Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  Hydan left next, with Sayyed’s message wrapped around Hajira’s gryphon knife and tucked carefully in his shirt. He had scrounged some Turic clothes, including a shortcoat emblazoned with Zukhara’s red emblem, and had saddled his reluctant horse with Rafnir’s Turic saddle. He looked passable enough, if rather uncomfortable in the saddle, and he saluted his chief and trotted out in Rafnir’s wake.

  A short while later, Helmar led her troop out the fortress gates. To her delight and secret relief, every warrior chose to go with her on her quest to help Sayyed rescue the sorceresses. They took with them all the supplies and equipment they could pack on the backs of the garrison horses. Sayyed waited with Afer until the riders were out of sight; then he hurried down a winding stairs to the dungeon level. The prisoners crowded around the doors as he unlocked them.

  “You have to the count of one hundred before this place is destroyed,” he said calmly.

  The Turics took one look at his face and fled the castle as fast as they could run. The clansman leisurely rode out the gates, counting as he went until Afer reached the bottom of the ravine. He turned and studied the cliff wall.

  “...ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred.”

  Sayyed raised his good arm, pointed to the cliff at the base of the castle wall, and sent a long, steady beam of power into the rock. There were no explosions this time, just a rumbling sound that began beneath the beam and radiated rapidly outward. Suddenly an enormous chunk of the rock face slipped loose. Cracks appeared in the fortress walls; then the ground fell from beneath the structure. The hall, most of the outbuildings, several towers, and half the walls slipped down, tumbling and crashing in a cloud of stone, dust, and debris to the ravine floor. The remains of the fortress lay shattered, and the entrance to the narrow spiral staircase leading down to an empty cavern vanished in a pile of rubble.

  Sayyed found the sight of the gaping ruins small satisfaction for all the trouble Zukhara had caused. Afer snorted in agreement. Swiftly they set off and soon caught up with the Clannad.

  Now that the troop agreed to risk daylight travel, they made excellent time. They rode south at a brisk pace back the way they had come, and in less than two days they reached the back entrance to Sanctuary. Taking with her most of the packhorses and three of her warriors, Helmar left the others to rest and refresh themselves in the tumbled glen.

  Sayyed did not know what she said to her people in the valley, but she came back the next dawn with twenty-five more riders and a glowing expression on her face.

  “Minora sends her blessings,” was all she would say.

  She led her warriors up the slope of a high hill and stopped to watch them pass by. Sayyed paused beside her. The world before them lay bleak and unpeopled, the mighty peaks turbaned in cloud, the slopes mottled with forests and bare outcroppings of stone. Beyond the wild lands to the east where the mountains gave way to the arid plains, the horizon was swathed in mist, as if already obscured in the smokes of war. Behind the troop lay the narrow path to Sanctuary and all that name implied. Sayyed, who had seen for himself the beauty and security of the valley, marvelled at the courage it took to step out of the protective walls and ride into a dangerous, troubled world. Some of the men, he knew, had never set foot outside their valley.

  Overhead, Demira neighed to the people below and wheeled over the slower moving column, keeping a sharp vigilance from the sky.

  That day and the next the Clannad rode in deadly earnest, first to the east to the less rugged and more open foothills, then south toward the Turic capital of Cangora, located on the fringes of the great southern desert. They rode hard, and for all their settled ways, they and their white horses endured as well as any nomadic band.

  Their guide was an older man, a short, powerful warrior with the lively, quick glance of a curious child. While most men of the Clannad did not usually leave Sanctuary, a few trained as scouts or rangers and learned the mountains and the trails from tradition handed down from other rangers and from years spent exploring the great peaks. This man knew the trail Helmar had found on the Turic map and led his people unerringly on the shortest and safest route possible.

  They saw smoke the second afternoon, a dark column of fumes that rose above the plains and slowly spread across the southern skyline. Demira flew to investigate, and when she returned, her message was dark and grim.

  I saw a caravan, a big one, scattered along the side of the road for nearly a league. There were wagons burning and dead men everywhere.

