To his relief, the break was clean and simple. He pulled on it while speaking the incantation. The griffin squawked and gave a thrash, and then a long keening sound. Yuli let out her breath and relaxed her grip on Ageel’s neck as Markal stepped away from the animal.
“Did you get it?” she asked.
Markal picked up a handful of oak leaves and wiped off blood. “It shouldn’t have been so costly—that’s one of the simpler spells I command. I don’t know why so much of my power came up.”
“Healing a broken wing—is that what you call simple?”
“Maybe simple is the wrong word, but the body wants to be healed. Get the bones together and they practically do the rest. The other magic—pulling water out of the air, making the ground shake, throwing a fireball—is going against the natural order of things and requires much more power. Assuming you do it right,” he added. “Which I apparently did not.”
He returned to the griffin and felt for the damaged muscle where Yuli had broken off the back side of the crossbow bolt and pushed the rest of it through. Her instincts had been right, considering the circumstances, but it had left a good deal of muscle damage, which he could see plainly. When he touched the wound, he sensed deeper damage to the tissue as well. This would heal painfully, and with a good deal of permanent scar tissue, if he couldn’t fix it with more skill than he’d exhibited repairing the wing bone.
Markal closed his eyes this time and spent more time concentrating before casting his spell. He thought about the smooth, unbroken skin as it should be, about muscles connected in their proper configuration, veins carrying blood to the wings and back again to the heart. He pictured everything in order, nothing cut, ripped, or ruptured.
The magic felt right when it came out, and by the time he pulled back, drained, it was already taking effect. The bloody scab sloughed off the griffin’s shoulder, and angry red flesh closed back up again. Ageel cocked his head and looked at the wound as if scarcely believing that the pain had vanished.
“By the Brothers,” Yuli exclaimed. All of the disdain and pride was gone from her voice, and only marvel remained. “It is truly a gift of the gods you possess, Markal.”
He didn’t have the strength to answer, or even to clean the blood from his hands before he staggered to the hollow at the base of the birch tree and collapsed.
#
Markal woke in the morning to a shrill whistle. He sat up straight, head pounding as if hungover from too much wine, neck stiff where it had bent awkwardly through the night. His bladder felt like it would burst.
Yuli was dressed and clean, her dark hair glistening and damp, as if she’d bathed in one of the nearby streams. She worked over Ageel’s haunches, picking out burrs while the griffin groomed wing feathers with his beak. There was only a small bare pink spot where it had taken the bolt in the shoulder, and no marks for the other two wounds. It seemed active and feisty, ready to take to the air.
Once Yuli finished with grooming her mount, she worked on the cords and tethers, adjusting them here and there behind the head, at the neck, and across Ageel’s powerful chest. She’d trimmed the cord that she’d hacked through yesterday to get free of the tree, and now tied it off with fresh knots. When she finished, she gave two more blasting whistles, one short, one long, followed by a lengthy pause, and then three shorter blasts.
“Calling your companions?” Markal asked.
Yuli turned. “I’m telling anyone who might be listening that there may be enemies with bows. I don’t know if anyone is listening, but it’s prudent to issue a warning, just in case.” She looked him over. “You look terrible.”
He picked at the crusty blood on his hands. His eyes felt gummed up, and he still hadn’t emptied his bladder or slaked his raging thirst.
She gestured at the fire, which was nearly burned down, with a trickle of smoke rising from it. A trout lay across a flat stone in the middle of it, skin golden brown and fins crispy. “There’s your breakfast.”
“You’ve been up a while.”
“Hours. Hurry and eat, and let’s get out of here.” Her face darkened. “If I’m going to take you to the lowlands, I’d as soon do it before it gets too hot.”
He took care of necessities before eating, and by the time he returned, shivering, from washing up at the brook, he felt better. More awake, certainly; the water seemed to come from the coldest snowpack in the highest peaks.
