a leaf, someone started. Every time a shadow seemed to move, they all got
ready to defend their lives. Skan had never spent a night as frightening as this
one, not even during the war, and he prayed no one else would ever have to,
either. Stelvi Pass had been a summer day compared to this unending, wet,
cold waiting. He didn’t know how Amberdrake was managing to bear up; it
was bad enough to endure this knowing that he could, if there was no other
choice, escape by flying into the treetops. Even in a fight, he could defend
himself against fairly stiff odds. But Drake couldn’t escape and he wasn’t a
fighter, and in his place, Skan knew he’d have been babbling with fear.
As soon as there was any light at all beneath the trees, Bern ordered them
to move out, down to the river that they had heard all night long. The flood-
swollen river, which roared at their feet, with nothing on the other side but a
rocky cliff-face and a scrap of path.
“You two aren’t fighters, so you get across the river and hold it for us so we
can cross,” he ordered Drake and Skan. Skan took one look at the swollen,
raging waters, and seriously considered mutiny.
But Amberdrake just picked up a coil of rope from the wreckage of the
camp, and gestured to him to follow down to the rocks at the edge. There he
rigged a harness of rope for himself, while Bern and the rest stood nervously
with their backs to the water, facing the forest, bows and swords ready. Soon
enough, the fog would rise, and when the shadow-creatures came back, the
besieged rescuers wouldn’t be able to see them until it was far too late.
Drake, the expert in ropes and knots, moved far more quickly than Skan
would have thought possible under the circumstances. His fingers fairly flew
as he put together a harness it would be impossible to get out of without
undoing at least half of the knots. It must have seemed to the four injured
fighters that he was taking a ridiculous amount of time, however. He was even
making sure that it would fit over his pack—the precious pack that had what
was left of their medical kit, and the oil and oil lamp.
“Hurry up!” Bern shouted, his voice pitched higher with strain and nerves.
Drake ignored them, and turned to Skan. “You can’t carry me over, but you
can tow me through the water,” he pointed out. “There’s no way I’m going to
slip out of this.”
He fastened the loose end of the rope to a tree at the water’s edge, without
elaborating anything, but his plan was obvious to Skan. The harness was
rigged so that Drake could swim freely, but could also be towed along easily,
which is what he meant Skan to do, flying above the river. Once he got Drake
to the other side, the kestra’chern could fasten his rope to a boulder or spike
of rock, and the others could plunge in and drag themselves across.
Providing, of course, there weren’t more of those things on the other side,
waiting somewhere.
If that last thought occurred to Amberdrake, he didn’t hesitate for a second;
once he had the end of the rope tied off, he plunged immediately into the
river, almost before Skan had hold of the end fastened to his harness. Caught
off-balance for a moment, Skan held on against the tug of the current, then
launched himself into the air.
Amberdrake sputtered and submerged once, then steadied. He called out,
“It’s drier in here than in the forest!”
Once there, he was utterly grateful that Drake was a good swimmer, and
he allowed himself a brief, tension-relieving smile at Amberdrake’s quip. His
friend was able to keep his own head above water, so that Skan’s only task
was to pull him onward.
Only! This is like playing tug-of-war against five teams of draft horses!
It was obvious within a few moments that this was going to be a great deal
more difficult than it looked. They weren’t even a single length from the shore,
and Skan wanted to quit.
The gryphon’s wings beat laboriously, the muscles in his back and chest
burning with pain, as he pulled against the current and the weight of Drake’s
body. Below him, Amberdrake labored against the current trying to pull him
under, and occasionally lost the battle. But he had honed his swimming ability
in the powerful surf below White Gryphon; between his own strength and
Skan’s, his head always popped back above the surface again, long enough
for him to get another lungful of air. Ten heartbeats later, they were out of
time.
“Hurry!” Bern shouted again, his voice spiraling upward in fear. “They’re
coming!”
Skan ignored him as best he could, concentrating every fiber on getting a
little more strength out of his wings. Drake was not doing well down there; the
treacherous currents kept pulling him under, and each time he rose to the
surface it took a little longer.
They were about halfway across when the sounds of battle erupted behind
him; short screams and cries that echoed above the roaring river. He ignored
those, too, as best he could.
His world narrowed to the face of his friend in the water below, the rope in
his front talons, the pain of his laboring body, and the farther shore.
His lungs were on fire; his forelimbs ached with all the tortures of the
damned from the strain of holding Drake and pulling him onward. His vision
fogged with red, as it had only a few times in the past, when he had driven
himself past his limits.
The bank was only a few lengths away—but he was out of energy, running
out of strength, and just about out of endurance.
He wasn’t going to make it. He could drop the rope and save himself, or
they would both be dragged under.
