A Vanishing of Griffins

by S. A. Patrick

  When the flames stopped, Zennick took Kerna from Patch, and gave him an apologetic smile. “Babies, eh?” he said.

  Patch whimpered.

  Barver flew them higher than before, seeking the fastest airflows. He was getting more and more used to the cold thin air, something dragons struggled with. And while Barver’s wings were more dragon than griffin, they seemed to have just enough griffin in them to cope with higher altitude flying.

  Their destination was Sullimer Forest, the region Merta Strife had said was her home. After nine hours of flight, Barver spotted a vast mountain ridge close to the coast. He began to descend.

  “That must be Sullimer Knife,” he told his riders. “Now we just have to find Merta!” He let out a huge scrawwww, a deafening call that drew complaints from those on his back.

  “A bit of warning next time!” complained Wren, her hands clamped firmly over her ears.

  Barver kept repeating his call as he followed the ridge, and soon enough there was a reply. “There!” he cried. “At the base of that crag!”

  He circled, and they could all see it now: in a sheer cliff face was a cave entrance, and there was Merta, wings spread. They landed, and Merta led them into the cave where a very welcome fire burned. Patch and Wren took position in front of it.

  “How numb are your feet?” said Wren.

  “Not as numb as my fingers,” said Patch.

  Barver explained the situation to Merta, and told her of the events at Skamos. As he spoke, she grew visibly wary.

  “If we had any other choice, I wouldn’t have come to you,” said Barver. “We’re due to meet our forces in Gossamer Valley, and without scouts in the air, finding the Hamelyn Piper will be impossible! I know what I’m asking is difficult, but…”

  Merta stared at him. “Difficult?” she said. “It isn’t difficult to break the Covenant, Barver. It’s impossible! I fear you don’t understand the Griffin Covenant at all.”

  “How could I?” said Barver. “Neither griffin nor dragon seem to count me as their own. My father taught me a little, but…”

  Merta nodded. “He thought he had more time,” she said. “You cannot blame him. There are things that griffins aren’t told until they come of age. Things they are sworn to secrecy about. I will tell you what I can. At the heart of the Griffin Covenant is a simple idea: lives are precious, and conscious beings are most precious of all. The mindful species of this world – that’s to say, the griffins, dragons and humans – have a sacred duty. We are the means by which the universe itself thinks.”

  Wren frowned, looking at Barver. “I thought griffins didn’t do religion?”

  Merta laughed gently. “We don’t,” she said. “I mean nothing mystical by it.” She reached to the cave floor, picking up a handful of dirt and rubbing it, letting it fall from her hand as she spoke. “This stuff, this soil, is not alive. But from it, plants grow – life emerges. You don’t need to see gods in everything to find that miraculous! And then, in only our three species, life gives form to another miracle, that of reason, the means to look at what exists, and find beauty in it. The universe can see itself, and discover wonder, through us!”

  Wren caught Patch’s eye; she was clearly unimpressed, but Patch quite liked the notion.

  “That,” said Merta, “is at the heart of the Covenant. Respect for each other, be it griffin, human, or dragon, because whatever differs between us, there’s more that connects us. To endanger such life is a terrible thing!”

  “But griffin pilots risk their lives all the time,” said Barver.

  “You misunderstand me,” said Merta. “Risking your own life, especially to save another, is an honourable act of courage. But to actively seek to endanger lives? Do you know what blasphemy is, Barver?”

  “Of course,” he said. “In a religion, blasphemy is an offence against whatever gods you believe in. Not showing respect to something sacred. For dragons, using black diamond is blasphemy against the Gods of Fire and Scale.”

  “Exactly!” said Merta. “And while griffins have no gods, to us the lives of the mindful species are sacred. To disrespect them is blasphemy. And the greatest blasphemy of all? Surely that’s obvious?”

  “War,” said Barver.

  “Yes,” she said. “Griffins despise war, above all else.”