Yuli had stuffed the trout’s empty cavity with wild herbs, and it was delicious. He ate everything but the head and bones, which he tossed to Ageel. The morsel disappeared down the griffin’s throat with a single gulp.
And then it was Markal doing gulping of a different kind as he followed Yuli’s instruction and climbed behind her onto the back of the powerful animal. She wrapped a cord around his waist and leg. It felt altogether insubstantial.
“That won’t keep you from falling off, but it will keep you from plummeting to your death. You’re sitting awkwardly. Move up closer. No, right behind me. Put your hands around my waist and hold on tight. What are you being so squeamish about? Grab on!”
“I just remembered what you said about not liking to be touched.”
“This is completely different. Now hold on if you don’t want to fall off the first thing.” She took his hands and moved them into position. “There, like that.”
She was slender, but all muscle, and the animal was like a strong warhorse, only more powerfully built, a predator of the skies. And the smell was nothing like the musky odor of a horse, but heavier, almost . . . savage, it seemed. A lion and eagle together. It walked awkwardly through the trees to the boulder-studded hillside where the Veyrian soldiers had mounted their ambush.
“Ready?” Yuli asked.
“No, not remotely.”
“Good. Hold on tight.”
The griffin beat its powerful wings, made a little jump, and they were airborne. Markal’s stomach lurched and he felt suddenly lightheaded. The griffin flapped harder and they climbed, with the hillside receding below them at dizzying speed. He gripped tighter, and for a terrifying moment thought he was falling, but that was just Yuli leaning on the back of the griffin as it swooped about.
Thankfully, the griffin straightened out again. It was already far higher than any archer could ever shoot, but kept climbing. Some of Markal’s fear faded, and he hazarded a look. His mouth dropped open. He was looking down on the mountains as they stretched in ripples and folds, peaks, and knifelike gorges. A beautiful, terrifying view.
The griffin continued to climb, and the wind was an icy knife through his clothes. He leaned in to be heard over the rushing air.
“It’s cold.”
She turned, and her hair slapped him across the face. “I know! Isn’t it glorious?”
No, it was numbing, is what it was. The morning had been chill enough on the ground, but up here, it took his breath away. And they were almost to the heights of the lowest peaks, where the air was too thin to breathe—or so he’d always thought. It didn’t seem to bother either the rider or her mount, though, and he figured if he just hung on they’d soon start to descend. He closed his eyes, which were watering from the stinging breeze, and tucked his head against Yuli’s back.
Just when he thought he’d faint from the cold and the thin air, his stomach lurched again, and the griffin was hurtling down. He opened his eyes to see the ground rushing up. With terror he realized the griffin’s injury must have opened up again. Perhaps the broken, partially healed bone. It had snapped in two, and they were going to slam into the ground and die.
But that was just his fear speaking, and the griffin pulled up when they were still well above the ground. They were already into the low, shoulder-like mountains at the base of the main peaks, and came down low between two hills, then climbed again once they came out of the little valley separating them. He had a brief, glorious sensation of a warm breeze and a hot sun, but it vanished as they regained the heights.
Yuli turned her head. “I tho
ught we might be safer where we could fly low over the ground, but it’s too blasted hot down there. We have to get up higher.”
“If you say so.”
He tucked his head again as icy cold wind buffeted his face. Not quite so high this time, since they were over the lowlands, but still plenty cold. They flew on and on, and his hands turned numb, his thigh muscles ached from gripping the griffin’s back, and his neck was stiff from bending down. He lost track of time.
Finally, they descended again, this time for real. He wiped his watering eyes on his shoulder and took a look. There were farms below, even a bit of green. Trees to the north. The Harvester take him, had they really crossed all the way to Aristonia in a few hours?
The griffin landed in the middle of someone’s wheat field and pawed about, tearing up the plants. Yuli hopped off and walked over the top of the plants, too, as if they were no more than mountain grasses, not the tender early growth of a farmer’s livelihood. Markal eased himself down, wincing as blood flowed into his extremities.
