followed Dale custom.

Cautiously, half fearing that my horses might come to life and bolt, I slipped from the saddle. None of the three moved as I watched them warily before advancing through the tall grass toward the cat-crowned man.

He waited until I was a sword’s length away before he spoke—soft slurred words with a lilting cadence. He might have been reciting some formula. I shook my head, then replied in Dale speech:

“Greeting to a sharer of the road; may the—” I hesitated now. I could not wish him Flame Blessing—such words might be an insult to one who worshiped other powers. Nor could I, in all honestly, call upon the Flame myself, since I was marked as one with no right to the belief of true men.

He frowned. For the fist time there was a shadow of expression on his impassive face. Had a faint tinge of surprise also crossed it for an instant? When he spoke again he used Dale speech, accented, but clear.

“Where ride you, man?” He made the word “man” sound like a title of disrepute.

“In search of—” I hesitated again. To inform the first comer of my reason for riding the Waste was folly.

“In search of—” he prompted. Now it was true he wore an expression and it was grim. “Old treasure, of scrap heaps to burrow in, scavenger?”

His hands dropped, not to seize sword as I had first thought, rather to gather up reins. I knew he was preparing to ride on where my mounts would not follow. At that moment I knew fear. For I had a strong feeling if he went I would not again see him or discover more of his kind, while it could well be he represented just those I had been sent to find.

“I am not a hunter of old metal—a scavenger.” I hastened to say. “I ride with a message.”

“What message and to be given to whom?” He was plainly impatient.

“The message I do know—but to whom it is to be delivered—of that I am not sure.”

“Riddles!” he snapped scornfully.

“Not riddle but ignorance. I am out of the Dales where there has been war for two years and more . . .”

He had been on the point of turning his horse, now he stayed that movement.

“War.” Again there was scorn in his tone. “One petty lord man against his fellow, quarreling over half a hillside of near-barren land.”

His contempt for the Dalesmen was open. I half agreed inwardly that he was right. That was all that war had been for years—hot family feuds in which men died, to be sure, but there was no wide ravening of the countryside.

“This is true war,” I made haste to explain. “Invaders from overseas such as we have not seen before, using new and terrible weapons.” There was no need, I decided, for me to explain that most of those weapons had been by now rendered impotent through some lack we did not understand. “All the coast they hold and now they sweep farther inland. Always they bring reinforcements. We die and there are few to fill our empty saddles, or even horses to wear those saddles.”

He leaned a little forward, his eyes narrowed. By some trick of the light they yet showed, within their depths, tiny glints of flame such as I had seen earlier in the cat eyes of his helm crest.

“So—why do you then come to the Waste—you in warrior mail? Do you run?”

Temper unleashed or leashed I had long ago learned to use as a weapon. I did not need to show any inner fire in answer to his taunt upon this occasion.

“I bring a message, as I have said.” I decided there was only one way I might achieve my purpose after all—and that was with the truth. “We have taken prisoners and they have talked. Their story is that what they seek is a source of power, and it lies to the west. We think that they believe this. Therefore, it is not our Dales that is their final goal but perhaps—this—” I made a gesture to include the meadow in which we stood. Once more the wristlet blazed. “Your land—and perhaps those you name kin.”

He made a sound deep in his throat, a snarl such as a cat might voice. Now he pointed to my wristlet.

“Where got you that?” he demanded.

“By chance—I found it in a stream in the Dales.”

He smiled, the lift of his lip resembling a cat baring fangs—though the teeth he displayed were no different than my own.

“And where got you those?” This time he pointed to my hooves.

I answered steadily enough.

“My birthright—or birth curse. I have heard it said both ways in my time.”

Again those narrowed eyes studied me closely. When he spoke some of the hardness was gone from his voice.

“I think you may have found those who will listen to your message—or may find them after I take council. Your animals”—he glanced disdainfully at the fear-struck desert horses—“cannot follow our trails. Their breed would die of terror were one of my people to approach them closely. I go now to my pack lord. If he wishes to see you I shall return—Man of the Dales.”

He pointed now to the north.

“There is water there and good forage. If you wish—camp and wait.” He had turned his mount, now he looked back over his shoulder.

“I am Herrel.”

