Valdemar Books, page 3
"Urtho has called a council." That much was common knowledge; no harm in telling the hertasi now. "Two gryphons came streaking in from Laisfaar straight to the Tower, and two hours after that, Urtho sent a message ordering me to tend General Corani."
Gesten nodded, apparently taking Amberdrake's meaning—that Corani needed the peculiar skills of a kestra'chern. The general had been permanently assigned to the Pass, until Urtho needed him more than his home district did. For the last week he'd been at the Tower, pleading with Urtho for some special protection for Stelvi Pass and the town. That much was common knowledge, too.
"What can you tell me?" Gesten knew very well that there was only so much Amberdrake could reveal to him. "What did Corani need?"
Amberdrake paused, searching for the right word.
"He needed sympathy, Gesten," he said as he laid down a stack of oily fire fuel logs. "Something happened in the Tower that he didn't want to talk about; and I can only assume that from the way he acted, the news was the worst. Kept talking about blind spots—he was near to a breakdown. That's not like him. And now... Skandranon is late." Amberdrake smoothed his silk caftan, brushing the wood chips away. He felt worry lines creasing a face even his enemies called handsome, but he was too depressed to care.
Absently, he pulled his long hair back from where it had fallen astray. "I don't think he's coming back this time. I can feel it in my gut...."
Gesten picked up a small log and pointed it up at Amberdrake. "He will be back, I feel it in my gut, Drake, and I won't put up with your whining about 'poor Skan.' He always comes back. Always. Understand? And I'll be here, with this watch-fire, until either he comes back or this army runs out of firelogs."
Amberdrake stepped back, thoroughly chastised, and more than a little surprised at the vehemence of the normally quiet lizard's speech. Gesten stood pointing the stick at him for a moment more, then spit at the air and threw it on the growing stack of kindling.
"I'm sorry, Gesten." Though he meant he was sorry about angering the hertasi, Gesten would probably take it some other way. "It's just that... you know how I feel about him."
"Feh. I know. Everyone knows. You seem to be the only one who doesn't know." The hertasi opened the latch on the firebox and withdrew a coal with blackened tongs. His tail lashed as he spoke. "You worry about everything, Drake, and you don't listen to yourself talking. There is no one in Urtho's service who is better than him. No one else more likely to come back." Gesten dropped the coal into the folds of cotton batting and wood-chips between the two smoke-pots. "Even if he doesn't come back, he'll have died the way he wanted to."
Amberdrake bit his lip. Gesten thought he was right, as usual; nothing would dissuade him. Nothing Amberdrake could tell him would persuade him that the situation was hopeless; only the things Amberdrake could not tell him would do that. And he was right; Skan had died the way he wanted to. "I'll—keep quiet, until we know."
"Damned right you will. Now go back to your tent. You can manage your clients without me tonight." Gesten turned his attention to lighting the center fire, then the blue and white smoke-pots blazed into light. Amberdrake walked in the cooling night air toward the Tower and the semi-mobile city that clustered around it, stopping once to look back at the lonely figure who'd wait for all eternity if need be for the Black Gryphon's return. His heart, already heavy, was a burden almost too great to bear with the added weight of tears he dared not shed.
Oh, not now. I don't need this....
Skandranon struggled against gravity and rough air, jaws clenched tightly on his prize. His heart was beating hard enough to burst from his chest, and the chase had barely begun—the makaar behind him were gaining, and he was only now past the ridge. As if it weren't enough that makaar were quicker than gryphons, they possessed better endurance. All they had to do was cut him off and fly him in circles. That was clearly what they intended to do. His advantage was his ability to gain and lose altitude more quickly than they. With cleverness, he could make them react, not act. At least they weren't terribly well organized—it wasn't as though Kili was leading them—
Skandranon twisted his head to assess his pursuers, and spotted an all-too-familiar black and white crest—Kili, the old makaar leader Skan had taunted numerous times. Kili, who had almost trapped him once before, with a much smaller force aflight, was streaking to a pitch a thousand feet above the other six, screaming commands.
Three gray-patched makaar canted wings back and swept into a shallow dive, gaining on him all the faster by trading height for speed. Their trajectory took them below and past him a few seconds later—and they were followed by another three. He tried to watch them all, eyes darting from one to the other, as they split off and rejoined. Why head below him, when altitude was so important against a gryphon?
Altitude—damn!
Instinct took over even as he realized Kili's gambit. He folded his right wing completely, rolling sideways in midair as the elder makaar streaked past him by a featherlength. A shrill scream of rage rang in his ears as Kili missed, and Skan threw himself out of the roll by snapping his wing open again and spiraling nose-first toward the earth—and the six makaar there.
That bastard! He had the audacity to learn from me!