It was a warm day, with the sun directly overhead, and he stood with his face turned skyward, drinking in the glorious heat. He sighed, then turned to Yuli. Sweat poured down her temples and dripped from the uncut emerald at her brow. Her face was flushed red.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll be gone before your people even know we’re here. Ageel only needs a moment’s rest. That was a long flight with two riders. Oh, it’s so hot. How can you live here without dying?”
“This is normal. Wait until the heat comes up from the desert in late summer, then you’ll see.”
“No, never. You flatlanders can keep your heat.” She eyed Ageel, who was still breathing heavily. “Here you are, Markal. Our bargain is completed.”
“More than completed. I’m only ten or fifteen miles from the gardens. How fast were we flying, anyway? I can’t believe we traveled so far, so quickly.”
“I’d have come faster, but with two riders . . . anyway, the distances pass quickly when you fly in a straight line.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and glanced at Ageel again. “He’s ready. We’ll leave.”
Yuli turned without so much as a goodbye. She climbed onto her mount, wrapped herself in tethers, and positioned the griffin for another skyward launch.
“Wait,” Markal said. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Join you? Are you mad? I’m not staying down here a moment longer than necessary. We’re going to climb to where the air is fresh and sweet, and then we’re going back to the mountains. And if you’re wise, you’ll stay in the lowlands where you belong.”
“I don’t mean stay in Aristonia, Yuli. I mean help us fight the necromancer. You can drive him from the mountain passes, close his highway. Help us win this war.”
She snorted. “If that were possible, we’d have done so already.”
“But you were alone. Now you’ll have allies from both the west and the east.”
For a moment she looked as though she were considering his offer, but she gave a vehement shake of the head. “You’re not allies, Markal. You’ll never be. Flatlanders are our enemies. All of them. And that includes you.”
In spite of her hard tone and narrowed eyes, most of the hostility had left her voice, and he couldn’t help but press.
“I saved your life.”
“After putting it at risk in the first place. I’d have never been so low on the hillside if I hadn’t been hunting you.”
“What does that mean? If you hadn’t tried to kill me, you wouldn’t have put yourself in danger? How is that my fault? Anyway, I healed your griffin, too. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Yes, it earned you a flight out of the mountains to your own territory. That was our bargain, our deal.” Yuli wrapped a tether around her fist and squeezed her knees against Ageel’s haunches. The griffin spread his wings and ruffled his feathers. “You are a flatlander, Markal. I am a daughter of the Mountain Brother, a child of the sky. Stay among your own kind, and I will stay among mine.”
“Listen to me—”
Yuli dug her knees into her mount. “Ska!”
The griffin lifted skyward with a mighty heave of his wings, and then they were flying west, climbing higher with every wingbeat. Markal heard a sound and turned about to see a farmer, hoe in hand, cloth around his head to block the sun. He stared up at the departing griffin with a look of dumbfounded terror.
The farmer scarcely glanced at his torn-up wheat plants before his gaze fell on Markal. “Who are you?” he asked, a tremble in his voice. “An enemy?”
“I am a wizard of the Crimson Path, and this is my homeland. I have been away these past months. Tell me, friend, does Khalif Omar still reign in the palace at Syrmarria, or has the high king overthrown our sovereignty?”
The stricken look on the farmer’s face was all the answer Markal needed.
Chapter Eight
After questioning the farmer, Markal discovered that he was only about a mile from the outskirts of Woods Crossing. From the village, one could cut north toward the Tothian Way or east toward the gardens, the Apple Valley, and Syrmarria. Not even twelve miles from home across good roads—he figured he’d sneak or bluff his way onto a wagon to carry him the rest of the way.
But when he arrived at the crossroads that gave Woods Crossing its name, he caught a familiar scent of magic. He followed it to a well, then to a footpath leading between a stream and someone’s cow pasture, where he discovered a small ward made of leaves and sticks. It was one of their own; someone from the order had passed this way a few hours earlier and left this here. A ward to repel enemies and call for help from their own at the same time. It was this that he’d sensed.
