by Jess E. Owen
Her eyes widened. “As Groa said you could?”
She spoke of the spirit of a gryfon priestess who had appeared to Shard, and taught him about dreaming. He ducked his head, lowering his voice. He didn’t want everyone to hear, just yet. “I’ll tell you more after supper.”
“I hope you do,” she said quietly, following his cue. “And Kjorn.”
“Of course,” Shard said softly, and leaned in to touch his beak to Brynja’s cheek. “I must see to the fires now.”
He backed away and mantled to her, and she to him with a concerned look. Then she slipped away to help with the division of fish for supper, and as the last of the Vanir swam or flew from the water, Shard left to light the evening fires. Since Shard had acquired fire stones in the Sunland, they didn’t have to keep fires burning all night and all day as they once had at the Dawn Spire—Brynja’s home, and where Shard had first seen gryfons using fire at all. Now they rebuilt the fires every night, to give themselves warmth, and more time in the evening to see and to plan.
Remembering Ketil’s original purpose in speaking to him, Shard reminded himself to seek out Frar, the first and oldest of the exiled Vanir who had come to his beacon in the Outlands nearly a month ago, and reassure him that they would not send any unwilling Vanir into battle again.
Stigr found him as he struck sparks onto the last of the brush piles.
“Well Ketil’s in a crosswind,” Stigr said, sounding more amused than anything. “And she’s complaining to everyone but me. What did you do this time?”
“The same as every time.” Of course Ketil wouldn’t go to Stigr. Though he was Shard’s closest friend and relative present, a leader among the Vanir, he too had inadvertently bonded with an Aesir huntress. This must have disqualified him, in Ketil’s estimation, from offering any help to sort out Shard’s affairs.
“She still wants you to mate with that daughter of hers?”
“Or any Vanir, but I’m sure Keta is her first choice.” They backed away as the tinder caught and the blaze crawled over the dry wood.
Stigr watched the fire with his single eye, pale moss-green like Shard’s eyes, though Shard didn’t resemble his uncle in any other way. Half a head shorter, slighter, and gray of feather rather than black, Shard could only really claim his uncle’s teachings to give them similarity. “Best of luck. I know you won’t let them bully you.”
Grateful for his uncle’s simple, uncomplicated assessment, Shard nodded once. It was beyond the scope of any gryfon to meddle in another’s mating decision, and while Shard wished his decision was less complicated, he would choose no other.
“Thank you, Uncle.” He was about to tell Stigr about the dream when the old Vanir spoke again.
“Meanwhile,” he said, turning from the fire, “Kjorn needs you. Come with me.”
~2~
Pride of the Lake
THE GRYFON TERRITORY CALLED the Ostral Shores was a series of blunt hills and hollows around the shore of the great lake. Beyond that, the land stretched away again into long, grassy plains and more unforgiving desert. In the hollows on the starward shore of the lake, gryfons had dug their dens. Usually by the dark of night they’d all gone in to sleep, but now they gathered around fires to eat and talk.
One bluff rose above the rest, stretching at least twenty leaps in length and just as much in height. It was there that the leaders of the Ostral Shore pride had gathered, in the light of a bonfire. A few dens were dug into the side of that bluff near its extremities, but the main and highest crown served as a meeting place, much like the King’s Rocks in the Silver Isles. During the day, they met on top, but now in the windy night, they relished the fire in the protected embrace of the bluff.
Kjorn stood in a ring of gryfons around the fire, listening to gryfons argue about why they would not join him, or why they should, and whether or not they trusted him.
Five clans who called themselves Lakelanders made their home at the Ostral Shore, with two gryfons representing each clan. Kjorn had learned these were not necessarily the wisest of their number, but the largest and the loudest.
“You’ve heard my plan,” Kjorn said, quietly so they were forced to quiet as well. “My wingbrother and I will visit each gryfon clan, as well as the painted dogs, the lions, and the eagles, gain their alliance, and rid the Winderost of the wyrm scourge. Then I shall return to the Dawn Spire, as is my birthright.”
A burly, heavily-muscled and pale gryfon with a bit of middle-aged gut paced before the bluff, the fire casting his shadow five times as large behind him.
