Enchanter

by Sara Douglass

  As Axis cradled SpikeFeather close, he sang the Song of Recreation for him. It was a strange Song, with little melody, filled with breathy catches and lilts, but extraordinarily compelling and beautiful. As he sang, Axis ran his hands gently over SpikeFeather’s body, smoothing the blood away.

  Belial and Magariz glanced at each other. They had seen Faraday heal Axis, but it had been nothing like this. She had worked hard, her hands buried deep in his body, compelling and persuading broken flesh and blood vessels to repair themselves. But Axis was far more relaxed, and his hands far more gentle. They ran over grossly torn flesh, leaving it whole and healthy. For a moment both hands hovered over SpikeFeather’s open belly, the Song intensifying slightly, and when they moved on the birdman’s entire abdomen looked as if it had seen nothing more violent than the touch of the sun. His left arm, hanging by fragile tendons one minute, was clean and whole the next.

  Axis moved his hands to the birdman’s face, and cradled it between his palms, the Song dwindling to a close.

  SpikeFeather slowly opened his eyes into Axis’.

  “Welcome home,” Axis said simply, and by his side EvenSong burst into great sobs. Azhure knelt down by her side and put her arms about her.

  “Hush,” she whispered, and wondered if EvenSong were crying for SpikeFeather, for herself, or for FreeFall.

  Axis raised his eyes from SpikeFeather. “EvenSong.”

  EvenSong gulped her tears down and looked at her brother.

  “EvenSong. Where is the rest of your Wing?” Axis had sent them to scout over Hsingard and Jervois Landing three days ago.

  “Dead.”

  There was a shocked murmur among the group huddled about.

  “What attacked you, EvenSong?” Axis’ eyes bored into his sister’s.

  “Gryphon,” she whispered, and far below the bridge wailed again.

  “Woe! Woe!”

  “We were attacked by Gryphon.”

  41

  EVENSONG’S MEMORY

  Recreated, SpikeFeather remembered nothing of the attack. He could vaguely recall leading his Wing west for a reconnaissance flight over southern Ichtar, but retained no memory either of the patrol itself or of his Wing’s destruction to the east of Hsingard. Now, as he stood in Rivkah’s apartment, he struggled to recall any memory, any emotion he might have that could help EvenSong.

  Rivkah sat on the other side of the bed from Axis and held her daughter’s hand. Through all the traumas of her own life, she had somehow managed to convince herself that EvenSong would live the peaceful, contented existence that Rivkah had been denied. But not only had EvenSong lost her lover, but here she lay torn and battered on Rivkah’s bed, her wings folded flat and lengthways underneath her body, her great violet eyes closed, her breasts barely rising with her breath. EvenSong would live, would recover physically from the wounds given her, but her soul seemed fatally stricken.

  Gryphon. Rivkah shuddered and looked about the room. Azhure stood close by Axis’ side, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes on EvenSong. Axis had been unable to heal his sister; his powers gave him the ability to recreate the dying, but he could not use the power of the Star Dance to heal ordinary wounds. To one side, packing her herbs and potions, was an Icarii Healer famed for her wisdom and patience and steeped in common sense and practised in natural healing. She had done her best for EvenSong, now it was up to the birdwoman to find the courage to take a stronger hold on life. Further away, close by the door, stood Magariz. His eyes caught with Rivkah’s for a moment, and Rivkah understood that his concern was for her own pain for her daughter.

  Rivkah felt a hand on her own shoulder, and knew it was StarDrifter. Behind StarDrifter was MorningStar, and behind her the three Sentinels, Belial and FarSight CutSpur. At the foot of the bed lay a hound, although which one Rivkah knew not, and outside she could vaguely hear the scream of the eagle as it cartwheeled through the sky.

  “EvenSong.” Axis spoke softly, but was desperate to know of the attack that had destroyed SpikeFeather’s Wing. It was one of the more experienced within the Strike Force, and each of the twelve members had won Axis’ respect. He would have trusted his back to any of them. But something had attacked them. Something that had torn ten lifeless from the sky, left SpikeFeather for dead and EvenSong barely able to support SpikeFeather home.