Skan clamped his wings tightly and plummeted through the massed makaar below him, seeing the claws and razor-edged beaks of the surprised makaar as a blur as he shot past. He followed dead on the tail of Kili. The chances of surviving that move were slim—he'd gambled on his swiftness, and the makaar did no more damage than removing a few covert feathers.
Distance for speed—let's see if they can follow this.
Kili was so very close ahead that Skan was tempted to strike at him, but he couldn't afford to be distracted from his primary objective—to survive and escape. Already, the two flights of makaar behind him stroked rapidly to pursue, crying out in rage. He passed the makaar leader, who predictably took a swipe at him and lost precious speed, and Kili's recovery was further fouled by the wind turbulence of his passing underlings. The six rowed past Kili, gaining on Skandranon as he coursed back toward Laisfaar.
Stupid gryphon, the point is to get away from this place!
The barrier range swept inexorably closer. Skandranon narrowed his concentration to the rockface before him, and studied the erosion channels cut into the stone by ages past. His breath turned ragged through his nares as he struggled against fatigue. From the edge of his vision, he saw the other makaar winging through the Pass, cutting an arc toward the pursuit.
They'll see my wings flare, and assume I'm braking to turn or climb—
Skan cupped his wings as he streaked in a straight line for the sheer cliff-face, feeling but not seeing the bloodthirsty makaar gaining on him from behind. The barrier stone filled his vision as he executed his desperate move: he folded his wings until their leading edges curled under him with a clap and his straining body rolled into a tumbler's somersault. He plummeted in a descending arc as lift abandoned him and momentum hurled him toward unforgiving stone.
Gravity reversed itself; his head snapped into his chest as he fell. Numbly, detachedly, he realized the new, tiny pain in his chest was where the sharp tip of his beak had pierced it. Disorientation took him. All he could do was keep his jaws closed as his world went black, and wonder how many bones this last trick of his would break.
Follow through—do it, bird, do it—
He stretched his hindlegs out, and fanned his tail. Wind rushed against the lay of his feathers as he hurtled backward.
In the next instant, he was surrounded by shocked makaar, three above, three below, whose attention was locked on him instead of the rock rushing to strike them from the sky.
It's going to work—lucky, stupid gryphon—
The dizzying sensations of gravity's pull, momentum's throw, and the rushing of blood mixed with the sound of six makaars' screams and the crunch of their bodies against stone. Skandranon's feet touched the unforgiving rock behind him—and he pushed off.
The strange maneuver stabilized his tumble; gave him the chance to spread his wings in a snap and break his fall, turn it from a fall into a dive.
Only the ground was awfully close....
Pull up, stupid bird, pull up!
Wings straining, heart racing, he skimmed the rock at the bottom of the cliff, so close that his wingtips brushed it, using his momentum to send himself shooting skyward again, past the spreading stain on the rock that was all that was left of his first pursuers.
Now get out of here, idiot!
He reversed his course, away from the pass, back toward home and safety—and looked down.
At several hundred crossbows.
Of course, they couldn't see him, except, perhaps, as a fleeting shadow. But they knew he was up there, and they only had to fill the sky with arrow bolts and rocks, and one or more of them would probably hit him. A quick glance to either side showed that he'd been flanked by the two new flights of makaar; they hemmed him in, and had several gryphon-lengths' worth of altitude on him. Kili was not in sight; he was probably up above, somewhere, waiting.
His only chance lay in speed. If he could just get past the archers before they let fly—
Too late.
From below came a whirring sound; the air around him filled with a deadly reverse-rain of crossbow-bolts and slung shot. He pulled in his wings in a vain attempt to narrow the target area.
At first, he didn't feel pain, only impact. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mist of his own blood as his right wing came forward on the downstroke.
Then it crumpled.
Then it hurt.
He tumbled again, only nominally under control, shrieking incoherently around his beakful of stolen weapon.
He shuddered under the impact of two more hits; the pain came quickly this time, but he forced himself to ignore it. Once again, he tumbled out of control, and this time there was no handy cliff to push off of.
He pulled in his left wing and rolled over completely; righted himself, still falling. He dared not try and brake completely; the injured wing wouldn't take it. Instead, he extended just enough of both to turn the fall into another steep dive, angled away from the battle and toward friendly territory.
Just after his wings flared, he saw Kili whistle past where he had been.
A little farther—a little farther—
The ground was coming up awfully fast.
He was over Urtho's territory now, on the other side of the enemy lines, but he could not, dared not, flare his wings completely. His dive was a steep, fast one, but it was still a dive. The ground had never looked so inviting. Or so hard.
Ah sketi, this is going to hurt—
Two
Amberdrake could not sleep; weary as he was, there was no point in lying awake and watching the inside of his eyelids. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and made his way down the dark aisles between the orderly tent rows to the landing field.
As he came out into the open, away from the lights of the camp, he saw that the sky to the west was a haze of silvery light from the setting moon; it could not be long now, a few hours at most, until dawn. Gesten waited patiently beside his fire, as he had waited all night. Amberdrake had left the last of his clients to join the little lizard, but Gesten was clearly not in any mood to talk.
