Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

“Grandmother,” he whispered.

  “Go away,” she said, keeping her eyes closed. “I’m asleep.”

  “Grandmother,” Bashae whispered again. “It’s important.”

  Heaving a sigh, the Grandmother propped herself up on her elbow and glowered at him. “What do you want?”

  “I was just wondering—did you know what it was the knight gave me? Is that why you wanted to come with us, because you thought that Jessan and I weren’t wise enough to be trusted with it? I wouldn’t blame you, if you did,” he assured her.

  The Grandmother lay down, flat on her back, but she didn’t close her eyes. Clasping her hands over her chest, she said abruptly, “I didn’t want to be buried there.”

  “What?” Bashae asked, startled. This was not the answer he’d expected. “What did you say?”

  “Have you gone deaf? I said I didn’t want to be buried there,” the Grandmother repeated irritably.

  She gazed up into the blue sky, twiddled her thumbs and moved her feet back and forth, so that the toes tapped together. The rhythmic movement set the bells on her skirt to jingling.

  “I was born there. I lived there year after year after year. I knew every tree and every rock and they knew me.” She didn’t sound as if this had been an overwhelming pleasure. She sat back up. “Do you think I want to lie there staring at them for all eternity? A person needs a change,” she stated defensively, as if she’d been accused of something. “A person likes to see something different.”

  She fixed a stern eye on Bashae. “So if I drop over, just plant me where I fall. Don’t go hauling me back home.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Bashae said, starting to smile and then thinking better of it.

  “Good,” she said and lay back down, twiddling her thumbs and smiling up at the sky.

  With the daylight, travelers began to appear on the road. Arim cautioned his companions to keep still, make no sudden movement or any sound that would draw attention to themselves. Sitting in the shadows of the trees, they watched columns of soldiers march down the road, merchants traveling to market and a wealthy noble lady being carried in a palanquin, her retinue following along behind. Everything seemed normal, daily routine proceeded apace. Arim saw nothing to give any indication that a major upheaval in the politics of the elves had occurred during the night.

  It was just a matter of time, though, before word spread. He glanced up at the sun that was rising steadily higher into the sky and began to worry. Damra had been gone four hours now.

  Arim made a contingency plan. If she was not here by noon, he would have to leave, take the Sovereign Stone to New Vinnengael himself. He was thinking over the route they should take, when Jessan touched his arm, pointed.

  “She’s looking for us.”

  Arim saw Damra above the top of the hedge, her figure passing in and out among the trees that lined the roadway, and he gave a sigh of relief. Mounted herself, she led other steeds behind her. She set a leisurely pace, as if she were out for morning exercise, but every now and then she sent a sharp glance searchingly into the trees.

  Warning the others to keep down, Arim walked out to meet her. As long as there were people in view, the two stood together on the road, talking pleasantly, as if they were fellow travelers who happened to meet along the way. The moment the road cleared, Damra entered the tree line, leading the animals she had brought behind her.

  At the sight of the animals, the Grandmother lifted the agate-eyed stick. “Get a good look,” she told it. “You won’t see the like again.”

  “What are they?” Bashae stared.

  “Griffin-horses,” said Jessan nonchalantly, as if hippogriffs were creatures he encountered on a daily basis. “My uncle Raven told me about them. Elven warriors ride them into battle.”

  “I think I’d rather have a horse,” said Bashae. “These griffin-horses look too clumsy to be of much use.”

  “They just look that way,” Jessan replied, his voice warming with excitement. “They have talons in front. Their back legs are like those of a horse but they can run faster than any living horse. Using their wings to help them, they fly over the ground. And they don’t have to stay on the ground. The elves use griffin-horses to attack from the air. They swoop down on the enemy, their front talons ripping and tearing. They can snap off a human’s head in their strong beaks or lift him into the air with their talons. Then they drop him to his death.”

  “Do they do that on a regular basis, Jessan? Drop people to their deaths?” Bashae asked nervously.

  “Just their enemies,” Jessan said. “They don’t drop their riders.”