No! He was not going to surrender with the goal so close! Come on,
gryphon. If he can do this, so can you. You’re a team, remember? He’s
counting on you not to let him drown.
Think of what Winterhart would do to you if you did! Think of what Gesten
would do!
Amberdrake has been with you all your life, gryphon, all your life. He’s had
his hands in your guts and your blood in his hair, putting you back together
from pieces. He didn‘t leave you then, he wouldn ‘t leave you.
From somewhere came another burst of strength, and with a cry that was
half a scream of defiance and half a moan of agony, he drove himself at the
bank.
He made it by mere talon-lengths, dropping down on it with all the grace of
a shot duck, and landing half on the bank, half in the water. With a groan, he
grabbed the rope in his beak and dragged himself and Drake, talon over talon,
onto the bank and safety.
He wanted to just lie there, panting, but there were still four more people on
the other side. Somehow he pulled himself up to a standing position on
shaking legs, just as Drake got to his hands and knees, and both of them
turned toward the far bank at the same time.
All they saw was torn foliage, the slashed end of the rope hanging off the
tree Drake had tied it to, splashes of red that weren’t likely flowers—and the
empty shore. They watched, panting and slumping down against each other
until the fog closed in, leaving them staring at blank whiteness.
They were alone.
It could not be much longer before whatever it was that had attacked them
found a way to cross, unless it took a long time—to eat.
For a moment, he felt stricken, numb, frozen with shock. But he had been
in too many fights, and lost too many comrades, for this to paralyze him now.
Mourn later, find safety now!
Drake looked at him from beneath a mat of hair that had become a tangled,
dripping mess, his clothing half torn from his body by the fight of last night,
and a strange look of hope in his eyes. For one stark moment, Skan was
afraid that he’d gone mad.
“Blade—” he began hoarsely, then coughed, huge racking coughs that
brought up half a lungful of river water. Skan balled his talons into fists and
pounded his back until he stopped coughing and waved Skan off.
“Blade—” he began again, his voice a ruin. He looked up and pointed north
along the riverbank. “She’s that way. I can feel her. I swear it, Skan!”
With one accord, they dragged themselves to their feet and stumbled
northward over the slippery rocks and wet clay of the bank below the cliff face.
North—where their children must be.
Tad inspected the last of the traps with no real hope that he would find
anything at this one that differed from all the rest. The first wyrsa they had
killed had been the last; none of the traps worked a second time. In fact, the
wyrsa seemed to take a fiendish delight in triggering the damned things and
leaving them empty.
So far, they had not dared the last one, another rockfall that he or Blade
could trigger from inside the cave. He suspected, though, that it was only a
matter of time before they did. On the other hand, they would not be able to
disarm it without triggering it, so perhaps they were all even.
As he had expected, this snare lay empty, too. He decided that the rope
could be better used elsewhere, and salvaged it. It certainly would have been
nice if this one had worked, though. His nerves were wearing thin, and he was
afraid that the wyrsa might be able to drain mage-energy from him constantly
now, since they were so close. He didn’t dare try shielding against them;
shields were magical too, and they could surely be eaten like anything else
magical.
When they had first found the cave, he had thought that the noise of the
river and the waterfall would cover the sounds anything approaching made,
but over the past few days he had discovered to his surprise that he had been
wrong. To a limited extent, he had actually gotten used to the steady roaring,
and was able to pick out other noises beyond it.
But the very last sound he had been expecting was the noise of someone
— a two-legged someone — scrambling over the rocks at a speed designed
to break his neck. And panting.
Especially not coming toward him.
Those were not wyrsa sounds, either, not unless the wyrsa had acquired a
pair of hunting-boots and put them on!
He had barely time to register and recognize the sounds before the makers
of the noise burst through the fog right in his face. He hadn’t heard the second
one, because he had been flying, and his wingbeats had not carried over the
sound of the falls. Tadrith looked up to find his vision filled with the fierce,
glorious silhouette of the Black Gryphon.
“Father!” he, exclaimed, in mingled relief and shock. “Amberdrake — “
“No time!” Skandranon panted, as Amberdrake scrabbled right past him
without pausing. “Run! We’re being chased!”
No need to ask what was chasing them. Skan landed heavily, then turned
to stand at bay to guard Amberdrake’s retreat. Tad leaped up beside him,
despite his handicap. Witjh two gryphons guarding the narrow trail, there
wasn’t a chance in the world that the wyrsa would get past!
But they certainly tried.
The fog was as thick as curdled milk, and the wyrsa nothing more than
shadows and slashing claws and fangs reaching for them through the curtain.
