by Alex Sapegin
“Look!” Gran cried, not even trying to separate the fighting friends. Observing a strange dark mass in the depths of the gorge tore him from reality and the fighting going on behind him. Turning around, he saw the friends rolling on the ground and pounding one another with their fists. Thinking for a moment, Gran whacked them violently with the fragments of his rod a couple of times. The adolescents jumped off from each other and, rubbing their bloody pulp all over their broken faces, looked toward the lake.
The dark shadows emerging from the gorges turned out to be thousands of griffons and their riders. The animals, tearing off the wisps of fog creeping over the lake, seemed to come in an endless stream. Many of the griffons bore two riders. Saddlebags and tubes full of ammunition were attached to the sides and saddles of the half-birds. The second rider would hold the bows loaded with magical arrows. Some of them held chuckers to the griffons’ sides.
“What are they?” Mitku wheezed.
“And there….” Gran looked at the mountains hidden in the white haze in the east with wide open eyes. Yet another living river flowed towards Ronmir, resembling a dark stripe on the gray earth. “How many are there? Who is it?”
“Tantrians….” Orweed sighed, noticing the crest on the blankets spread over the griffons’ bodies and under the saddles. He turned to Mitku who was standing frozen to the spot, staring at the battle griffons flying forcefully forward.
From the lower reaches of the Rhone, the third column of attackers emerged, clearing away the milky fog. Plumes of smoke and flame shot upwards over the fortress. The boys heard the rumble of explosions.
***
Timur tossed his chucker from one hand to the other and glanced behind him. His squadron of fifty quickly swept through the air behind the head griffin.
“Hold formation,” he said in his first-in-saddle’s ear. Nimir nodded and patted Pumpkin on its feathery neck.
The half squadron he now commanded, the rank of roi-dert… it had been a day of skyrocketing career growth for the seventeen-year-old, or rather, evening and night. Timur chuckled. Last night had been quite eventful.
Teg Ridon, coming back from the headquarters, had required a storm of activity. He gathered all the officers and sergeants into his tent and made some announcements.
First, there would be no training. The army of griffons—yes, the army—would be sent to strike at the Pat legions in the outskirts of Ronmir.
Second, third, fourth, and fifth wings were tasked with storming and destroying the arsenal.
Third, half the second-in-saddles would be removed from the golden griffons. Combat mages would replace them. Ridon replied to the angry murmur that came from the servicemen left on the ground by saying that it was by order of the king and anyone who required additional explanation could go ask him for it. No one did.
Fourth, the transportation would take place by portal. Mages would take down the protective screens on the border for this purpose. The attack would proceed from three different directions at the same time. Mages have been called in from the Orten School of Magic, under the direction of Rector Etran, to quickly re-orient the exit points. They’ve brought the crystal energy accumulators of the ancient “smoky veil” artifact, because reconfiguring the direction of the griffons will require massive amounts of mana. (That was the answer to the question about what Rector Etran was doing here.) All of them—from His Highness right down to the last stable boy—owed a bow of thanks to the idiots from the Imperial army headquarters who thought of maintaining their protective screens from ten in the evening to six in the morning. Teg Ridon himself offered them a low bow, wished them a horrible loss, and sent them all to Targ. Let the dwarf god have his fun with them.
Fifth, the third strike wing was being urgently reformed. The light-weight griffons would be transferred to the tenth wing. Instead of them, four feathers from the Rauu air regiments will be placed on duty. Additionally, the wing was sending ten of our best fencers to the disposal of a separate wing of special forces. Rigaud had to choose nine people and report for duty to his new unit in one hour.
Six, all sergeants will be given communicator amulets to organize and coordinate military actions, besides the standard defensive necklaces, of course.
Seven, they were third in line for going through the portal. And finally, in order to keep the attack a secret, seven hours ago some units of “shadows” and “invisibles” were transported onto Imperial territory, whose responsibility was to take out the Imperial soldiers at the far and near lookout posts. The commander assured them that his “boys” would break their skeletons from their bodies before they’d let even one warning message get past them.
On the organization of the storm: the wings would fly over the target in three echelons and would drop all the “presents” from the first bags and lesser tubes. After bombarding the arsenal and approaching it, the mages would get off the griffons along with the second-in-saddles, who would be armed with chuckers and would make their way to the dungeons. In order not to get in one another’s way, the fourth wing would leave to storm the tent camp while the fifth would remain as a backup and go where they were needed most. Any questions? No?
All those gathered in the tent didn’t have a moment to let their guards down when the commander called Timur.
“In an hour, four full Rauu feathers will get here. I appoint you...” stopping and thinking a second, the commander turned to the staff: “Um, scribe, immediately record the following: by order of the third wing, Timur teg grall Soto shall be given the rank of roi-dert. Count Soto...” A murmur ran through the tent. No one knew the young sergeant was a titled noble. Timur and Rigaud, naturally, hadn’t blabbed about their origin, and the commander hadn’t found it necessary to let his subordinates know. He rightfully supposed that an army was composed of commanders and soldiers, as opposed to nobles and peasants. “You are hereby responsible for coordinating efforts with our allies. I think your background will allow you to find some common ground with the Icicles. You’re all dismissed. Those of you who’ve been ordered to leave—you have half an hour to collect your things and move your feet to the tenth wing. Rigaud’s ten, report to the arms master to pick up the reinforced amulets and shells. You can leave your flight helmets; they can protect your heads from a cutting blow about as well as a cone-shaped helmet or other iron pot. Roi-dert Soto, quickly get your new stripes and get yourself in order; not so much time is left before our guests arrive.”