“And if you fail?” he demanded. His words slurred a bit with extra breath, for the tip of his beak was chipped. Fresh injury, Kjorn thought, and realized this gryfon fought at the Battle of Torches. “Why should we bow again to a king of the Dawn Spire? Not even a king, an exile. All these pretty promises you make, with not a talon to back you.”
“He’d like our talons, Lofgar,” growled a female. Just as tall, silver-gray in color with an entirely black head, she cut a haunting shape against the fire. “You leaped into battle quick enough before.”
“Are you afraid?” a familiar voice asked Lofgar.
Kjorn looked along their number for that voice, and saw a friend. All assembled were seasoned, hearty, large warriors, but Asvander stood out among them. He was not a leader of the Ostral Shore yet, but his father was, and Kjorn saw how he was at odds with them. Asvander had chosen to serve as a warrior of the Dawn Spire where a different king ruled, a king who had taken over when Kjorn’s grandfather fled to the Silver Isles. “Your beak will grow back, but withered courage is a cursed vine.”
“Say that again, whelp,” roared Lofgar, turning to face Asvander, his tail whipping the flames. “I fear nothing. I’ll fight tonight if you like. But whether I do so in the name of the Ostral Shores or in the name of Kjorn and the Dawn Spire is the question, here.”
“I say it is time for us to reunite,” Asvander said, his voice like iron. “The line of Kajar has returned.”
Though they had once been allies, most of the Lakelander clans had abandoned the Dawn Spire when Kjorn’s grandfather left the Winderost. Shard told Kjorn that Asvander had been a rival, then a friend to him at the Dawn Spire, brazen and steadfast. He stood as strong as any among them, with iron-gray, falcon coloring and a black mask running over his eyes.
“Quiet your kit, Asrik,” Lofgar growled to an older yet mirror-version gryfon who stood beside Asvander. “He speaks out of turn.”
“Mind your own nest,” Asrik said, but didn’t look at Asvander. Kjorn noted the tension. Shard had told him they’d been estranged when Asvander left for the Dawn Spire, but with Kjorn’s return there seemed hope to unite the Ostral Shores and the Dawn Spire again. Still Asrik seemed disappointed in his son’s decisions, among other things.
Lofgar huffed. “Asvander will follow anyone on their way to the Dawn Spire.”
“Blind loyalty is worse than caution,” warned the black-headed female. Scars lined her face and flanks with near artistry, Kjorn thought, countless tokens of skirmishes and battles won. He hoped not to cross or insult any of these gryfons. They were generous hosts, and would be even more powerful enemies. “Lofgar is right. The question at stake is who we are serving.”
“Did you not leave the Dawn Spire as a show of loyalty to Per the Red?” Asvander demanded. The others remained quiet as he spoke. “To show all that we follow only the true king of the Winderost?”
Kjorn remained quiet. Though Asvander was in disfavor with some of the gryfons there, he knew it was better to let one of their own make the argument, rather than himself, a near stranger. He admired Asvander, knowing how painful it was to make a stand against friends and family.
Asvander turned in a circle, as if to encompass them and all that had happened, and faced the fire again. “And now his grandson has returned and offers us a chance for glory, a chance to renew our oaths, and we stand here nattering like old gulls?”
At his words, all eyes turn
ed at last to Kjorn again. He lifted his head a fraction, knowing who he was to them, knowing his own legacy. Son of red Sverin, Prince of the Aesir in the Silver Isles, he stood tall among them, more leanly-muscled than Asvander but taller. His feathers gleamed like gold, his eyes summer blue like his mother’s, a rare trait that identified him for all. A trickle of true gold glinted from his feathers, a thin chain that had belonged to his father.
Lofgar shuffled, ruffling his feathers. “I won’t serve an untested exile.”
“He’s not untested.”
Shard’s voice filled Kjorn with relief, and all turned to see where he approached, with his uncle.
Stigr dipped his head to all, and Shard murmured a greeting. The changes in Shard still surprised Kjorn, and he wondered if he looked the same. Older, a bit haggard, lean, but Shard’s eyes always shone now with the prospect of going home, of returning his lost Vanir to the Silver Isles and making things right. Before, his fine features and green eyes had always been a friendly sight for Kjorn, now they were something more. Now he was grown up, a fellow prince, a strong ally.
