The Golden Griffin (Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  And then, he thought, what about another person? Could you put yourself into the body and mind of a Kratian camel driver from the southern deserts? Or what about a griffin rider, with tolerance for heights and cold and with pale skin and dark hair. How about changing sex? Could a male wizard transform himself into a female wizard and vice versa? Somehow that seemed even stranger than trotting around with a pair of goat legs attached to your waist and a keen appetite for weeds and bark.

  Darik struggled when they reached the steepest part of the mountain. He still hadn’t spotted Narud, but Markal was ahead, using all four legs for extra jumping power and to catch his footing. Occasionally, a hoof would slip and disturb a shower of pebbles, but for the most part he blended into the rocks, a silent gray shape among thousands and thousands of silent gray shapes.

  Darik had to use both hooves plus his hands to keep climbing. The drop below was two hundred feet now, then three hundred a few minutes later. If he lost his balance, he’d bounce down the hillside until he lay broken and dead at the bottom. But the transformation left him with no fear of heights.

  They crested the first ridge, followed a trail along the spine of the mountain for several miles, then tackled the second, larger mountain at its rear. Here they found Narud, who tore up tufts of grass and chewed contentedly. He stared at Darik and let out a long, honking bleat.

  “Yeah, I know. I tried and this is what I got.”

  The two wizards shared a bleated conversation, then the three of them—Darik included—ate for several minutes. The wildflowers had different flavors, some rich and hearty, even nutty-flavored, and others sweet and refreshing. Who knew? He hoped his gut could handle the strange diet. Goodness knows, he’d stuffed his face and chewed until his jaw hurt. Still he wanted more.

  Yet he was happy to leave the meadow and climb into the gray stone again where he felt more camouflaged, as well as protected by the steep mountain from predators on the ground. Not that they were ever completely out of danger. Large birds of prey soared on currents overhead, and once he spotted a wild griffin. It suddenly didn’t look so friendly. Markal and Narud froze in place, and Darik crouched behind a rock.

  Fortunately, the griffin was speeding south and didn’t linger over the mountains to hunt. Moments later, it was out of sight, and the mostly goat party continued up the mountain. The forests and fields of Eriscoba stretched to the west for miles and miles before they disappeared into green haze.

  Fat white clouds drifted over the landscape; one of them carried a castle. Darik supposed he was thousands of feet above the plains now, and this particular cloud hung low in the sky, where he actually looked down at the castle and its fields. The Cloud Kingdoms had dissipated since the Battle of Arvada, but this one was a reminder that they were still there, watching and waiting. But for what?

  The party continued climbing until dusk, and Darik was surprised at how well he could see when the light faded. He was fresh and lively and had no problems keeping up with the two wizards as they pressed on in the dark.

  They climbed over the top of the shortest of three peaks standing side by side, but even so they were at the very limits of the tree line. Gnarled, twisted trunks clung to the lichen-covered stone.

  Markal stopped and bleated at Narud. The other wizard shook his head, bleated back some sort of argument, then trotted away. Darik made to follow, but Markal blocked his path. Then, once again, Darik’s attention drew elsewhere, and when he looked back, Markal stood in front of him.

  The wizard plucked the orb off the ground and rubbed it with a handful of wildflowers. He sniffed it, made a face, then it disappeared into his cloak. He stretched his arms and shoulders, and they made popping noises.

  “Where did Narud go?” Darik asked.

  “Scouting ahead. Again. Or so he says. Most likely, he went to cavort with the wild goats.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by cavorting, and I’m not sure I want to find out.”

  “I never ask for details. It’s best not to know.”

  Markal and Darik collected fallen branches, bleached by the sun and cold, and used them to construct a windbreak between two rocks. Except for the whistling breeze, it was quiet up top and the wizard said they were safe from predators at that height, at least until daylight.

  “We’ll come down the other side in the morning,” Markal said. “There’s a deer trail, then a couple of tricky river crossings, but it’s manageable. No more goat travels for us.”