  Sayyed felt a cold fear grip his belly. “Can you describe any of part of it? Was the Shar-Ja’s wagon there?”

  I did not see that wagon, but I saw dead guardsmen with his colours, and I saw other wagons I recognized from Council Rock. Her tone faltered, and she dropped her long lashes. Even the plague camp did not look or smell so awful.

  Sayyed and Helmar exchanged a long look, but neither could ask about Hydan or Hajira or Tassilio. Even if their bodies lay in the dust of the Spice Road, Demira could not have distinguished them from her place in the sky. They rode on toward the smoke and hoped that somehow the two men and the boy survived. On the third evening, one of Helmar’s scouts found them as they rested the horses along the bank of a scraggly, half-dead stream. The rider trotted his sweat-soaked horse directly to Helmar and nearly fell off as he tried to dismount.

  “The clansman was right,” the scout said wearily. He was so tired he could barely stand. “I went down to the settlement at Khazar and talked to some of the merchants and shepherds. The news is spreading like locusts. They say the Fel Azureth have risen. The Gryphon has declared himself the true ruler of the Turic and has called a holy war to purge the land of unbelievers. Half the men in the settlement are leaving to join him, the other half are talking about fighting him. They say the Gryphon is marching on Cangora and that his forces massacred the Shar-Ja’s caravan.”

  “Is anyone attempting to organize the resistance against him?” asked Sayyed.

  “Not that I know of. I heard many of the tribal leaders who accompanied the Shar-Ja were killed in the massacre, along with most of the royal guards. The tribes are in confusion. The Shar-Ja’s soldiers are leaderless, and no one knows what befell the Shar-Ja.”

  Sayyed leaned back against Afer’s strong side. “By the Living God, this gets worse.”

  “Aye, it does,” responded the exhausted scout. “They say the zealot’s army meets no resistance because he carries the Lightning of the North.”

  “What is that?”

  “I have never heard of such a thing. But I also heard a gryphon flies in the vanguard with a black-haired woman on its back. A woman reputed to be a sorceress.”

  Sayyed’s eyes widened. “A gryphon? Do you mean a real one?” He whistled. “And Kelene on its back? No wonder the people won’t fight him.” His voice broke off, then went on. “Did you hear any news of the boy, Tassilio?”

  The scout shook his head. “All I heard was that the caravan was on the road when fighting broke out in the ranks of the tribal levies, and before anyone knew what was happening, the entire caravan was under attack. They never had a chance.”

  “Do you think Hydan had time to reach them?” Sayyed asked Helmar.

  She knew who he meant, but she had no reassurance for him. “I don’t know.”

  His hand fell to the hilt of his sword; his sharp gaze limed far away. “Are you sure you still want to go? This become far more than a rescue of two women from an unknown assailant.”

  “We have gone too far to turn back now. I will ride with you, Sorcerer.” She lifted her hand, and he clasped it with his own, making a joined fist to seal their vow.

  “Besides,” she added with a grin, “in the words of Hydan, ‘I still haven’t seen this Lady Gabria.’”

  Kelene gripped the gryphon’s sides with her knees and dug her fingers into the feathery-fur down to touch the creature’s warm skin. After a lot of practice, she had learned that the best way to communicate with the creature was through the
same sort of mental link she could establish with the Hunnuli. It was difficult and tiring, but the gryphon was much more likely to obey that than a mouthful of nonsense words shouted in her ear. Down, young one. It is getting too dark to fly. A growl issued from the gryphon’s throat, but she finally obeyed and began to spiral slowly to earth. Kelene sighed. Riding a gryphon was exciting, because unlike Demira, the animal had been flying since birth. Exquisitely graceful, as skilled as any bird, she read the nuances of the forever changing currents and flew as if her body were a part of the wind. But she was also wilful, resentful, and still very wild under the weak link of obedience Kelene had established. Unlike Demira, who adored her rider, Kelene knew the gryphon only tolerated her and waited for the day she would be set free. The sorceress understood how she felt and tried to be as kind as possible, but that did not make riding the gryphon over these long, hot days any easier.