The Summer King, Kjorn thought, with a touch of chagrin.
“And these,” the scarred female said warily. “How much longer is your pride to enjoy our hospitality, son of Baldr?”
“Not more than a moon,” Shard said, moving to Kjorn’s side. Kjorn drew in a large breath, hoping to gain some resolve. “Once they’ve fully recovered, once they’ve learned swimming and sea flight, and once the enemy is overthrown. I will stay to support Kjorn, with any of my number who are willing. Some of them will travel when Kjorn and I leave in two days. We will help him to reunite the gryfon clans who splintered when Per left, and we’ll help to rid the Winderost of the enemy wyrms.”
His announcement had the desired effect, and Kjorn heard Stigr’s soft rumble of approval. There Shard stood, nearly two heads shorter than Kjorn, dull gray and wiry, with a single thick scar on a hind leg to hint that he’d ever survived any real battle. They’d all seen him fight at the Battle of Torches, seen him face and challenge the wyrms alone, and knew his appearance was deceptive.
Kjorn certainly knew that his appearance was deceptive.
Still, his announcement was a challenge. The Lakelanders shifted, casting glances over the fire to each other uneasily.
“Here now,” said Asvander loudly. “That’s more like it. If this foreign prince has pledged his lot in, and he with no more to gain here, how can we do less? He could flee, yet he stays. He stays out of love for his wingbrother, he stays to right the wrong in this land—”
“He stays to court,” said an older male near Lofgar, badly scarred along his flanks as if he’d been burned. “Or so I heard. Isn’t that right, Asvander?”
“Shut your beak,” Asrik said, as Asvander’s ears slicked back.
Kjorn’s feathers prickled and he tried to catch Asvander’s gaze, but Asvander didn’t look his way again. The argument had to do with Brynja, and a former arrangement the current king of the Dawn Spire had for her and Asvander to mate, though neither of them particularly wanted to. Then, Shard and Brynja had met, and Kjorn returned, giving the possibility that any bad promises made under the old king might not have to be kept. Apparently, to the Lakelanders, this cast Asvander in further dishonor.
Meanwhile, Kjorn couldn’t afford to go so far off topic.
“More to the point,” he said, raising his voice before the rest of the Lakelanders could resume their quarreling, “he stays. Several of you fought beside us at the Battle of Torches, and boldly. Your own pride joined us. Why is the next fight even a question? Families are separated between the Ostral Shores, the Dawn Spire, and exiles who’ve sickened of our bickering and left to roam free. Shall we continue this way? Or shall we band together again, oust the great wyrms and reclaim our land and our peace and freedom?”
“And under your name?” Lofgar asked, slyly.
Kjorn looked at him, perking his ears at the challenge. “Yes. As united gryfons of the Winderost. Under my name and in the name of the Dawn Spire, but for each other, in brotherhood.”
The fire shivered and sparks popped high into the night. Kjorn saw the light of Tyr in their faces, the thought of fierce battle and glory. To be among the gryfons who drove the scourge from the Winderost . . .
Kjorn latched on to the glimmer of interest. “Are the Lakelanders not the most famed warrior pride in the Winderost?” he demanded, when no one spoke again. “For what reason do you shrink from battle now? In two days I will leave to speak with others in the Winderost, and what shall I tell them of you?”
The scarred female spoke. “How do we know you won’t flee again, like Per, and Sverin?”
The names sent a prickle of frustration under his feathers, but he managed to keep them smooth, calm. “Because I’ve come home, of my own accord. I will not abandon the Winderost, no matter the enemy.”
“How do we know you’ll win the Dawn Spire?” asked Asrik, quietly.
“You don’t,” Kjorn said, turning to him as he felt the tide turning. “But I intend to, and when I do, all loyalty will be rewarded.”
“Is that why you fight?” Stigr asked Asrik and the others mildly, and his low voice drew several stern glares. “For reward?”
“Silence, Outlander,” Lofgar growled. “This isn’t your affair.”