But they couldn’t get more than two of their number up to face Skan and Tad
at any one time, and without the whole pack able to attack together, their
tactics were limited. They were fast, but Tad and Skan were retreating, step
by careful step, and that generally got them out of range before a talon or a
bite connected.
Step by step. And watch it. Slip, and you end up under those claws. Thank
Urtho for giving us four legs. They retreated all the way to the shelf of rock in
front of the cave, and that was where their own reinforcements stepped in.
“Duck!” came the familiar order, and this time when he and his father
dropped to the ground, not only did rocks hurl over their heads, but a pair of
daggers hummed past Tad’s ear like angry wasps. They both connected, too,
and one was fatal. The wyrsa nearest the water got it in the throat, made a
gurgle, and fell over, to be swept away by the rushing torrent. The second
was lucky; he was only hit in the shoulder, but gave that familiar hiss-yelp,
and vanished into the fog. Skan and Tad took advantage of the respite to turn
their backs in turn and scramble into the cave itself.
There they turned again, prepared for another onslaught, but the wyrsa had
evidently had enough for one day.
Tad sat down right where he was, breathing heavily, heart pounding; his
father was less graceful and more tired than that, and dropped down into the
sand as if he’d been shot himself, panting with his beak wide open.
“I always knew those throwing-knives were going to come in handy some
day,” Amberdrake observed.
He looked nothing like the Amberdrake that Tad had known all his life. His
long hair was a draggling, tangled, water-soaked mess; his clothing stained,
torn, muddy, and also sodden. He wore a pack that was just as much of a
mess, at least externally. At his waist was a belt holding one long knife, a
pouch, and an odd sheath that held many smaller, flat knives, exactly of the
kind that had just whizzed over Tad’s head.
“Yes, but—you had to—learn how—to throw them—first,” Skan replied,
panting. “You and your— bargains!”
“They were a bargain!” Amberdrake said indignantly. “A dozen of them for
the price of that one single fighting-knife that you wanted me to get!”
“But you—knew how to—use the—fighting-knife!”
Blade brought her father and Skan a skin of water each, and they drank
thirstily. She looked from one to the other of them, and carefully assessed
their condition. “I don’t think I’m going to ask where the rest of your group is,”
she said quietly. “I’m pretty certain I already know.”
A tiny oil lamp cast warm light down on Amberdrake and his patient. Blade
sat at her father’s feet while he examined her shoulder, as Skan and Tad kept
watch at the mouth of the cave. “You did a fine job on Tadrith’s wing,”
Amberdrake murmured. “I only wish he had done as good a job on your
shoulderblade.”
Well, that certainly explained why it wouldn’t stop hurting. “You�
��re not going
to have to rebreak it, are you?” she asked, trying not to wince. He patted her
unhurt shoulder comfortingly, and it was amazing just how good that simple
gesture felt.
“Not hardly, since it was never set in the first place. Immobilized, yes, but
not set. I’m astonished that you’ve managed as much as you have.” He
placed the tips of his fingers delicately over the offending bone. “It’s possible
that it was only cracked at first, and not broken, and that somewhere along
the line you simply completed the break. Hold very still for a moment, and this
will hurt.”
She tried not to brace herself, since that would only make things worse.
She felt his fingers tighten, sensed a snap, and literally saw stars for a
moment, it hurt so much.
When she could see again, she was still sitting upright, and he still had his
hands on her shoulders, so she must have managed not to move. She
sagged gratefully against the rock he was sitting on, and wiped tears from her
eyes, weakly.
“Now, stay still a moment more,” he urged. “I haven’t done this for a long
time, and I’m rather out of practice.”
She obeyed, and a moment later, felt the area above the break warming.
The pain there vanished, all but a faint throbbing in time with her pulse.
I’d forgotten he still has some Healing ability . . . not enough that he ever
acts as a Healer anymore, but enough that he could in the war. In fact, he was
first sent by his family off to train as a Healer, but his Empathic senses got in
the way. In the war he was supposed to have been very good, even on
gryphons.
Amberdrake finally lifted his hands from her shoulder and sighed. “I’m
sorry, dearheart, I can’t do as much as I’d like.”
It was far more than she’d had any hope of before they arrived!
“You did a great deal, Father, believe me. I hope you saved plenty of
yourself for Tad,” she said. “Especially since you did specialize in gryphon-
trauma during the war!”
“I did,” he replied as she twisted around to look up at him. He combed his
hair out of his eyes with one hand, and grimaced. “I’ll keep working on you
two as I recuperate, too. But I never was as competent at Healing as I’d like,
and accelerating bone growth—well, it’s hard, and I never did learn to do it
Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 03 - The Silver Gryphon.txt Page 36