I was startled. It is one of the strong beliefs of my people, who know the Power only slightly, that to give one’s name to a stranger is a dangerous thing—since a man’s name is an important part of himself and he can be influenced through it. Still this stranger had just, by that standard, shown great trust in me. I answered as quickly.

“I am Kerovan.” To that I added no title or lordship, for such were mine no longer.

He sketched a salute with his free hand, then rode without looking back again, while I followed his advice in leading my now-more-biddable mounts on toward that campsite he had indicated.

I did not have to wait long. Herrel returned and with him another like him, save that his helm crest was an eagle with half unfurled wings, his saddle cloth a netting into which feathers had been woven. He sat his horse a little aloof while Herrel told me that I was bidden to speak with their lord. The second rider busied himself by driving four wands well into the ground, each being topped with a tuft of fur or feathers. Herrel, indicating them, told me that they would keep my mounts within bounds as well as any fence, but that I must go afoot.

So it came that I paced as might a captive between the two of them into the dusk of that dark wood. I did not allow my hand to brush near my sheathed sword. From now on I must be doubly wary, though I did not sense from these two, as I always had in Imgry’s camp, the waves of hatred that my appearance fired in the Dalesmen.

Once within the first screen of trees, the way was not hard going. In fact there was a path or narrow road, wide enough for only one horseman, so deep-trodden one might believe it was a highway used through many years. To my advantage, my hooves were no longer constricted by the boots I had worn so many years in concealment. In fact I was glad to stretch my legs by this tramp. The many scents of the forest were heady. I drew deep breaths, and I discovered that I was growing lighter of heart and less wearied than I had been since I entered the Waste.

What did begin to impress me was that I saw no other life save the three of us who moved silently, for the hooves of the horses awakened only the slightest of sounds. No bird hopped on any branch, nor did I spy, along the outer edges of the trail, any beast’s prints. The greenery was very dark nor had I elsewhere seen such trees of so huge circumference of bole. Their bark was black and deeply ridged.

The path we followed wove a meandering way, turning often to avoid such an obstruction as one of those trunks.

How long we traveled I had no way of knowing. My two escorts held their curiously dappled steeds to a walk, while around us the silence grew, the light became more and more dusky. Twice we passed stones, set upright, no normal outcroppings, for they had been wrought upon by man.

The tops of each of them had been carved with diabolical skill—I say diabolical for the creatures sculpture had evoked out of the rock were grim. One was a head, or perhaps better a skull, with a huge beak looming out to threaten any passerby. That bill was also a fraction agape as if about to seize on the unwary. There was something of a bird about it, also a bit of a long-snouted reptile. The holes, which had been left to represent eyes, had insets, so deep within I could not see whether they were gems or not (though how, in the absence of sunlight, any gleam could have been awakened from such was a mystery). I only know that red pits of utter savagery regarded me.

Neither of my companions so much as turned an eye in the direction of that looming guardian. Nor did they, either, regard the second such we passed. Where the first had been beaked or snouted, this was a life-size death’s head possessing close kinship to a skull of my own race. The thing had been more graphically and disgustingly carved as if far gone in decay, stretches of rotting skin portrayed across cheekbones and chin, a nose half sloughed away. Once more there were eyes to watch, these yellow.

I made no comment as we passed these posts. For I was determined not to allow my companions to believe I found anything strange in this wood. To my own pride I owed that much, so I clung to an outward show of self-possession as I would to a battle shield.

We had left the skull post at least five turns of the path behind when Herrel leaned forward to sweep out an arm. As if he had so loosed the latch of a door a mass of branches lifted, swung to one side, to allow us out into the full light of day once again.

The wood still stretched like encircling arms on either side, and, by a distant mark across the horizon, formed another barrier there. However, directly ahead lay a section of land as wide as any Dale holding I had seen. Planted fields were guarded by low stone walls from pastures in which horses, such as Herrel and his fellow rode, grazed. There was the blue sheen of a pond or small lake farther west. Near that stood the first building that was not a long-abandoned ruin that I had ever seen in the Waste.

Stone formed the walls of the first story, but, rising above that, logs were set in tight company. The strangest thing was that these logs were apparently not dead and seasoned wood. Rather branches jutted here and there and those bore living leaves. The branches were thickest near the top of the walls, and spread wide as if they so formed the roof.