  Darik looked down at his legs. “Then why haven’t I changed back yet?”

  “You don’t have that much control. It will happen eventually on its own.”

  “It had better.”

  “It will, don’t worry.”

  “I could have carried supplies. But you sent the horses off before we had any idea if I’d manage the spell or not.”

  “I thought you were ready. Mostly, you were. Next time, I’m sure. Anyway, we’ll find more supplies in a day or two. There are griffin towers dotting the hills to the south. Maybe we’ll even see Daria again.”

  “I hope not. Not like this.”

  “Most likely, you’ll change back in the night. You’ll wake up wrapped in your cloak, wearing your pants and boots, and with nothing more than a grassy bellyache to remind you of your goat adventure.”

  “But if not, you’ll fix me up?”

  “If you haven’t changed by morning, I’ll take care of it. Meanwhile, are you cold? There’ll be frost tonight. I can loan you my cloak or start a fire.”

  Darik considered. “Actually, I feel fine. Don’t mountain goats get cold?”

  “Not in this weather, they don’t.”

  #

  Markal shook Darik awake before daylight. He and Narud—in human form again—stood silhouetted with the moon at their backs. Stars glittered across the sky.

  When Darik rose, he was relieved to discover he had his own legs again and was dressed, just as Markal had predicted. Nothing but a lingering tingle in his feet reminded him of the hooves he’d hiked on the previous day. His right hand was stiff and aching. The skin was black and sloughing off. He tucked it inside his jerkin to keep it out of sight.

  They’d broken the back of the mountain range and made swift progress descending the other side. Narud had scouted ahead and discovered Chantmer’s trail, only a few miles away.

  Dawn soon stained the eastern horizon. When the wind shifted, Darik caught a whiff of desert sand and the musty scent of spice bushes. He suffered a sudden nostalgic twinge for the spice markets of Balsalom. For riding in a camel train with his father on trading missions. Then it was gone, and in its wake the dense, green smell of the forest remained.

  The bloated, gassy feel dissipated throughout the morning. Hunger replaced it. Other than a few scavenged berries, they had nothing. But Darik hadn’t ridden seven hundred miles with Roderick’s knights without suffering a few days of short rations. He tightened his belt to clamp down the pangs, and continued without complaint.

  In early afternoon, Markal led them up and down a steep deer trail, into a copse of birch, then suddenly into a clearing. A slender stone tower stretched among the trees. Ivy climbed to the upper windows. Darik’s heart jumped in anticipation. He started forward, but Narud put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  “Be careful,” the old wizard said. “We still smell like goats. If griffins are in the aerie, but the riders are out, I’d rather not be taken for a meal.”

  “Hello!” Markal called. “Is anyone there?”

  There was no answer.

  “We’re friends of Daria Flockheart,” Darik shouted. “We have news.”

  “Do we?” Markal asked.

  “Don’t you always?”

  There was still no answer, nor a curious beaked head poking out of the aerie to check them out. They approached the front door and banged on the thick, iron-bound oak planks. Still nothing. Markal pushed it open. It creaked on wooden hinges.

  The interior rooms had about what you’d expect i
n a griffin tower: clothing, bedding, kitchenware on hooks above the hearth. But a layer of dust clung to everything, and spiderwebs filled the corners. A pair of pheasants hung in the pantry, but they had spoiled weeks ago. Mice droppings spotted the floor, and several bats roosted in the rafters of the aerie. No griffins.

  The three of them took it in without discussing what it meant. They all knew. Many riders and their mounts had fallen in the battle. With their small numbers, this hidden redoubt might sit quiet and forgotten forever, until one day the vines pulled it to the ground.

  Darik found a slender sword in a trunk. It was like the kind Daria carried, down to the oak leaves tooled into the leather sheath. He strapped it on and drew the weapon. He tested its balance in his good hand.

  Markal found some oatmeal in a bin that had escaped the attention of rodents. They cooked up a bland porridge, then set out again.