  What had EvenSong said? Gryphon. What was a Gryphon? And why had it caused so much distress on the faces of those Icarii present? Axis reached for his sister’s hand, wincing at how cold it was, and gently squeezed.

  “EvenSong,” he repeated. “Please, I—we—need to talk to you about what happened.”

  EvenSong sighed and opened her eyes, looking over those grouped about her bed. “You returned safely, SpikeFeather. I was so afraid that you would remain lost.”

  “I still have a life to live,” SpikeFeather said lamely, but EvenSong seemed satisfied. She turned her pale face, scarred almost identically to Magariz’s now, back to her brother.

  “Thank you, Axis, for what you did. I fought for many hours to bring SpikeFeather home. To have lost him in the final few minutes would have been hard to bear.”

  Axis let her hand go and stroked her forehead. “I did not save him, EvenSong. You were the one who brought him home.”

  EvenSong’s eyes filled with tears. No-one would ever know what she had gone through to bring SpikeFeather home. To fly beside him, pleading with him not to die, pleading with him to keep his wings beating, pleading with him not to give up, not to succumb to the pain and the shock and the horror before he could reach Sigholt. And all the while watching the life seep from his ghastly wounds.

  “Share it, EvenSong,” Axis said. “Tell us what happened. Share the memory.”

  “We had been out three days,” EvenSong said finally, closing her eyes again, drawing her strength from the touch of her brother’s fingers and the pressure of her mother’s hand, “and were returning home. We had scouted the reaches of Ichtar above Jervois Landing—the Skraelings are massing, Axis, bearing down on Jervois Landing. Tens, hundreds of thousands of them. So far the defences are holding, but…”

  “Later,” Axis said. “For now, tell me what attacked you.”

  EvenSong sighed again. “We were flying home, skirting the passage between Hsingard and the western Urqhart Hills. Normally there are few Skraelings there, and certainly no-one with arrows to take aim. It was dawn…yesterday?” EvenSong was a little disorientated, how long had she been lying here?

  Axis grasped her hand again. “Yes, EvenSong, you arrived yesterday morning.”

  Her hand turned in Rivkah’s. “Dawn. The best time of the day. And the most dangerous.” How many times had Axis told them dawn and sunset were the worst times of the day for flyers—and how did he know that? “We were almost blinded by the sun rising far to the east. We were attacked from the north-east. I think they must have seen us approaching from far away and circled high above us so they attacked from out of the dawning sun. They were a pack of Gryphon, although I did not realise it at first. It was later, I think, much later during the dreadful flight home, when I had a chance to go over what happened, that I realised what they were.”

  Azhure, looking about the room, wondered why the Icarii and Sentinels looked so grey. What were these Gryphon? And why did the bridge cry “Woe!” when EvenSong had first uttered the name?

  “They dropped out of the sun,” EvenSong finally continued. Her eyes were unfocused now, staring at the ceiling, her hands lying limp in Axis’ and Rivkah’s. “They dropped out of the sun and onto our backs. I was one of the first attacked, but I twisted and the creature fell away. Others were not so lucky. There were about eight of them, perhaps nine. The other Gryphon clung to…to…” Her voice almost broke, but she took a deep breath and continued. “Clung to my comrades’ backs, wrapping their legs about and underneath their wings, using their claws to…to rip and tear. Once a Gryphon had its grip, nothing could dislodge it. Those not attacked in the first flurry died when the Gr
yphon attacked again. They now outnumbered us.”

  “SpikeFeather and yourself—how did you manage to escape?” asked Axis.

  “We were lucky. A single Gryphon landed on SpikeFeather’s back, but before it had managed to kill him outright I managed to pull it off. I landed on its back and gouged at its eyes with my fingers.”

  Axis blinked. It must have been an appalling sight. The three winged bodies entwined and twisting through the air, wings beating frantically, each fighting for life.

  “It was all I could think to do at the time, Axis.” EvenSong’s eyes were bright with unshed and guilty tears. “I didn’t think to use an arrow. If I had reached for an arrow I might have been able to kill it, stop it from harming SpikeFeather so badly. I…”

  “You saved SpikeFeather’s life, EvenSong, at the risk of your own. And you brought him home.” Axis’ voice was firm.