The officers headed towards the exit. Timur was stunned at being given the rank of an officer and stayed behind. The sound of yelling and swearing came from outside. The commander darted out from behind the curtain and ran out; the young roi-dert followed. What they saw made them want to laugh and cry at the same time. Alert-dert Vard, a commander of fifty men, had slipped on a pile of griffon droppings and fallen flat on his face. But that was the end of the humor—Vard had broken his foot upon falling. The Life mage who ran over to attend him stated that he would be out of active duty for at least a week. He couldn’t get him back on his feet any earlier. Teg Ridon found some choice words, glanced around and his gaze rested on Timur.
“Roi-dert Soto!”
“Ler, yes, ler!”
“Take command of these fifty men. Remember, you still have all your duties regarding interactions with the elves. Don’t let me down, man.”
“Yes, ler!” Timur saluted. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate….
Timur understood the motives of the higher-ups who’d sent the Snow Elves to them. He understood perfectly. Serving in the military shoulder to shoulder would join them together like nothing else could. The meaning of military fraternity was not lost on the arrogant Icicles.
Surprisingly, the Rauu who arrived at the camp did not make the slightest fuss. They were very well versed in the concepts of discipline and obedience to their highest ranking officer. Timur put on a tough guy look and, flaunting his stripes, which testified to the fact that he’d seen some combat action already, and
the brand new miniature feathers on his chest, and went out to meet the adjunct sergeants. He assigned the personnel to the tents that had been designated for them. He invited the sergeants to the command wing; the rest he ordered to go to bed. Only four hours were left until reveille….
At five thirty the sound of a horn blared over the wide mountain plateau. The military camp was flooded with the light of a multitude of magical lanterns. The transport drivers, who hadn’t left the field kitchens all night, brought hot grub to the wings. The mechanics were putting saddlebags and tubes on the griffons, who were not happy at being woken up so early. A constant buzz hung over the camp, as over a busy birdhouse. The rush of adrenaline and the smell of the combat half-birds’ droppings were in the air. At half past six, a green flame climbed high in the sky, meaning high alert. People saddled up their griffons. The first wings in line started taking flight. A gigantic portal lit up with a clear light at T minus fifteen minutes and counting. Dozens of silhouettes of mages could be seen in the low light of the magical portal, scurrying about servicing the arc. The king came out of his tent. His Highness decided to personally oversee the pilots to their combat mission; the outcome of the war was riding on this surprise attack. Two yellow fireballs exploded high over the earth. The wings, occupying different echelons of the air, began to take formation. The surface of the portal flashed so brightly it was impossible to look at. The steles on either side immediately glowed red. The first wing disappeared into the unknown. Two hundred feet back, the griffons of the second wing dove towards the ground.
“We’re ready!” Timur cried into his communicator amulet. “We’re at an interval of ten leagues! Nimir, follow the commander.”
Nimir made the turn. The arc was getting close very fast. There was a clap, then a short blindness… and before their eyes, an incredibly beautiful landscape appeared, mountains flooded with the light of Nelita. Teg Ridon ordered everyone to “hug” the ground. Looping between the mountains, thousands of griffons flew towards Ronmir. The head dozen griffons retreated into the gorge leading to Lake Nechai. Not a single lookout post sounded the alarm. Using true vision, Timur perceived on one peak the cooling dead bodies of the Imperial soldiers killed by the “invisibles.” He began to shake. This wasn’t a game. The previous storms he’d taken part in when he’d had to dump fatal cargo onto the lords’ soldiers, wasn’t a problem for him. Maybe that’s because he was far from his victims and did not perceive them as enemies. In Ronmir, everything would be different. He would have to get out of the saddle and fight with the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. He could be killed….
***
Ronmir appeared unexpectedly. The griffons hadn’t yet stirred up the layer of fog over the lake when the panorama of the gigantic military camp came into view before the riders’ eyes.
“Arm your chuckers! Safeties off! Open the release valves!” Teg Ridon’s voice sounded through the communicator amulets. Timur repeated the order.
The legionnaires’ tents and the half-naked figures dashing out of them flashed by below his griffon’s belly. Caught unawares, the Imperial soldiers did not have time to organize a way to rebuff the air strike. The fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth storm wings flew out over the camp. From the west to the deafening, magically-enhanced sound of the cawing of striped griffons, the second Rauu regiment dove in.