  An hour later, Narud disappeared. One moment he was bringing up the rear. The next, he was gone.

  Darik cleared his throat. “Should I be worried that your friend is gone?”

  Markal stopped with an exasperated sigh. “Not again. How long?”

  “I just noticed. So you didn’t know?”

  “No. And I think I’ve picked up Chantmer’s trail again. I wanted to drop down to the plains, but that will bring us up next to the wasteland. Right into the Desolation, in fact.”

  “Can we do that?”

  “I can’t. Narud, maybe. Depends on his mood. He’s certainly capable of cutting a path right through. And it seems like whoever is leading Chantmer can manage it too.”

  “Any chance Narud went ahead to prepare the way?” Darik asked.

  “There’s a chance of anything with that fool. Most likely, he found an interesting creature to follow. But he might have also wandered off on some other purpose. Who knows?”

  The two remaining companions continued alone.

  That evening, Markal found another griffin tower. It was built into the side of a cliff that overlooked the lower forests. The entrances for both humans and griffins were concealed by strategically placed boulders or obscured by gnarled, wind-swept trees whose branches had been carefully groomed to hide the entrances from the air.

  In fact, the tower was so well concealed that Darik was initially suspicious of the wizard’s claim. Then Markal showed him a vertical groove in the cliff face about as wide as a man’s wrist. It stretched up and out of sight.

  “The cliff dwellers collect rainwater in cisterns,” Markal explained, “but during the dry season, they raise water in buckets. What you’re seeing is a groove worn by a rope rubbing against the stone for generation after generation.”

  “All right, I’m convinced. But how do we get up? There’s not so much as a staircase chiseled into the stone.”

  Markal cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ho, there! Friends seeking hospitality.”

  No answer. They waited a minute, then the wizard tried again. “I bring news of the war! Hello?”

  “Another abandoned tower,” Darik said.

  Then a man called down in an irritable tone. “Go away, and take your bloody war with you.”

  “I have seen the flockheart,” Markal said. “I have news.”

  “What kind of news?”

  “Bring me up, and I’ll share.”

  “Who is the boy?”

  “Go ahead, answer,” Markal told Darik.

  “I am Daria Flockheart’s friend. I flew with her at Arvada. I rode a griffin named Joffa into battle.”

  “You did, eh? We’ll see about that.”

  Before Darik had a chance to wonder what the man meant, a griffin leaped into the air from the cliff above. It circled their heads, tucked its wings, and came down to land in front of them.

  It was a large beast, with a fierce gaze and powerful talons and claws. A featherless scar stretched from above one eye to its breastbone. It cocked its head and eyed them suspiciously.

  “Go ahead,” Markal said. “Show him who is in charge.”

  Darik swallowed hard and stepped toward the griffin. It hissed and clenched its talons at the grass. The muscles on its back flinched, and it opened its wings, either prepared to fly or making itself larger and more intimidating.

  “What are you waiting for?” the man called down.

  “What’s his name?” Darik shouted.

  “Her name is Galsi. And she’s hungry.”

  Markal snorted. “Don’t worry about him, he’s bluffing. Hopes we’ll go away.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Any way you look at it, stalling isn’t going to help. Get in there and do it.”

  Darik managed a feeble nod. He moved quickly to approach the griffin before he lost his nerve. Galsi tossed her head and looked like she was going to snap at his outstretched arm. Then he had his arms around her neck. Her chest rumbled.

  He forced confidence into his voice, remembering how Daria spoke to her griffins. “There, see. You’re a good girl, Galsi, and I’m a griffin rider. So let’s have none of this snapping and clawing nonsense.” He kept one arm around her neck and rubbed her back with his other hand.

  “Go on,” he said to Markal. His voice cracked. “Get on before she changes her mind.”

  The wizard climbed on, and Darik followed. Too late he realized the rider hadn’t sent Galsi with her tethers. He grabbed her neck. She batted her huge wings and lurched skyward. Markal grabbed onto Darik in turn.

