by J. C. Owens
He nodded, bringing the messenger’s attention back to him. “Thank the commander on our behalf. We will present ourselves to him just before the meal.”
The youngster nodded, then gave a crisp salute and darted away.
Daren turned back to the task at hand. He pulled the panniers off Gretnel and dropped them to the side until he had time to work on unpacking. For now, Gretnel was his whole focus.
First he unbuckled the harness, piece by piece, until the saddle slid free, down into his hands. He carried it to the nearest wall, upending it, bottom out, so that it could dry. The liner was sopping wet with sweat. It had been a long, arduous flight, with headwinds and a mountain range to cross.
Another knock made him look up. Two boys, cadets by the look of them, eyed him nervously.
He smiled, putting them at ease and gestured them forward.
“The commander has divided our class up, Captain Phalnir. Two of us for each of you. He ordered us to see that all your grifs are taken to the sand baths.” They shifted uneasily, staring at Gretnel with some anxiety in their expressions. “Your grif is very large, sir.”
“This is Gretnel. You will refer to him by name, and if you are polite and well-mannered in your handling of him, he might deign to obey you.” Daren grinned at the wide-eyed puzzlement.
“Gretnel is a very intelligent grif.” He did not add that all of them were far more intelligent than they had ever been credited with. “If you treat him well, he will treat you the same way.”
“They are merely animals, sir. They don’t really understand more than basic commands.”
He closed his eyes briefly at the oh-so-familiar words. Words he had fought for years, words that were no longer heard at his own base, now that people had had their eyes opened to what a grif truly was capable of.
When he opened his eyes and met the confused looks of the cadets, it took everything he had not to let the anger work past his current exhaustion.
These were boys, taught as their fathers, and their forefathers had been taught.
“There have been a lot of studies done on grifs. We now know a great deal more than before, and it has made the bond between grif and rider much stronger. I have brought several books with me about the new discoveries. If you are interested…” He would not push this, for to do so would only exacerbate the hostility that had to be worked through first. No need to make waves that would work against them.
The boys looked uncertain, but the talk of a study seemed to incite their curiosity.
One boy, smaller than the other, nodded shyly. “I would like to read them, sir.”
Daren smiled.
He met the rest of his wing just after darkness had fallen, all of them freshly scrubbed and somewhat refreshed.
They were all exhausted, but they needed to shore up their strength and meet the base commander, create a good first impression that would see them through the six months they would be trapped here.
“All right, team. Upward and onward.”
They fell in behind him, covering his back as always, their formation perfect. The main part of the fortress was old, grand in design, immaculately preserved as part of the Flight Corps illustrious past.
Daren grimaced. He far preferred their newly designed base, without the weight of years pressing upon their shoulders.
They were guided to the immense great hall, and upon their entrance, the masses rose to their feet in a traditional welcome.
At the head table, the commander rose as well, his pristine uniform denoting his rank clearly. To either side of him, his officers stood, bodies held in perfect military rigidity.
Daren marched forward, his wing members staying in perfect step with him.
At a respectful distance from the head table, Daren stopped abruptly and snapped off a crisp salute. The commander returned it, then gestured to the seat beside him.
Daren rounded the table and took the place indicated as his riders were guided to be seated at the second table further down.
“It is good to meet you, Commander Lasrem. I have heard much about you.”
The commander was shorter than Daren, but powerful, with broad shoulders and a heavily muscled compact body. His square face was stern, hard, with a strong, stubborn jaw. It was hard to gauge his age, but Daren pegged him as perhaps ten years older than him. So forty or so.
“Good gods, I hope it was not about the Battle of Reesh. I am sick and tired of that story.” There was a surprising amount of dry humor in the words, something Daren had found to be quite rare in high military officials.
“No, sir. I heard about how you rebuilt this base after the sacking of the rebels, ten years ago.”
Lasrem raised a brow, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Not many ask about that, although I count it as the hardest trial I have gone through. I would rather fight a dozen battles than go through begging for money from government officials.”
Daren nodded, a faint smile curling the corner of his lips. “Commander Thasin would completely agree with you.”
“Ah, Thasin, the old dog. How is he doing? We used to get up to no end of trouble together, but I have not seen him for years. I heard he lost an eye?”
Daren nodded, fighting back horrific images of that day, the swarm of wyverns overcoming them, the scream of pain from his commander.
It had been Daren who had borne his unconscious body from the scene, and who had waited in the medical ward for hours, until his bruised and battered commander had regained consciousness. They shared an unbreakable bond since then. Something Daren treasured deeply.
“He did, but it healed well. He won’t cover it with a patch, enjoys the reaction of people who first see it.”
Lasrem snorted. “That would be him. Stubborn bastard. I would have come to him, but I knew he had good men at his back, and I was caught here. Sent him a letter or two, but as usual, he never wrote back.”
Daren grinned. “He hates writing. Even has someone sit with him to do his paperwork.” He lifted his mug to his lips.
Lasrem tilted his head. “Would that be Tawwen? Did Thasin finally get his head out of his ass and take the man to his bed?”
Daren almost choked on a mouthful of ale and had to swallow hastily. “Yes, Tawwen. They had history I’m understanding?” He couldn’t wait to tell the others.