  “But what if the riders dropped themselves. How do you stay on? I don’t see any saddles.”

  “They’ll tell us. No other Trevenici in our tribe has ever ridden a griffin-horse,” Jessan stated with satisfaction. “I’ll be the first. You’ll likely be the first pecwae to ride one.”

  “Great,” said Bashae.

  Damra led the hippogriffs among the trees. She and Arim spoke together quickly, forgetting in the gravity of the moment to speak Elderspeak.

  “As I predicted would happen, the Shield has managed to turn the knife blade that was at his throat so that now it points at the throat of the Divine.”

  “How did he do that?” Arim demanded, stunned. “You said that his own knights didn’t believe him.”

  “Not all of them, apparently. He has rallied his forces and is now holed up in his fortress, challenging the Divine to attack him. He claims that the gods themselves took the Sovereign Stone, thus indicating their anger at the Divine. He says that if this is not true, if the Divine has the Stone, all he has to do is to return it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Keep the Stone, of course,” she said as if amazed he could imagine anything else. Her voice hardened. “I am more assured than ever that I have made the right decision. These two see the Sovereign Stone now as nothing more than a piece in a game.”

  Horn blasts sounded in the distance, coming from the fortress of the Divine. Those on the road halted, listening. Some shook their heads. Others shook their fists. They had heard these sounds before and all knew what it meant. Merchants driving carts gave the reins a slap, sending their horses ahead at a gallop. Soldiers broke into a run, holding their swords to their sides to keep them from clanking. Some headed toward the castle of the Divine. Others turned in the opposite direction.

  “I feared as much,” said Damra. “The call to arms. The Divine has declared war against the Shield.”

  At the sound of the trumpets, the hippogriffs lifted their heads. Their bright eyes flashed at the sound, they gnashed their beaks. Their griffin talons ripped up the grass, their horse tails swished. Damra hurried to soothe them, running her hand over the soft plumage that extended from their griffin heads down to their withers.

  “We must make haste,” Damra said. “I borrowed these from the stables. I could only manage three. You and I will each take one of the pecwae with us.”

  Jessan came up to her. “What do the trumpet calls mean?”

  “War,” she said coolly. “Can you ride a horse?”

  “Yes,” said Jessan, affronted.

  “Good. Then you can ride a hippogriff. Sit here, on the back. Don’t touch their wings. They don’t like that and they might take your head off. I had no time to saddle them, so we will have to ride bareback. The trick is to keep tight hold with your legs, press your thighs into the flanks, and lie forward. Wrap your arms around their necks. You have no need for reins. The hippogriffs know where they’re going.”

  “I understand,” said Jessan.

  Walking over to one of the hippogriffs, he stood in front of the animal, gazed straight into her eyes. The hippogriff met his gaze, held it. Jessan said something to the animal in Tivniv. It is doubtful if the hippogriff understood, but she heard respect in the young warrior’s tone and sensed no fear in him, only elation. She gave a nod of her proud head and held still to permit him to mount. Jessan took hold of
the withers, swung himself up and his leg over. He looked to have been born on the back of the beast as he smiled in delight.

  Damra was relieved. One worry gone. She had more than enough other worries to keep her from missing it, however.

  Her skirts swinging, her beads clashing, the Grandmother halted in front of another hippogriff and spoke to him. Damra was not surprised by this, but she was amazed to find that the hippogriff lowered its head, appeared to be listening intently. Damra looked to Arim, who shrugged.

  The Grandmother motioned to Bashae, who came reluctantly and placed his hand tremulously on the hippogriff’s neck. The Grandmother and the hippogriff concluded their communication to the satisfaction of both, or so it appeared. The Grandmother walked over to Damra.

  “We are afraid. We pecwae are always afraid. But the griffin-horse told us not to be. The distance is not far, the weather is fine for flying, and he will enjoy being up among the clouds, where the air is cleaner to breathe than the air down here that has been tainted by the snortings of the wingless.”