Stigr drew himself up, wiry and shorter than the average Lakelander, but in the orange light his presence seemed as large as any of them. “It is now. I am a warrior of the Dawn Spire. I’ll fight the cursed wyrms, again, and I’ll see my nephew’s wingbrother retake the highest tier. I’ll do it one-winged, half blind, and with no assurance that we’ll win. What will you do? Wait ‘til you have promises and treaties and assurance from all other gryfons that they’ll bow to Kjorn before he stands again as king?”
As if skyfire struck the group, they fell silent again, checking each other with their gazes.
“There you are,” Kjorn said, flushed with gratitude and pride. Not so long ago, Stigr had not been such a friend, not until Kjorn had proven himself to the exiled Vanir. “Will you do less than this warrior of the Silver Isles? Show me the descendants of Oster. Show me the pride of the lake, my friends, the might of the Ostral clans. I am not here to bribe and beg, but to offer you a new age.”
He opened his golden wings to blazing effect in the light of the fire, and a couple of gryfons stepped back from the brightness of him. “The greatest battle of our time is upon us, and you argue whether or not you’ll partake? We should not be arguing if, but when, and having to fight off every eager fledge from begging to join us! I don’t ask for you to grovel and call me king, I ask for you to join me in glorious battle. And yes, maybe die, and join Tyr in the Sunlit Land, to be remembered forever in new songs from the end of this age.”
He tilted his head, eyeing each gryfon who stood around the fire as the words rushed to him. “And those who do not die, I ask to stand victorious with me in a place of honor. Stand in Tyr’s light, at the end of our longer lives, and say I defeated the great enemy. I was there.”
Hard light angled their faces as they stared, as the fire shifted the light over them, and Kjorn saw them caving. All around them, other gryfons had fallen quiet, ears turned to him. Stigr watched him with gruff, keen admiration. Even Shard, who Kjorn knew had little stomach left for war, seemed caught up in the vision.
“You,” muttered the scarred female, “will be called a poet king.”
Kjorn gave a harsh laugh, and folded his wings. “But will I also be called friend, brother, and lord of the Ostral Shores?”
A collective breath. Eyes drifted, and landed on Asrik. Heads dipped, acknowledging he would speak for the group.
Kjorn let his gaze flick around the faces as Asvander’s father gathered his thoughts. He knew that they wouldn’t be won over by mere words, even if their hearts had pounded at his statement. Maybe it was poetic, he thought wryly, but it was also true. He hoped they saw that.
“You hav
e the lake,” Asrik murmured, and most looked heartily in agreement. Kjorn began to speak, warming with triumph, but Asrik arched his head up, lifting his wings. “You have us for battle, every able talon. You have us to route the enemy. After that, after . . . if you’re still alive, we’ll discuss our relations with the Dawn Spire.”
So much was implied in that simple statement, Kjorn thought, that nothing more needed to be said. But he had them for the moment. He had them for the battle. And surely, after they had seen him unite the Winderost and win in battle, they would wish to pledge to him.
After. If Kjorn was still alive. If any of them were. Kjorn bowed his head to all of them. “Then our victory is assured.”
“Come,” Asrik said, “it’s time for supper.”
That was met with loud and boisterous agreement. Some brushed Kjorn as they passed, wishing fair winds, looking aflame and ready to fight.
Lofgar thunked a wing against Kjorn’s chest in a not-unfriendly way. “Pretty words, son of Sverin, but I hope you won’t be making many long speeches.”
“I hope so too, son of Ofgar, and I’m glad to have your strength.”
Lofgar paused, as if surprised that Kjorn knew him so well, then ruffled his feathers. “Aye, you should be.” He turned and roared for someone to bring him meat—Kjorn flicked his ears back from the volume of it—and the Lakelander strode off to find his fellows.
Kjorn stood still as the rest dispersed, and when enough had left, sagged against Shard.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Shard chuckled, nudging a wing. “I hardly did anything.”
“You came to my side,” Kjorn said quietly, watching the orange flames, letting his pounding heart settle. “You make my words stronger.”
Kjorn sensed Stigr watching them, then the black gryfon slipped away with the rest. He was relieved they had become allies, for a rift between Shard’s mentor and himself would’ve made Shard’s tasks that much harder, and weighed on his heart. Now he seemed optimistic, strong and hopeful, which helped Kjorn to feel all those things too.