From the point where we had issued out of the wood, running directly toward the building, was a continuation of the forest path. Here in the open, however, the way was much wider. Perhaps four horsemen could have ridden it abreast.

He who had followed me on the trail did not urge his mount forward and we proceeded by the same line of march as we had kept under the trees, save that Herrel slowed a fraction to allow me to pace beside him. For the first time since we left my camp he spoke:

“The lodge.” He gestured to the building.

Any Dale keep whose lord abode within its wall would have flown his banner from the highest point. None such Happed here. Rather in a line flanking the front of that half-alive structure, there was planted in the earth a series of poles, all perhaps twice my height. From the top of each fluttered a narrow ribbon of color. The closer we drew the better able I was to recognize the devices these bore. Whereas the lords of High Hallack used for their heraldic crests either some fanciful monster, or an object suggesting a deed of valor performed by some ancestor, these carried very detailed pictures of well-known animals or birds.

A boar, a rearing stallion, an eagle, a mountain cat, a snouted and armored lurker of the river—there were a full twenty banners and not two alike. Save for my escort, however, there were no signs of life except four men, stripped to breeches and boots, at labor in the fields. Not one of them raised his eyes from his task to mark our passing.

Herrel swung out of his saddle and dropped the reins of his horse. The animal stood as if tethered.

“Wait!” He flung that single word in my direction, then passed beneath the outgrowing, bushy leaves of the building to push in a massive door. He who had been my other guide or guard, swung his own mount around and rode off. Nor did he look back.

I studied the strangeness of the keep for want of any better occupation. There were windows set on either side of the door on the lower floor. Each was covered by a fine latticework of branches perhaps as thick as my thumb. However, they were of worked wood, showing no leaves or twiglets.

My attention was drawn to a stirring among the leaves above, certainly not induced by any wind’s rustle, for not the slightest breeze blew. I caught sight here and there of a small head—then two or three more—that could be viewed only for a moment, disappearing again before I had real sight of them. I thought though they were not of any species of animal or reptile I knew—and they were not birds.

They left an impression of a long, sharply pointed snout, ringed by fangs, exposed as if the creature possessed no concealing lips. Above that were the eyes, bright, inquisitive, knowing . . . Yes, knowing.

Almost the whole of the brush wall facing me was a-shake now. Numbers of the creatures, small as they were, must be gathering, right above the door. I had a sudden hint of what might happen should an intruder attempt entrance there against the will or orders given to such sentinels, guards, or whatever they might be.

As abruptly as he had disappeared, Herrel returned, the door left open behind him. He gestured for me to come. Nor did he glance above to where boughs creaked under unseen weight. The watchers remained at their posts, as, trying not to show any interest in them, I passed under that overhang and came into the hall of these Waste riders.

I had expected to walk into gloom, for those tightly latticed windows suggested that they admitted very little light. Instead I discovered a green glow, while at intervals along the stone walls there were baskets of metal—not the torch rings of the Daleland. In each of these rested a clutch of balls about the size of an egg, all of which glowed to give fair lighting.

The hall itself was enough like that of a keep to make me feel that these horsemen lived a life not too different from what I had always known.

Directly facing me stood the high table. However, this did not have just three or four chairs of honor. Instead there were twenty, each with a high-carved back, none set above its fellows. There was no second table for servants of the household, only that one board.

A wide hearth took up nearly a third of the far wall, cavernous enough to hold logs that must be nearly the size of those forest giants we had passed among. Along the other wall, which was broken by the door, were bunks on which were piled cloaks and coverings made of the cured skins of animals. A chest stood beneath each sleeping place.

There were no wall tapestries, no carved panels or screens. However, on the expanse of stone against which the high table was situated, a star was outlined in red-brown, the color reminding one unpleasantly of dried blood. The center of that was a mass of runes and symbols for which I hurriedly averted my gaze. For it seemed to me, that, when one viewed it directly, they came to life, wriggled, coiled, moved as might headless serpents in their death throes. I glanced to the band on my wrist. Its blue sheen neither waxed nor waned. Perhaps that meant that for me (at least now) there was no danger, no Power of the Dark here.