  “And that made you feel better?” Damra asked dubiously.

  “Oh, yes,” said the Grandmother. She held up the stick, twitched it all around. “We should probably be going. The eyes don’t like what they see.” She handed the stick to Damra. “Lash the stick onto my back. Make certain you fasten it tight.”

  Casting a bemused look at Arim, Damra did as the Grandmother ordered. Damra mounted her hippogriff, taking more than her usual care to be respectful of the animal. For some reason, Damra had always supposed that hippogriffs revered and honored the elves who had mastered them and she was nonplussed to find that the beasts apparently held “the snorting wingless” in contempt. She pulled the Grandmother up to sit behind her, cautioning her to keep fast hold around her waist.

  Seeing that, despite the beast’s assurances, Bashae had gone slightly green about the nose and mouth, Arim placed the pecwae in front of him, between the wings, and clasped one arm tightly around him. He nodded to show they were ready.

  Damra gave the command to fly, feeling self-conscious as she did so, wondering if perhaps she should make the command a request. The hippogriffs obeyed, however. Planting their rear hooves firmly into the ground, they gave a convulsive leap, using their wings to lift themselves and their riders.

  They soared up over the treetops. Jessan’s face glowed. He gave a wild shout, forgot to lean forward, and came perilously close to falling off. A grab at the plumage saved him. The near disaster didn’t bother him, though. Mouth open, he drank in the air that flowed around him and laughed for sheer joy.

  Bashae kept his eyes squinched tightly shut. He shook his head violently when Arim urged him to look. Damra had no time to check on her fellow rider. She kept close watch on the ground, fearing that they might have been seen. Fortunately, the advent of war had captured everyone’s attention. If anyone did notice three hippogriffs taking off from the woods, they must suppose that they were part of the current martial activity. They left behind the red tile roofs of the Divine’s palace and Damra finally relaxed.

  They had escaped. The way before her was clear and easy to travel. As the hippogriff had said, the weather was fine for flying.

  The sun’s rays that shone on Tromek that morning had not yet brightened the land where Jessan’s uncle Raven walked in shackles. Jessan was not thinking of his uncle. Raven was awake, and he was thinking of his nephew, thinking of all his family and those friends and comrades he would never see again.

  Raven often woke before the dawn. He slept fitfully, the warrior part of him listening to all the sounds of the camp. The taan liked to make an early start and were always up with the sun, which meant that he and the other slaves were up, as well. These few moments before the taan stirred were the only moments of peace he was allowed.

  Oftentimes his thoughts went to plots and schemes revolving around his one object in life. He spent these brief moments dreaming of the combat or thinking up ways to goad or trick Qu-tok into battling him. Thus far, none of the attempts had worked. Raven’s insults afforded Qu-tok much amusement and ended up hurting only Raven, who was punished as a slave was punished. He was deprived of food or beaten, but he was not starved, nor was he ever seriously injured. As a human takes pride in a savage dog, Qu-tok took pride in Raven’s rages. The half-taan Dur-zor told Raven that his fits of temper were often related with relish in the evening around the campfire to entertain the children.

  Today, Raven’s thoughts went to his nephew, traveling a far distant road. Perhaps somewhere Jessan watched the same sun that was struggling to lift itself up over the horizon. Watching the sun, Raven sent a silent blessing to his nephew and those under his care. Then his thoughts returned, like a horse chained to a waterwheel, to circle again the rutted track of his hatred.

  The slave caravan consisted of about five hundred slaves, mostly human males, who were being transported to the mines to dig gold and silver to finance Dagnarus’s war machine. The human women in the caravan were claimed by the taan. Their lives were a living hell, for they were brutally abused by night and by day forced to work for the taan at a variety of tasks. Many died along the route, either slain by the taan for some minor infraction or taken ill. The taan cast the sick aside to die alone on the trail, for the taan consider illness to be a weakness. One went mad and drowned herself in a river. The others did nothing but survive from day to day until the time when they must give birth to the wretched half-breed babies some now carried.