  “But I’m not asking griffins to fight in a war,” said Barver. “I’m asking them to help stop an evil man gaining more power than any of us can imagine! As a Pila, I know you can give a griffin leniency with their Covenant. The griffins working as Protectors needed that.”

  “This is not the same thing,” said Merta. “Not at all! You want griffins to enter disputed territory, where neighbouring nations are rumoured to be preparing their armies! It may not be a war now, but you’re asking us to risk triggering one! A Pila can give a griffin leniency with their Covenant, as you said. But this is too serious even for a Pila to decide.”

  “It couldn’t be more serious!” said Barver. “My mother taught me about the End of the Skies, Merta – where black diamond leads to chaos, and the destruction of everything. If the Hamelyn Piper’s plan succeeds, that’s exactly what would happen. Every creature in this world would have to bend to his will. Human, dragon and griffin. All of us, slaves!”

  Merta nodded. “Slavery is a kind of death,” she said. She folded her wings tightly, and closed her eyes, deep in thought. At last, she opened her eyes again. “There is a way,” she said. “A higher authority you can appeal to, higher even than the Pilas, but the journey will be perilous and difficult. Can you withstand the cold, Barver? The high airways don’t seem to trouble you much, the way they trouble dragons, but there is another pathway in the skies, higher still, and even colder. Have you heard of the lacherbrooks?” Barver shook his head. “The highest and fastest of all the windways! Up there, the winds are so fast and unpredictable, they can gather up an unwary flier and break every bone in their body – or freeze them to death in an instant! No dragon can navigate them, and even if they could, the cold thin air would quickly render them unconscious. Yet there are places in the world that can only be reached by using them, and we must go to one such place. Just us two, mind – the lacherbrooks are unsurvivable for human passengers. I warn you, you must make every turn I make, and match my speed at all times, or else the lacherbrooks will have you for their dinner…”

  “You don’t have to do this, Barver!” said Wren. “It sounds too dangerous!”

  “She’s right,” said Patch. “There must be another way.”

  Alia scowled. “Where are you taking him, Merta?” she said.

  Merta looked at them all. “This is Barver’s choice, and his alone,” she said. “It is dangerous, but if you want the help of griffins, this is the only way.”

  All eyes turned to Barver. “I have to try,” he said.

  “Wait here,” Merta told the three humans. “We’ll return by sunset tomorrow.” She turned to Barver. “Follow me,” she said.

  She led him out of the cave and into the sky. As he was about to take wing he signed to Patch and Wren, the simplest of Merisax signs: an open palm, as if about to wave, becoming a closing fist, like catching a moth; then, bringing the closed fist to his heart. They repeated it back to him, as did Alia. It was a sign that meant many things, like good luck and be safe, but it meant one thing most of all.

  Friendship.

  Up they flew, higher than Barver had flown in his life, up where the thin air made each breath a struggle, and the cold wind threatened to freeze the blood in his wings. This was no place for a dragon, certainly; only a griffin could make use of the currents this far up, and Barver wondered if there was enough griffin in him to cope.

  They would stay in a current for only minutes at a time before Merta would take them to a different one. These were dangerous winds they were navigating, but Merta knew them well, calling out a warning when she turned sharply to one side to avoid turbulent air – invisible to Barver, although the signs must have been there for M
erta to know.

  He knew he was flying faster than he’d ever gone in his life, but it was the currents themselves that were the cause of the speed.

  Merta fell back a little to join his side. “How are your wings?” she called. “A dragon’s wings would have seized up long before they reached these heights.”

  “They feel like they’re about to cramp,” he replied. “I’m not sure I can go much further.”

  “A normal reaction,” said Merta. “Try this!” She folded her wings to her side, then rapidly pushed them back out, the action fast enough to avoid much loss of height. Barver tried it, and although he wasn’t quite as graceful, he could feel his wings loosen up. “The greatest danger here is loss of consciousness,” said Merta. “If you feel that happening, call out! I’ll guide you down to a lower current until you’re ready to ascend again!”