I was given little time to look about, for a man, seated in the chair directly before the center of that wall star, moved. He had sat so utterly motionless that now he startled me as he leaned forward. Both elbows were planted on the table, his forearms outstretched along the surface of the board. He presented the appearance of one who had no reason to try to impress a visitor, he being who and what he was.

He did not wear mail, or even a jerkin, his chest and shoulders being as bare as those of the field laborers. Though he was seated he gave the feeling of height and strength—the wiry strength of a good swordsman. A sword did lie there, lengthwise on the table, both of his hands resting upon its scabbard.

The scabbard was leather, horsehide, while the pommel of the weapon was in the form of a rearing stallion, such as I had seen depicted on one of the banners without. To his right a helm also rested, its crest the same design, save larger and in more detail.

He was dark-haired, and there was a likeness between him and Herrel, which revealed, I decided, some kinship—if not of close blood, then of race. It was difficult to judge his age, though I believed him older than my guide. There was about him such an air of inborn command and practiced Power as would reduce Imgry’s bearing to that of a fumbling recruit new come to camp. Whatever this warrior might be otherwise, he was a long-time leader and user of Power.

I do not know whether he was used to staring others out of countenance at first meeting, but the look he turned on me was a heady mixture of contempt, a very faint curiosity, and much personal assurance.

Little by little I was learning how to deal with the unknown. Now I left it to him to break the silence. This might just be a duel of wills set to test me, he who spoke first forfeiting an undefined advantage. How long we faced each other so I do not know. Then to my surprise (which I fought not to show), he flung back his head and gave a laugh carrying a hint of a horse’s neigh.

“So there is sturdy metal in you, hill-hugger, after all.”

I shook my head. “Lord”—I granted him the courtesy title, though I did not know his rank—“I speak for certain of the Dalesmen, yes, but if you look you shall perceive I am not wholly hill-hugger.” I advanced one of my hooves a fraction. If my half-blood should prove a barrier here as it was in the Dales, that must be my first discovery.

He had very level black brows, straight and fine of hair. They now drew together in a frown. When he spoke it was as if a faint, far-off ring of a stallion’s battle scream hung behind his words.

“None of us may be what we seem.” There was bitterness in that.

Then it happened. The air thickened, wrapping him in mist. When that cleared, it was pulled away by force, as if blown by the great arched nostrils of a horse. For there was no longer any man in the chair. Rather a war stallion, such as any fighting man may see but once in a lifetime, planted forehooves on the board, still nudging the sword. Its head, crowned by a wild mane, was lowered until it near overreached the far edge of the table in my direction. White teeth showed as it voiced the scream of a fighter.

I gave no ground; afterwards that memory sustained me. The thing was no hallucination, of that I was sure. Also the red fury in its eyes might signal a death warning. In that moment, in spite of my daze, I understood. I fronted a shapechanger—one who could at will, or in the heat of some emotion, assume animal form. Not that of any ordinary beast, no, this was a manifestation of the Were—one of the most dreaded of our ancient legends.

There was a deadly snarl to my right. I dared to turn my head a fraction. Where Herrel had stood a moment earlier, there crouched a huge snow cat—tail lashing, fangs displayed, burning eyes on me as its muzzle wrinkled farther and farther back.

Then—

A man again sat at the table fondling the sword. I did not need another glance to assure myself that the cat had also disappeared.

“I am Hyron,” the man announced in a flat voice as if he had played a game that no longer amused him. There was a weariness in his tone also. He might have been very tired at the rise of each sun, the coming of every night. “We are the Wereriders. And you—what are you? Who are you? What do the hill-huggers want of us that they dare send a messenger?”

“I am Kerovan.” Once more I made no claim of lordship or rank. “I was sent because I am what I am—a half-blood. Therefore, there were those who believed that you might give me better attention.”

“A half-blood—one they hold in low esteem. And so they must hold us also—thus why would they wish a pact with us?”

“Lord Imgry has a saying to fit the need,” I returned steadily. This horseman’s taunts would awake no visible anger in me. “He has said that a common enemy makes allies.”