  Kelene would have given almost anything to fly the gryphon away — almost anything but Gabria’s and Nara’s lives. The gryphon, too, would have to pay a price too high, for Zukhara had fashioned a collar spelled to release a killing bolt if she flew beyond two leagues of his position. Kelene did not know how the collar worked, but she was not going to find out by testing it. There had to be some other way she could take her mother, Nara, and the gryphon and escape from Zukhara. She just had to be patient and keep looking.

  Kelene glanced down toward the ground. Already Zukhara’s army had stopped and made camp along the Spice Road. She sighed again and fought down the despair that seemed to hover over her with increasing potency.

  When she first heard Zukhara’s plans, a part of her mind had dismissed them as the ravings of a deluded man, but in the past four days, everything had happened as he had said it would. The moment he stood before his followers at Impala Springs and proclaimed himself the new, true leader of the Turic tribes, men had flocked to his call. Kelene had no notion how he spread the word so fast — unless he had preplanned it — but true to his word, on the tenth day after he threatened Kelene, he called his holy war, and men from all over the realm arrived to answer his summons.

  Thank the gods, Kelene thought, he had not fulfilled his threat to remove her arm for the diamond splinter. After Gabria had explained that there were no more splinters, and he had satisfied himself that the women’s could not be surgically removed, he dropped the issue for the time being and contented himself by awing his followers with demonstrations of his power, until everyone knew Zukhara did indeed carry the Lightning of the North in his hands.

  In the meanwhile, Zukhara commanded Kelene to fly the gryphon at the head of his ever-growing army as it marched south toward Cangora. Even from the air the sorceress had seen the awe and the fear the gryphon’s presence wrought. Some people bowed low to the golden creature, others stared in stunned surprise, and still others fled at her approach. No one tried to withstand Zukhara’s army. The force of fanatics, rebels, and supporters marched unopposed along the caravan road. There seemed to be no one willing to make a stand for the Shar-Ja. Would it be the same in his own city?

  The gryphon swept low over the parched grass. She was stiff and unwilling to land yet, so Kelene let her fly a few more minutes along the road. They had flown south only a short distance from the army when the gryphon’s ears perked forward and her nostrils twitched at the warm breeze.

  Suddenly a light gust swept by, and Kelene smelled it too, the heavy stench of rotting bodies. She almost reeled in her place. A sharp, piercing picture burst from her memory, an image of her return to the clan gathering during the worst of the plague. Her stomach lurched, and Kelene forced her memories back before they overwhelmed her self-control.

  Ahead through the twilight, she saw several shadowy things on the verge of the road. She peered harder, and s the gryphon flew closer, the entire disaster became clear. Burned and broken wagons, vans, and chariots lay on both sides of the path for as far as Kelene could see in the dimming light. Their contents were scattered everywhere, already picked over by looters. Dead horses bloated among the wreckage, and wherever Kelene looked, in the trampled grass, by the wagons, in small or large heaps, lay the bodies of dead men.

  Kelene quickly turned the gryphon away and, ignoring her annoyed hiss, told her to return to the camp. They came to land in a clear space near Zukhara’s tent. Her hands shaking, Kelene fastened the gryphon’s chains as Zukhara had instructed, gave her a heaping meal of goat meat, and strode into Zukhara’s tent. Whatever she had intended to say was immediately squelched by Zukhara’s sharp gesture.

  “Sit!” he ordered and pointed to a smaller chair near his. The man was seated in a large, ornate, high-backed chair near the centre of his spacious tent. Bright lamps lit the interior, and beautiful woven rugs covered the floor. Zukhara had dressed in black pants and a black robe embroidered with a golden gryphon standing rampant. The clothes were simple yet rich and on his tall, limber frame, very elegant. He sat composed, waiting expectantly with his officers on either side.

  Kelene reluctantly perched on the chair he indicated. By Amara, if she had to swallow any more resentment, Kelene swore she would burst. She hated being put on display like this! Being the Gryphon’s “Chosen” had a few privileges, but they were all heavily outweighed by the disadvantages. She could only be thankful that he had been too busy to force his attentions on her again.