“Since the academy. Tawwen is as patient as the mountains. I’m glad to hear they finally got together. They were always so good together, part of a whole.”
Daren was surprised by the romanticism of the words.
“I will introduce you to my officers after the meal.”
Daren nodded, then turned his attention to food as the servers brought platters to the head table.
The meal was rich and hearty, a necessity in this region of cold nights, blisteringly hot days, and constant patrols. The ale was the best he had ever tasted. He enjoyed the fare, starving after the hard flight. There was little talk at the high table, though he could hear occasional bursts of laughter from the lower tables. He kept an eye on his riders, who sat together, but they seemed to be fine, talking among themselves and paying no attention to the riders around them, who seemed to have pulled away from their presence, as though making a point. Whatever they intended was lost on the Anisstor riders. They were quite content with their own company.
It was no less than Daren had expected, but the politics that always seemed to surround the Corp still annoyed him. The posturing and jostling for power and place disgusted him, always had. He was proud of his riders and their disregard for such tactics.
“Two female riders,” Lasrem said. The commander followed Daren’s gaze, his eyes slightly narrowed. “That must have caused a stir in the ranks of Anisstor.”
Daren stiffened, though he tried to conceal his reaction. “Yes. They are two of the best riders I have ever had the pleasure to fly with.”
Lasrem finished the last of his meal and leaned back, contentment evident in his expression. “No need to bristle, Cap
tain. I dearly wish that we could transfer more women to this base, but the duke of our province refuses to allow women on the front lines.” His tone told of his disapproval, and Daren relaxed. He was beginning to like this man. He rarely encountered such enlightened thoughts beyond the borders of Anisstor.
“It has been a long, hard road of policy to get women into our own base, sir, but they have proven their abilities over and over, and the initial resistance is slowly dying down.”
“Good. Maybe their presence here will knock prejudices down a few throats. We have a good bunch here, but their backgrounds, many of royal lineage, leads to a lot of posturing.” The grim tone in his voice pointed to his low tolerance of any such behaviors. It made it very obvious why he had been appointed to this base.
He radiated a strength that Daren would not wish to cross.
Talk rose in the hall as the meal ended, and Daren wished he could just sit back and revel in contentment, his belly full, his body replete and satisfied.
He sighed under his breath as Commander Lasrem rose, the whole head table immediately following suit.
Lasrem clasped Daren’s shoulder and guided him to a doorway to their right. Beyond it was a small but comfortable room with a warm fireplace and leather-padded chairs ranged round numerous tables. An officer’s lounge by the look.
Lasrem turned him to face the others. “These are my current officers. We are chronically understaffed here, and the loss of our wing, with Captain Vren Jaling, has only worsened that. That is why I petitioned the king for your presence.”
Daren nodded, his eyes roaming over the five assembled men, so few in comparison to Anisstor, who fronted ten officers at any time. The front line of conflict took a hard toll on any stationed at Farfall.
“Captain Palresen Tanage, my second.” The man was as broad as Lasrem, with a quiet, piercing gaze that missed nothing.
“Captain Vatner Krans, wing master.” The one who commanded all the rider wings. He radiated authority, like he wished to beat others over the head with it, and the way he eyed Daren up and down, with nothing of respect in the gaze, made Daren immediately put this man on his list to watch carefully and trust little.
“Captain Byrant Farzin, griffon master.” The man was small, and the way he stood made it quite evident he had a chip upon his shoulder. His lean, pinched face and small, narrowed eyes made a negative impression upon Daren. The griffon master was in charge of all things related to the massive creatures within each fortress, and the attitude of the griffon master was what saw the creatures treated well or very poorly indeed. It remained to be seen which side of the coin this man would be, but Daren did not hold great hopes.
“Captain Andon Grazon, weapons master.” Cold blue eyes, like chips of waterfall ice, met his own. There was no challenge there, no degree of posturing, but the chill that radiated off the man almost made Daren shiver. He was not as tall as Daren, quite a bit shorter in fact, lean and lithe rather than powerful. A strange choice for weapons master, who was in charge of teaching the cadets and keeping the riders in fighting fitness. His hair, long and braided tightly, an old-fashioned style, was the palest blond, almost silver.
Looking into those eyes, Daren had no desire to test the man’s worthiness. Besides, Commander Lasrem did not seem the type to pander to bloodlines rather than skill. Despite the man’s chill, Daren could not help noticing how incredibly handsome he was, slightly exotic, with almond-shaped eyes. And that hair—Daren had a weakness for long hair…
He shook off the thoughts.
“Lieutenant Habnin Jaling, Captain Vren Jaling’s youngest brother, in charge of supplies and base operations.”
The young man wore no badge upon his uniform, making it evident that he had no grif and was not a rider. Looking into those dark, bitter eyes, Daren knew that lack of a grif would cause Habnin to be viewed as lesser by many in the corps. It was unfortunate. The likelihood of most men ever imprinting a grif was low at best. Daren could not understand why something that seemed like luck should make one person better than another. This man would also be grieving his brother’s loss. As the one who had come to cover for that loss, Daren would do well to keep an eye on Habnin. He doubted the man would see him as a friend.