A few wings were circling over the fortress. Clumps of dirt, logs, bricks, and tile from the barracks flew up to the sky. Protective domes flashed brightly. Magicians in the barracks suffered losses, but managed to put up their defense and shoot down about a hundred griffins. The bombs dropped were absorbed by the dome. Driven by their human riders, the griffons increased their altitude and started flying in giant circles. This tactic was called “the carousel.” The regiments attacking the mages hovered in a few echelons and, circling in a carousel formation, began to drop their bombs on the dome in a constant stream. At some point, it could no longer withstand the attack and popped. The officers had been waiting for this moment for a long time. The simultaneous bombardment of cursed bombs by five hundred half-birds and the magical attack by the combat mages riding in the second saddle stripped the enemy of any chance. The barracks were enveloped in a hot flame, which absorbed the delicate flesh of the people trapped in four walls… one force overcame another. The wings moved to the western fort. The “pure ones” and the lasso brigade, who had remained unnoticed for a short while, managed to install chuckers on the roofs, and burning griffons fell from the sky.
Timur finished bombing the ground targets, a task he was already accustomed to. This exhausted half the ammunition in his saddlebags and tubes. The protective dome over the warehouses pooped out.
“Begin your descent!” he heard in his ear.
A wave of the hand and the half-birds began to land. The second-in-saddles unbuckled and charged towards the arsenal. A hot battle was raging near the doors. Timur jumped onto the pavement, grabbed his chucker and couldn’t manage to take even two steps before dozens of legionnaires came hurtling towards him from two half-destroyed barracks. Many of the defenders were wearing white underpants and armor on their naked torsos, but the insanity of combat and the thirst for blood made them dangerous enemies.
A couple of point-blank shots swept the first few rows of enraged soldiers away, and then the fighting began. A dozen of the parachuting mages was killed right away upon landing. Apparently, they had become “warriors” not long ago and weren’t able to activate several spells at once. A short moment of hesitation was all the legionnaires needed to get close enough to cut off the heads of some Tantrians. Everyone got mixed together; those still in the air were unwilling to shoot and bomb from above, for fear they would strike their own.
Timur picked up an enormous bludgeon from the ground, and with all his formidable strength, hit one of the Imperialists on the head with it. The man’s eyes rolled back and he fell onto the road like a spineless amoeba. Within a moment all signs of life left him. The battle quickly entered the phase wherein the combatants no longer paid any mind to nobility. Courteous manners were guaranteed to lead to the funeral pyre. People were cutting, chopping, and stabbing one another with knives, swords, and axes. Fallen warriors retrieved the curved daggers from their boot tops and attempted to get one last stab in before leaving this life. Valiant cries rang out over the pavement. The ancient stones flowed with hot blood.
Timur slowly but surely made his way to the arsenal. All attempts to bring him down by magic and then chop him up failed. The bludgeon shone in his hand like a white dickie bird. The fallen were killed by his subordinates following him from behind. Ten Rauu covered his rear and sides. The battle in all its inglorious gore presented itself before Timur. Under his feet were hacked limbs; intestines hanging out of stomachs stank; the wounded moaned. If the Tantrians hadn’t had air support, no landing forces could have helped them reach the gates of the arsenal. Timur spun like a top, beat, bounced and dodged, slipping along the blood-stained pavement. How long the carnage lasted, he did not know. His sense of time was completely lost.
In the sky, too, a short battle broke out. Intelligence had not reported a large griffon wing stationed in the southern part of the city. Left without command, the Imperial officers couldn’t think of anything better than using it to repel the attack.
Two griffons tightly grappling with one another collapsed to the ground; the ammunition in their pouches exploded. The stones, clay, and sand of the roadway flew in all directions. A deep funnel was formed at the site of the explosion. Leaving a smoky trail, a half-bird beaten down by a chucker flashed in a fiery flourish as it fell. Half a minute later another griffon fell to the ground. The earth shook and a wall fluttered from the powerful explosion, and the wall of the arsenal, which had lost its magical protection during the bombardment, collapsed. Timur simply could not imagine—he could not fit in his head—such carelessness that in the citadel, no one had bothered to enhance the magical protection of the ammunition depot.
; “Timur, cover me. I’m going in,” Nimir said, who had appeared out of nowhere. The tip of a crossbow arrow with a green feather stuck out of the first-in-saddle’s shoulder. “I don’t have much time left,” he drawled and showed the black stain around the wound that was increasing in all directions. “It’s poisoned. Sit down on Pumpkin and fly right away. She won’t let anyone else on her. I have fifteen minutes left while my antidote magic holds off the poison.”
Timur, hiding his tears of anger and sniffing, hugged his first-in-saddle awkwardly and ran to Pumpkin, near whom a striped griffon, one of the ten Rauu, crashed to the ground in a fit. Its rider lay on the stones face down. Timur looked with true vision and saw by his aura that the elf was still alive, just stunned. Grabbing his ally by the belt, he threw him over the empty second saddle. Pumpkin glared at him unhappily and clicked her beak.
“All together!” he screamed the uncertain, standard phrase into the communicator amulet, thereby giving the signal for an emergency evacuation. The sky over the fortress instantly cleared. Wings beat loudly; Pumpkin lifted up off the ground. The rest of the fifty followed.
“Soto, quickly take your men to the white hill!” the amulet spoke up. “Mages there have built a minor portal. You won’t be able to get away otherwise! Make a beeline to the hills, that’s an order!” the amulet vibrated with Teg Ridon’s voice.