  She heard the tread of boots outside, and eight men crowded into the tent. All but one saluted and bowed low before Zukhara. Kelene gasped. The one man who did not, or could not, bow was the Shar-Ja. If he had looked old and sick at Council Rock, he looked near death now. His once strong face sagged with loose folds of greyish skin. His red-rimmed eyes were nearly lost in the sunken shadows of his haggard face. He barely had the strength to stay upright, yet he fought off any hand that touched him and through some force of supreme will managed to stand unaided before Zukhara.

  “Good,” the Gryphon said, a short, sharp bark of approval. “You caught him alive. And the boy?”

  One officer stepped forward. “Your Highness, we have not yet found his body, nor the guard who was with him.”

  A flicker of anger passed over Zukhara’s features, but he merely commanded, “Keep looking. I want no loose ends.”

  “And what of me?” the Shar-Ja said scornfully. His voice had a surprising timbre to it that demanded Zukhara’s attention. “Am I a loose end, too?”

  The lamplight fell in the Gryphon’s eyes and turned to black fire in a face as still and cold as ice. “No, Shar-Ja Rassidar. You are a very important part of my plans. Do you know the Ritual of Ascension?”

  The old man gave a fierce bark of laughter and somehow stood straighter until he towered over the men around him. Kelene had not realized until then just how tall he really was, or how proud. “I am aware of the ritual. It was abolished several centuries ago.”

  Zukhara’s smile came, quick and feral. “Yes, and in the name of Twice Blessed Sargun and to the glory of the Living God, I intend to resurrect the old ways, beginning with the Ritual.” He gestured to his men. “Take him to his wagon and keep him there. No one is to see him or go near him.” The men swiftly obeyed.

  When they were gone, Zukhara turned his burning glance to Kelene. “You have done well, my lady. You and the gryphon have flown as successfully as I had hoped. I have a gift for you.”

  Kelene flung herself to her feet. “Mother has but one day left! The only gift I need is her antidote.” He stood and walked to his table where a small tray of multicolored glass bottles stood shining in the light. He picked up a small vial sealed with wax. “As you have undoubtedly noticed,” he said, coming closer to her, “I am very knowledgeable in the arts of medicines and poisons.” He pulled the sorceress close and pressed her against his chest with one arm. With the other he held the vial up to a lamp. “Not only can I design a poison to suit my purposes, I also create antidotes and partial antidotes that delay the effects of the poison.”

  Kelene’s jaw tightened. “Do you
fulfil your promises?” she said between gritted teeth.

  “Partially, my lady.” He chuckled and kissed her fully on the lips before he handed her the vial. “This will keep the poison in check for another ten days or so. Continue your exemplary behaviour, and I will give her more.”

  “What about the antidote?” Kelene exploded. Would he keep this game going indefinitely?

  “I hold it close,” he replied, and he pulled out the chain that held his ivory ward. There, hanging beside the ball, was a small, thin silver tube. “When I feel you have earned it, the reward shall be yours.”

  Kelene clamped her mouth closed and averted her face. At least, she thought, he had not noticed the crack in the ivory ward.

  He kissed her again, long and languorously deep, until Kelene thought she would gag; then with a sneer he pushed her toward the entrance. “Not tonight, my lady. Though the thought is sweet. I have too many things to attend to. Sleep well.”

  Kelene did not bother to answer. She gripped the precious vial, whirled, and fled.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Gryphon’s army rose at dawn to another clear sky and hot sun. They knelt in the dust for their morning worship and bowed low to Zukhara, the figurehead of their reverent zeal. Their fervour ran high that morning as they broke camp and prepared to march, for by evening they would reach the outskirts of Cangora and perhaps meet their first resistance from forces still loyal to the Shar-Ja. At least they hoped so. Their blood burned for battle and the opportunity to give their lives in service to the Living God and his servant, Zukhara. After all, Zukhara, the Mouth of Shahr, had told them all that such a death guaranteed their entrance to paradise.