  North they went, for hour after hour: then, far below, he saw the frozen wastelands of the Jennum Desert – a desert of ice rather than sand, that was as far north as any human had ever ventured. On and on, beyond the range of humans; beyond the range of dragons. And they did not stop. The ice below was soon replaced by the dark grey of old volcanic rock, and ahead a range of mountains rose from the flat plains.

  Barver thought of the globe in the Caves of Casimir, and of every map he’d ever seen. There weren’t supposed to be mountains here, only desolate plains. Ice for a thousand miles.

  “How is this possible?” he cried. “How can nobody know of this place?”

  “Because they cannot reach it!” said Merta. “Yet for a Pila, it’s easy to reach.”

  “Easy?” said Barver. “If I tried this alone I’d be dead fifty times over!”

  “True enough!” she said. “Transition to the wrong current, and you’d always get a surprise! Frozen solid in a minute, or hurtling to the ground! That’s as it should be, Barver. All griffins are brought here when they come of age. To become a Pila, you must be able to find the way here alone.”

  She led him down through the currents, slowing with each change, and soon they were out of the lacherbrooks, and even out of the high windways.

  Sudden gusts buffeted them as they approached those impossible mountains, flying towards one peak in particular. It was not the largest of them, certainly, but it was a strange formation, oddly flat at the top.

  “Keep close,” cried Merta. “The winds swirl here in ways you’ve never experienced.”

  They flew closer to the strange mountain, and her warnings of dangerous swirls were borne out. Never before had Barver fought the wind so hard to stay aloft; never before had it felt like the air itself had a vendetta against him.

  When they landed, he was so out of breath that it took him a full minute to notice what he should have seen in an instant.

  They had landed on an outcrop halfway up the mountain, at the base of a cliff face of near-flat rock, and in that rock was a door, at the centre of a vast carving in the rock itself. The carving rose for three hundred feet above them, symmetrical patterns of incredible intricacy. And within those patterns, Barver could see holes – windows – and he thought of Tiviscan Castle, and the oldest, deepest parts, which had been carved from the rock thousands of years ago.

  In awe, he walked to the door – a double doorway, perhaps eighty feet high and the same in width. Merta was beside him.

  “Is this…” he said, struggling for words. “Is this a castle?”

  “Castle?” said Merta. She seemed amused by the thought. “You’ll see, soon enough.” And with that, Merta let out a great griffin call, then stood in silence, waiting.

  Barver was overflowing with questions, but he held his tongue. The huge doors began to open, with no sound save the howling wind accompanying them. Merta strode forward, and Barver did the same.

  Inside the doors was a long corridor, as tall and wide as the doorway. As they walked along it, Barver could see entryways to other passages on each side, but those passages were in darkness and he couldn’t tell how deep they went. Ahead was a second set of vast doors, shut tight.

  “How big is it?” he asked. “This building, carved into the mountain?”

  “Answers will come,” said Merta. “The chamber we are about to enter, we call the Eyrie.” When they reached the Eyrie’s entrance, the outer doors swung shut behind them. They were in total darkness. “The Eyrie is a secret place, where the oldest Pila have come to live, withdrawn from the world. When any Pila faces a question of great importance, they come here to consult with the wisest of us all. It’s also where griffins are brought when they come of age, to take the Covenant.”

  Minutes passed. Barver was sure he could hear movement from beyond the door ahead. Movement, and voices.

  At last those other doors opened, revealing a bright chamber, a wide circle and a domed ceiling. The dome and the floor were carved in the same kind of intricate pattern that had covered the cliff face.

  “Stand here,” said Merta. “You can plead your case when the time comes, but there will be business to attend to first. I must go ahead, and the doors will close again, so be patient.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You’ll hear us call – a ceremonial call, there’ll be no mistaking it! These doors will open again. Then you must enter, and stand in the centre of the Eyrie. Show reverence, and answer the questions put to you. Good luck!”