Still, it would be interesting to see all these men in action, see them display their true personalities. Daren never took anyone for granted. There was always so much more inside than what floated on the surface of any personality. He had learned well not to mistake what was shown freely for what seethed below.
“You will work with all of them from time to time, as we integrate you and your riders into our patrols and day-to-day life,” Commander Lasrem said. “For now, go, sleep. I can see your exhaustion, and after such a long flight, it is no wonder. We will talk further tomorrow. Come see me after the noon meal and we can discuss your placement here.”
Daren felt a surge of gratitude. Most commanders would have forced him to remain in their presence for the full evening, as a sign of dominance, but not this man. His liking grew.
He headed back to his wing, back into the hubbub of the hall, his body tired but his thoughts racing through his mind. Things here might not be as bad as he’d feared if Lasrem was as good a commander as Daren hoped, but he still had his work cut out for him. The pessimist in him doubted things would be easy. Farfall had suffered a huge loss. His welcome would have to be earned.
CHAPTER TWO
Daren woke to the sound of Gretnel rumbling. His grif paced the room, head high, sniffing the air.
Daren groaned and thrust his head under the pillow, pulling the covers higher.
First day and already his grif was in a courting mood. By the gods…
By all rights, Gretnel should be sleeping for a day or two after the flight they had undergone. For him to be up and active meant a female was coming into heat.
He so did not need this.
The other males of the base would not appreciate a new male muscling in on their territory, not to mention what would happen if this female already had a mate. It was rare, but not unknown for a female grif to permanently mate with a particular male, who became insanely possessive during her heat.
Daren did not need the drama to color his introduction to all who lived here in Farfall.
The covers disappeared and he yelped, then curled into a resistant ball, holding tightly to the pillow.
Gretnel solved the issue by sweeping him up with the edge of a wing and dumping him on the floor.
The cold stone was a rude shock that had Daren up and shivering within moments of impact, swearing fluently in three languages.
His grif only made a deep-throated chortling that denoted griffon amusement, currently at his rider’s expense.
Daren threw the pillow at the annoying creature before stomping over to where his clothes hung neatly upon a rack. He chose one of his better sets of flight pants, and a tight-fitting jacket that Cansi said looked good upon him.
After all, if Gretnel won mating rights, Daren would be a happy man tonight. What drove the griffon, drove the rider. Their mind to mind link made sure that mating lust passed from grif to rider. It was one way to meet the other riders he supposed, if a trifle personal.
Gretnel’s huge head pushed him forward, and growling under his breath at his grif’s impatience, Daren strode over to unbolt the lower door. The upper door was normally kept open unless it was cold enough to warrant fireplace heating.
“You couldn’t wait? It’s barely dawn for the gods’ sake.”
Gretnel went to push past him, and Daren smacked the powerful leg nearest to reach.
“Remember, we aren’t at home. Things aren’t done the same here, so behave. They aren’t going to understand the way they do at Anisstor. Don’t embarrass me. Don’t endanger yourself.”
Daren was quite sure that he knew exactly what it felt like to be a parent.
Of a two-ton, often surly teenager.
Gretnel’s wingtip clipped his head, indicating exactly what
he thought of that little dig.
Daren rubbed his head ruefully before he left the room, giving the appearance of leading his grif toward the sand baths. It chafed at him that he could not just release Gretnel out the door and on his own business. Here, grifs would not be trusted on the loose. They must be supervised by their riders, with the clear-cut belief that they would run rampant without the control of their riders.
It made him grit his teeth.
Gretnel licked his hair, grooming, offering a degree of comfort but leaving Daren’s short, already mussed black hair in wild disarray. He stroked it back, combing his fingers through in an attempt to smooth it out.
Near the edge of the sand baths, he froze in place, hearing Gretnel give a rumble that fairly shook the ground with its deep tones and avid need, his mane flaring out in display, his wings extending to their full breadth.
The largest female Daren had ever seen was lying upon the sand, legs neatly tucked beneath her body, wings out in full extension to catch the early morning sun. She was on par with Gretnel himself, something Daren would have been quite sure was impossible before today. Females were normally quite a bit smaller than their male counterparts.
Even rarer, she was coal black, with only a small white spot in her mane lessening the inky expanse. The sun came from behind a cloud, and the black flared into iridescence, dazzling in its beauty.
Gretnel puffed up, mane on end, rumbling, displaying.
The female looked up, eyed him for a brief moment, then rested her head down on her crossed forelegs, golden eyes closing.
Never before had Gretnel encountered such complete disinterest. Usually it was him who picked and chose which female he accepted.
Daren felt the outrage and had to hold back laughter at his grif’s shock. His laughter held until the female grif’s rider appeared from behind her, brush in hand.
Daren stilled, confused, then offered greetings to Andon, the weapons master he had been introduced to the previous evening.
The man eyed him in exactly the same manner as his grif had looked at Gretnel, as though they were intruding and had best keep their distance. Andon grunted, perhaps a form of acknowledgment, perhaps a sign of dismissal, and turned away, once more applying the brush to his grif’s silken hide.