“A common enemy, eh?” Lord Hyron’s right hand had closed about the hilt of his sword. He played with the blade, drawing it forth from its sheath a fraction, snapping it back again sharply. “We have seen no such enemy.”

“You may, my lord. And, if things continue to go so ill in the Dales, sooner than you think.” With as few words as possible and as simply as I could I told him of what we suspected to be the eventual purpose of the invaders.

“A treasure—a Power . . .” He tossed his head with an equine gesture. “Poor fools and dolts. If these invaders found any such they would rue it bitterly in the end. Whoever dispatched them on such an errand is well disordered in what wits they possess. The Waste itself would fight with us.”

I felt Herrel stir rather than saw him move. His lord’s gaze shifted to him. The cat-helmed warrior said nothing. All I perceived was that he and his leader locked gazes, though I gained the impression that between them communication passed.

There was a need, I sensed, not to speculate too far concerning the talents of the Weres. They were not of the kind to take kindly to any who pried into their ways. But that this period of silence was important I was sure.

Nor was I too surprised when there appeared from behind us several other men, drawing near to Herrel and me as if they had obeyed some unheard summons to council.

A loud click ended that period of silence, as emphatic a sound as if the fist of a man had come smashing down. Hyron had given a final slam to the sword, smashing it back into the scabbard with full force.

He arose, not as a threatening stallion, but in man guise. Yet still he leaned across the board even as the stallion had done.

“There is much to be thought on,” he said. His frown had returned full force. Also there was a quirk to his lips as if he tasted something sour, perhaps his own words. “There is nothing in the Dales for which we choose to fight. On the other hand”—he hesitated as if turning some thought over several times to examine it the better—“there was once a geas laid—and perhaps that has brought us to this meeting. If we consult and discover that we indeed have a common enemy—that your purpose can answer ours—” He broke off with a shrug. What he said had no real commitment, but I guessed I would get no better answer. Then he asked a question.

“Whom did you really seek when you came so boldly into the Waste, Kinsman-by-half?”

“Whoever there might be who would listen, Lord.”

Now he raised a forefinger to scratch along the line of his beardless jaw.

“You are forthright enough,” he commented. From his tone I could not judge whether he thought me a fool for using the truth. “That being so—there are others here who might be interested in your warning.” He smiled and I heard muffled sounds from those about me as if they shared his amusement. Did he want me to beg him for directions to those “others”? Somehow I believed that if I did that I would lose any advantage I had held in this interview.

“This you may tell your Lord—or he whose scheme brought you to us—” He folded his arms across his chest, once more tossed his head so that the crest of his hair fell in a lock over his forehead. “We shall certainly consider all he has said. If we make a decision in his favor, he shall hear so from us. There will be a price for our services, of course. We must have time to think of that. Years ago we once sold our swords and sold them well. Those who bought had no reason to claim they did not receive full measure. If we choose to bargain again, your Dalesmen may find us worth any price we ask.”

“That price being?” I mistrusted this horse lord—not because I thought him a follower of the Dark, for I knew he was not. Still, legends say that there were those among the Old Ones who were neither good nor evil, but whose standards of right and wrong are not our measures.

“In due time and to your lord’s own face shall we state that,” he countered. “Also, if you wish to gather an army you need other allies.” He suddenly pointed to my hooves.

“Why not,” he asked, “seek those with whom you can claim kin?”

I knew that I dare not show ignorance now, that to do so would lessen me in their sight. My mother’s clan came from the northernmost Dales—there must lie the mixture that had made me what I was. So if I did have kin there I would find such.

I managed a shrug. “We have no maps of the Waste, Lord. I took the westward hills for my guide—that brought me here. Now I shall ride north.”

“North.” Lord Hyron repeated. Then it was his turn to shrug. “The choice is yours. This is not an easy land, none does ride or walk here without due caution.”

“So I have already discovered, Lord Hyron. My first meeting with a Waste dweller was his body—”

“That being?” He asked it idly, as if it did not matter.

Just because he would so dismiss my gruesome find, I described the mauled thing I had buried and was only halfway through my story when I felt the whole atmosphere about me change. It was as if I had brought portentous tidings without being aware of it.

“Thas!” It was a name, a word I did not know, and it exploded with force from Herrel. The indifference of Lord Hyron had vanished in the same instant.