  Barver nodded. He watched as Merta entered the Eyrie and the doors closed, plunging him back into darkness. He could hear the muffled sounds of speech; a long discussion, some of it angry. Then the ceremonial call began. As Merta had promised, it was unmistakable.

  One by one, the individual calls came: the high screeches of griffins, yes, but each call was a note, and the combination was a song, of sorts – a single drawn-out chord, each griffin’s call lasting as long as the breath, then beginning again once a new breath was taken. There was sorrow in the sound: a deep melancholy. Yet there were other things there too. Beauty, and courage, and joy. These feelings grew in Barver’s heart, and he could not explain how they could be brought about by such a simple combination of calls, five in all – no, six, he realized.

  Then, as each call faded, instead of a breath and beginning again, the callers fell silent. Soon there was only the sound of the wind playing among the rocks outside.

  And the doorway began to open.

  Barver walked into the Eyrie.

  Above him, the domed roof had three large circles open to the sky. He stared at the holes, baffled; given their position deep in the rock halfway up a mountain, he’d assumed that the light came from lanterns of some form, or had a magical source like the Caves of Casimir. How was the sky visible?

  Ahead of him, five griffins were crouched in recesses carved into rock. None of them looked particularly old, but that was the way with griffins. Beyond a certain time of life, they tended not to age outwardly, the way humans and dragons did. Only when they moved or spoke would an old griffin give away any problems that their age had wrought.

  Merta was standing at the far left of the gathered griffins, a welcome familiar face. Barver took his position in the centre of the chamber.

  “Merta Strife,” said the blue-grey female in the middle of the five. “Please make your introductions.”

  “I will,” said Merta. “This is Barver Knopferkerkle, son of Gaverry Tenso, griffin, and Lykeffa Knopferkerkle, dragon. He has come here with an urgent request for assistance, in a situation that would be considered a breach of Covenant for any griffin who comes to his aid. He seeks a ruling from the Eyrie on the matter.”

  The blue-grey female looked at Barver. “Make your plea.”

  The rightmost griffin, a green male, scoffed. “You’re no griffin, boy. The Covenant is not for you, yet you dare to ask for others to be released from their oath? Why should we even hear you out?”

  “He has come to the Eyrie,” said Merta. “The law says his request must be considered.”

  “Nonsense!” said the green male. “The law applie
s to griffins, and griffins alone!”

  Another of them, a grey-and-black male, laughed gently. “Merta’s right,” he said. “The law says that anyone who flies here to stand in the Eyrie must be heard. It makes no mention of them being a griffin.”

  “A technicality!” said the green male. “The lawmakers saw no need to state it, but that was clearly what they meant! If not, where do you draw the line? Would you listen to a dragon?”

  “Barver is not a dragon,” said Merta, her voice calm. “He flew here, something no dragon could do! He has the right to be heard. He is half-dragon, yes, but would you tell him to disown his mother, before you listen?”

  The griffins leaned over to one another, discussing in whispers. At last, the blue-grey female spoke again. “Very well,” she said. “Go ahead, Barver.”

  Barver told them about the Hamelyn Piper’s obsidiac armour; he told them how all dragons were forbidden from helping them; he told them of how Skamos had been destroyed.

  Throughout all this, the griffins listened in silence. But when he explained the need for griffins to act as military scouts, there were gasps. He saw a look of outrage on the green griffin’s face, and the griffins began their whispers again, the discussions growing ever louder, becoming arguments, the noise filling the chamber.

  “There is a dragon legend,” said Barver, almost shouting to be heard. “The End of the Skies!” At that, the arguments subsided and the griffins listened to him once more. “It tells of black diamond, freed from the earth, and how all life is destroyed in the chaos that follows.”

  “Dragons and griffins share many myths,” said the grey-and-black male. “There are differences, of course, but the most ancient of our tales are almost identical. The Lords of the Night Kingdoms. The End of the Skies.”

  “The End of the Skies is upon us!” said Barver. “The world – this whole world, dragon, human, griffin – will fall to evil. The Hamelyn Piper seeks absolute power.”