  The males were treated better, for they were a valuable commodity and must reach their destination fit for hard labor. Most were young and strong, the elderly and infirm had all died. The men were chained together in long lines of twenty-five, forced to march in their shackles. If one proved too weak to march, his comrades supported him, for the taan would not cut him loose. When one of the slaves died on the march, his comrades were forced to carry his body or let it drag on the ground until nightfall, when the taan finally released the corpse and threw it in a pit. The taan covered thirty miles in a day, waking early and marching late, and nothing and no one was permitted to slow them up.

  Raven alone was not chained together with the others. A length of chain was attached to the iron collar around his neck and he was led along by this chain like a dancing bear he’d seen once in a fair in Dunkar. Sometimes Qu-tok took the chain, showing off his slave. At these times, Raven yanked on the chain, dug in his heels, did anything he could to anger Qu-tok. He always failed, for Qu-tok only chortled and usually ended the contest by jerking Raven off his feet and dragging him along the ground. At other times, Qu-tok handed Raven off to some of the young warriors. These young taan teased and tormented Raven, hoping he would lunge at them or attack them, but they were always disappointed. Raven paid no attention to any of them. Only Qu-tok.

  The other slaves looked on Raven with envy that bordered on hatred. Raven did not know this and he would not have cared if he did, for he never spoke to any of the other slaves, paid little attention to them. He had his own burdens and could not take on theirs.

  What Raven saw as humiliation, the other slaves viewed as salvation. He was permitted to sleep by himself, chained only to a stake, not to twenty-four other miserable humans. He was permitted a greater share of food and the companionship of a female, even if it was only one of these perverted monsters. The other slaves soon regarded Raven as a traitor. They called him “lizard lover” and other names that were cruder. Raven ignored them.

  He lost track of time, for one day melted into another, and last night, as he had watched the full moon rise, he was surprised to realize that they had been on the road for a month.

  We must be nearing our destination, he thought. His desperation increased, for once the slaves had been delivered safely to the mines, Qu-tok would take his payment for Raven and depart.

  “Yes,” said Dur-zor that morning when she brought him his food, “we are within a few days’ march of the mines. There was some talk that we would stop t
his day to allow the warriors to hunt, for we are running low on food, but Dag-ruk wants to push on. She is eager to deliver the slaves and return to the war and to her promotion to nizam.”

  The words were on the tip of Raven’s tongue to ask Dur-zor to set him free, but he swallowed them now as he had swallowed them before. She had been a friend to him and he did not want to repay her friendship by asking her to do something that would cost her life. She had come to like him. He knew that and he would not take advantage of her liking. By freeing Raven she would be depriving Qu-tok of a valued possession and few things are more abhorrent to a taan than a thief. The taan would kill her, probably torture her to death.

  Raven found her studying him intently and he feared she knew what he had been thinking. She proved it, by saying, “When I want something very much, I pray to our god Dagnarus to grant it. Have you prayed to your gods?”

  “Constantly,” said Raven. Eating his food, he eyed Dur-zor, who squatted comfortably in front of him. “Have you prayed to this god of yours to make you a warrior?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, nodding her head violently.

  “And you still bring me food every day and endure Qu-tok’s beatings,” said Raven with a shrug. “Your god must be as deaf as mine.”

  “I have faith,” said Dur-zor. “I grow more skilled with the kep-ker every day. I do not think our god would grant me that skill if he did not intend for me to use it.”

  “So the gods would not have created Qu-tok if they didn’t intend for me to kill him?” Raven said with a quirk of his mouth.

  Dur-zor frowned. “Why do you jest about serious matters?”

  “Jesting is a way humans have of dealing with serious matters,” Raven explained, feeling uncomfortable. He thought that perhaps he’d gone a bit too far. “I’m sorry, Dur-zor. It’s just that I’m losing hope—”

  “Hope,” she repeated. “What is that word? I have never heard it before.”

  Raven was confounded. Such a question might have confounded a Temple mage, and Raven was no scholar.