  “It fell off SpikeFeather, but I nearly crashed to the ground with it. I had to fight to free myself. But I did, eventually. Both of us pulled out of our dives with heartbeats to spare.”

  “And they didn’t attack again?”

  EvenSong shook her head. “No. Ten of the Wing were dead. SpikeFeather was crippled. I was no use. No. They did not stop to attack us again. They flew south. South to Jervois Landing.” Her whole body trembled. “They must have believed that SpikeFeather and I were close to death.”

  Axis finally let her hand go, and bent down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you, EvenSong. That is a terrible memory to live with, but I am afraid we all will face as terrible, if not more, in the months and years to come.”

  He sat back and looked at StarDrifter and MorningStar. Both were noticeably ashen and gaunt.

  “StarDrifter,” he said. “What are these Gryphon?”

  It was not StarDrifter who answered, but Veremund, standing tall and spare at the very back of the room.

  “No-one has seen a Gryphon for over six thousand years,” he said. “But the Icarii remember them still. EvenSong, describe for us the creatures that attacked you.”

  “Winged, and the size of one of Azhure’s hounds,” she said. “But not shaped like one at all. An eagle’s head, viciously beaked, bronzed feathered wings, and the tawny body of a great cat, clawed for death. Its eyes were red-bright, glowing.”

  “Dragon-clawed,” Ogden put in hollowly.

  “Blight-eyed,” Jack said.

  “It cried—” EvenSong began.

  “With the voice of despair,” her father finished, and EvenSong nodded and burst into tears.

  “Ogre-bellied,” Veremund said, “and grave-jawed. A Gryphon. MorningStar, tell Axis what became of the Gryphon, and why.”

  “The Gryphon,” said MorningStar, “once haunted the high places, as the Icarii now do. They were hunters—agile, intelligent, able. They fed off the living. But they also hated.” She took a deep breath. “They particularly hated the Icarii. We loved to fly, but feared to as well. Anywhere we went, we were vulnerable to Gryphon attack. Finally, we fought back.”

  Now FarSight CutSpur spoke. “It was the moment, some six and a half thousand years ago, Axis, when the Strike Force was first formed. The Icarii were braver, more warlike than now, and eventually they cleared the skies and high places in Tencendor of Gryphon. We destroyed them. We destroyed their dens, their young, their breeding grounds. We left nothing. We thought we had swept them from the skies and the minds and hearts of the Icarii—of all Tencendorans—for ever. We were wrong.”

  “Gorgrael has recreated them,” Axis said, then stopped. Did Gorgrael recreate in the same way—or in a twisted way—as Axis recreated?

  “Gorgrael must be powerful, very powerful,” Ogden said, his plump face ashen and concerned, “to have recreated such as these Gryphon.”

  “Then tell me how you can evade them, FarSight,” Axis asked. “I do not want to lose my Strike Force to these creatures as SpikeFeather and EvenSong lost their comrades.”

  FarSight shrugged. “It depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how many of these Gryphon have reappeared.”

  “How many can a Wing protect itself against?”

  “Obviously not eight or nine, although SpikeFeather’s Wing were not expecting attack from Gryphon. Now that we are aware of the danger, then perhaps more would survive. But from what I can remember of legend, the Gryphon would never attack when they were outnumbered. They will only attack when they feel they have an advantage—a single Wing, obviously. But any stray Icarii will be a target.”

  “Then no member of the Strike Force goes out in anything less than a Crest,” Axis said, “until we know more certainly how many of these creatures Gorgrael has to loose on us. I must speak to the bridge, find out whether or not she can protect Sigholt from attack by such as these, but until then, Magariz, Belial,” they both stepped forward, “post guards with eyes turned skywards. I do not want to wake to find one of these clutching at my back one morning.”

  Azhure shuddered. “How will Jervois Landing fare? Will we help them?”

  Axis, grey-faced, took a long time to answer. “I fear we will have no choice,” he answered, finally. “If we wish to stop Gorgrael from taking Achar as well as Ichtar. We cannot stand by and watch Jervois Landing fall.”

  That night, as Axis and Azhure sat before the fire in their chambers, Caelum wriggling naked and cheerful on a rug between them, Azhure asked Axis how he felt about aiding Borneheld.