  Moments later, the griffin deposited them on a narrow ledge in front of a hole carved in the stone, then continued up to the aerie above.

  A man waited inside. He looked irritated. “So.”

  “I am Markal of the Order of the Thorne. This is my apprentice, Darik of Balsalom.”

  “I know who you are, Talebearer. And I’m aware of the flatlander. Galsi and I were at Arvada.”

  “Well met,” Darik said.

  “Yes, hmm.”

  The man moved aside to allow the companions off the ledge and into the cave carved into the side of the cliff. It was a single, tidy room: bedding, two battered oak chests, a fireplace with a stone chimney, hooks for cloaks and tethers, tools in niches.

  A dozen narrow openings in the outer wall let in a surprising amount of light. In the back of the room, a stone staircase led up the wall to disappear into a hole that Darik supposed led to the aeries. Countless footsteps had worn a shallow indentation in the center of each step.

  “I am sorry, friend,” Markal said to the rider, “but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “Kellum.”

  “You live here alone?” Darik asked.

  “I have since the battle. Before that, I shared it with my wife. We did not yet have children.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” An awkward silence filled the air, and Darik added, “Did you grow up in this tower? Seems like people have been living here for generations.”

  Kellum stared.

  “I don’t think our friend is one for small talk,” Markal said.

  “No, I’m not. What do you want?”

  “We have news from Daria Flockheart,” Markal said.

  “You said that already. Let’s hear it.”

  Markal spun an exciting story about Daria flying about the Spine, looking for the dragons who had survived the Battle of Arvada. According to the wizard, Daria and her mother had battled dragon kin above the castle Montcrag and led a band of griffin riders in destroying a nesting ground of wasps on the slopes above Estmor. The details of how Daria had discovered two battling dragons and fled for her life made Darik’s heart pound.

  Markal was embellishing the story, if not fabricating some details outright. There was no way the wizard could know it all, right down to quoting the very words spoken between mother and daughter. There was also a not-so-subtle point to Markal’s storytelling, that the leader of the griffin riders was most certainly still involved in the war against the dark wizard. And Kellum should be, too.

  The man’s scowl softened as Ma
rkal spoke. He rekindled the smoldering ashes in his hearth and made tea from dried, crushed leaves, which he sweetened with wild honey. The tea was potent; within minutes Darik was flush and alert. When he rose for a second cup, the road weariness shook loose like clods kicked from a pair of muddy boots.

  Markal finished his tale. Kellum ran a finger along the bottom of his mug, then licked his finger. “All of this is leading to something, isn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?” Markal asked.

  “A request. What is it?”

  “We want to borrow two griffins.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “It’s only a few hours by air from here. We’ll send them home when we’re done.”

  “In the first place, I only have one griffin.”

  “Galsi doesn’t have a mate?” Darik asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back.

  Kellum stared into his mug. When he looked up, he drew his lips into a tight line, his eyes moist. “Now you see what your war has cost me. My wife. My griffin. At least I understand, I know why. Every night when Galsi settles with her chicks, she keens for her mate. He never returned from the battle. His body was never found. She keeps expecting him to fly into the aerie.”

  “I am sorry, my friend,” Markal said. “Truly sorry.”

  “Markal,” Darik said. “We can keep searching. Kellum has done his duty.”

  “No,” the wizard said, not to Darik, but to the griffin rider. “We need your help. We’ve picked up a trail and now we’re certain. If we can reach the Tothian Way by morning we’ll prevent one of our greatest enemies from escaping into the desert.”

  “Galsi can only carry two,” Kellum said, “and I won’t have her flying home alone in the dark.”

  “We’ll keep her with us until morning, then send her back,” Darik said.

  “Alone? Over the Desolation of Toth? I won’t do it.” He rose to his feet and set aside his mug. “I’ll fly you there. It will take two trips, but Galsi can manage.”

  #

  Markal went first, to show Kellum the way. Before they left, the griffin rider gave Darik instructions for feeding the chicks in the aerie.