Curious, Markal continued along the side of the stream. Massive rotten stumps twelve or fifteen feet in width lined the pasture, and a pair of wooden totem poles, one toppled, indicated that this had once been the southern edge of the forest that still grew to the north, albeit now carved in two by the king’s highway. He climbed a hillside where moss-covered stones were still visible, as well as a giant toppled tree that was only an outline in the ground where it had rotted over the decades.
A fairy fort sat to one side, covered with brush, and opposite that lay the site of a former shrine to the Forest Brother, where a sacred grove had once stood. It was reduced to a ring of tree stumps, each the size of a small house. Several stumps sprouted saplings from the old root system, some of these forty feet tall themselves, with silvery gray bark, and their limbs arched together to form a dark, gloomy roof.
Narud slept on a large slab of granite at the center of the ring. The wizard’s clothes were dirty, and the musky odor of dog hung about him as Markal entered the old shrine. Markal shook him awake.
“Huh, what? Oh, thank the Brothers, it’s you.”
“Were you expecting someone else?” Markal asked.
“A wolfhound has some stamina, but not like a marauder and his ensorcelled horse. I couldn’t quite make the gardens, and thought they’d catch me here and kill me.”
“The gardens are still standing?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Narud said. “By now, the master should be arriving with the first shipment from the library. But what happened to you?” He glanced over Markal’s shoulder. “Where’s Nathaliey?”
“I left her with the Blackshields. What do you mean the first shipment? Has something happened to the library?”
“What are Blackshields?”
“A company of paladins. Never mind that. I’ll tell you later, and you’ll tell me.” Markal glanced behind him. “If you’re being hunted, we should get to the road before . . . well, whoever is following you finds us. Who is it, who’s hunting you? Marauders, you say?”
Narud’s face darkened. “It’s Alyssa.”
“The acolyte? What happened to her?”
Narud turned over his forearm to show a long scorched piece of flesh running from his elbow to his armpit. “She tried to kill me.”
#
Narud’s story, told in the back of a turnip wagon while he and Markal were cloaked with magic.
There’s a rush of power when you change into a dog, Markal, and I was under its spell for the first several minutes. My muscles stretched and grew. My body was lean and hungry and swift. My eyesight was dimmer than it had been, but there was an explosion of smells like you can only imagine.
I could almost see the smells in my mind, where a skunk had passed three days earlier. Where another dog had peed against a farmhouse—a mean, hungry bitch with full dugs who would tear off your muzzle if you came near her pups. Horses, cows. Night soil tossed in the street, part of a rotten cabbage, a dead bird, dropped by a nasty-smelling cat. Moldy bread that some other animal had snarfed up, but not without leaving a scent.
And people. Lots and lots of people. Most had the simple odor of villagers. But I could smell the master, smell Chantmer, smell the acolytes, even smell myself—my human self—where I’d come through on foot less than an hour earlier.
And of course the marauders, their mounts, and their prisoners. The air stank with them, dead and fetid, and even their horses carried foul sorcery. It all but masked the smell of Alyssa and Stephan. I ran five minutes up the road before my mind began to come back. I was no longer a dog, I was Narud of the Order of the Crimson Path, and a dog was only a form I had chosen.
The marauders rode hard toward the Tothian Way, but I was swifter, and drew within several hundred paces, always out of eyesight, but so close that I could almost see them in my mind’s eye from their scent alone. If they stopped to slaughter our friends, I was prepared to roar in and tear out their throats.
I know what you’re thinking, Markal, that I would have been killed, and maybe you’re right, but I couldn’t let our friends be killed without a fight. Anyway, I doubted that’s what they intended. Most likely they’d stop at one of the dark wizard’s fortifications to torture their prisoners. To discover secrets about the gardens: how to find them, how to cross the bridge, and how to breach the defenses. Once I knew where they were to be held, I’d fetch the master, and we’d break down the castle walls to free them.
The Emerald Crown (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 3) Page 7