  “How do I feel? If any other man led the defences at Jervois Landing I would not hesitate, I would not doubt. But it is Borneheld who fights there. Azhure,” he leaned down and picked Caelum up, “I sometimes forget that Borneheld and I fight for the same thing—to save this beautiful land and its people from Gorgrael.”

  Caelum wriggled in Axis’ arms, and Azhure smiled as she watched them. Caelum loved his father deeply, and was miserable when Axis could not spare time each day to be with him. Although he had Azhure’s colouring—raven-black curly locks, pale skin and smoky blue eyes—Caelum nevertheless had Icarii features, even in his chubby early baby months. Azhure hoped she had planted something of herself besides her colouring in her son.

  “Here,” Axis handed Caelum over to Azhure. “He wants to be fed.”

  Constantly amazed by the depth of communication between father and son, Azhure hugged Caelum to her, murmuring softly. She unbuttoned her tunic and nestled her son against her breast. Well, this was something that Axis could not do for their son.

  Axis sat and watched Azhure nurse Caelum, listening to the magical melody of the Star Dance as it danced about and between them, then he spoke as if nothing had interrupted their conversation. “Perhaps Borneheld and I do not fight for quite the same thing. He fights for the Acharites and Achar, and the continuation of a world that is safe and known. I fight for three peoples, Acharite, Icarii and Avar, and the recreation of an old world. But…both of us fight against Gorgrael.”

  Azhure looked up. “Do you want to recreate an old world, Axis, or create a new one?”

  “A new one,” Axis admitted finally. “A new one. Tencendor was not the land of myth and glory that the Icarii would have us believe. Tencendor will live again, but I mean to make it a fairer place for all races.”

  As Axis watched his son suckle at Azhure’s breast, the Gryphon attacked Jervois Landing. Nothing that the men lining the trenches and defences of Jervois Landing could have expected matched the fury of their assault.

  Borneheld was riding the lines when the Gryphon swooped. It was sheer luck that they carried off Nevelon, riding directly beside him.

  Borneheld hauled his terrified horse to a standstill, watching as Nevelon’s screaming form disappeared into the night sky. Great drops of blood splattered across his upturned face and the neck of his horse.

  “Artor’s blow-hole!” he cursed. “It’s the Forbidden!”

  “No.” Ho’Demi said close behind him, his shaggy yellow-haired horse unperturbed even by the attack from above. “Worse than that.
Far, far worse.”

  42

  IN THE BLEAK MID-WINTER…

  Ho’Demi kicked his shaggy yellow horse into a trot—the best it could manage in the muddied slush of the battle lines—and worked his way slowly back towards the Ravensbund camp. It was an hour past dawn and the worst of the night attacks were over. Now he needed sleep badly. It had been three days since he had last found the leisure to lie down in his furs.

  He glanced up to the clouds. Heavy and grey with snow and ice, they bore down from the north. Even before the end of Frost-month, Gorgrael had swept southern Ichtar and the defences of Jervois Landing with sleet. Now the sleet had turned to ice and Borneheld’s forces had to fight the battle of Jervois Landing in conditions which had travelled beyond the miserable into the appalling. Snow and ice turned to knee-deep mud in those areas heavily travelled by the feet of men and horses, and both feet and hooves had to be carefully cleaned and dried each night in case the mud froze to flesh. Yet in battle conditions, especially when Gorgrael’s forces struck at night, it was difficult to find the time or the opportunity to dry and tend the extremities, and they were losing almost as many men to frostbite and gangrene as to the Skraelings.

  The snow and ice had a more sinister function than simply creating appalling fighting conditions for the humans. The Skraelings had found the system of canals a sufficient deterrent for Gorgrael to attempt to freeze them with the frost and ice that rained down at night. Gangs of men who Borneheld could ill-afford to lose from the battle lines had to be kept at work throughout the night, breaking up the thick sheets of ice that formed across the canals before the Skraelings could rush across. Three times over the past weeks they had not been fast enough, and then men died in their hundreds before the ice could be broken and the Skraeling rush halted.

  Ho’Demi’s horse floundered a little in the mud, and Ho’Demi leaned forward and gave him a reassuring pat on the neck. After a moment the horse found his footing again and staggered wearily on.