The hertasi tended to be silent when something affected his emotions. Amberdrake shared that tendency. In his case, it was due to long self-training; for both of them, it was to preserve the illusion of immutable and eternal stability.
It was Amberdrake's duty to convey an impression of serene concern—for Amberdrake's clients were always damaged in some way these days. Sympathy worked better than empathy, more often than not.
Clients didn't want to know their kestra'chern had problems of his own.
Since he couldn't be rid of them, he mustn't let them show, not even for a moment. It was part of the burden of his avocation, and though he'd come to accept it, it still caused a dull ache like a sympathy pain.
Sympathy pain. Yes, that was exactly what it was like.
The depression had worsened with every rumor, every bit of camp gossip. Skan had never been this late in returning from a mission; even Gesten must know by now that he wasn't coming back. He had often joked about how Skan always rushed back at top speed from a mission; that he couldn't be back to his rewards and admiration fast enough.
By now the news had leaked out of a terrible disaster at Stelvi Pass, worse than any defeat Urtho's forces had faced before. The reaction was not panic, but Amberdrake wondered if there was anyone in the ranks who guessed at what he already knew; that the garrison had been overrun and wiped out completely. As the night grew colder, so did Amberdrake's heart, and wrapping his body in a spiral-knit blanket over his silks didn't help at all.
Gesten still hadn't spoken. Finally, he could bear it no longer. Without a word, he left his place beside the watch-fire and walked away into the darkness, looking back over his shoulder at the little spot of light and the patient figure hunched beside it. His heart ached, and his throat threatened to close with tears he feared to shed—feared, because once they began, he was not certain he would be able to stop them. Tears for Gesten—and for Skan. Wherever he was.
Waiting out in the darkness for someone who wasn't going to come home wasn't going to accomplish anything. The war went on no matter who grieved. Amberdrake, like so many Kaled'a'in, had long been thinking of the war as a being of its own, with its own needs, plans, and hungers. Those who chose to obey its will, and those who found themselves swept along in its path, had to go on living and pursuing their dreams, even if it did feel as if they were constantly trying to bail a leaky boat with their bare hands. The skills Amberdrake possessed would be needed regardless of whether the war raged on or ebbed; people would always feel pain, loneliness, instability, doubt, strain. He had long ago resigned himself to the responsibility of caring for those who needed him. No—caring for those who needed his skills. They didn't necessarily need him, they needed his skills. It was that realization, too, that chilled his heart and had caused him to leave the smoky-white pyre.
Gesten had only his duties to Amberdrake and to the Black Gryphon, and Amberdrake could do without him for a while. Gesten clearly intended to keep his watch no matter what Amberdrake required of him. Amberdrake, on the other hand, always had his duties. And right now, he felt terribly, horribly lonely. After all, once you've given up a large slice of yourself to someone and they're suddenly gone—how else could you feel? He'd never had a magical bond to the Black Gryphon, nothing that would let him know with absolute certainty if Skandranon were alive or dead. So he only had his reasoning and the known facts, and they pointed to the loss of a friend. A trusted one.
He neared the camp.
He entered the lighted areas of the camp, fixed a frozen, slight smile on his face, and checked his walk to ensure it conveyed the proper confidence and the other more subtle cues of his profession. There were few folk awake at this time of the night—or rather, morning—but those few needed to be reassured if they saw him. A frowning Healer was a bad omen; an unhappy kestra'chern often meant that one of his clients had confided something so grave that it threatened the kestra'chern's proverbial stability—and since Amberdrake was both those things, anything other than serenity would add fuel to the rumors already flooding the camp. And for Amberdrake to be upset would further inflame the rumors. As long as he was in a public place, he could never forget who and what he was. Even though his face ached and felt stiff from the pleasant expression he had forced upon it.
Urtho kept an orderly camp; with tents laid out in rows, every fifth row lighted by a lantern on a perching-pole, anyone who happened to see Amberdrake would be able to read his expression clearly. It must look as if nothing had changed in the past few hours.
And yet, before he could do anyone else any good, he was going to have to deal with his own sorrows, his own fears and pain. He knew that as well as he knew the rest of it.
He strode into the Healers' bivouac, his steps faltering only once. There was a distant part of him that felt ashamed at that little faltering step. He attributed that feeling to his tumultuous state of mind—hadn't he soothingly spoken to others that there was no shame in such things? Still....
Help was not far off—if he asked for it. It was his right, of course. He was entitled to counsel and Healing, and all of the skills of his own profession he wished. He had taken comfort in such ways before and had given it many times. And though a small internal voice might echo words of weakness from the walls of his mind—tell him to just hold it in, not to succumb to the strain, he was not too proud to ask for that help. Not at this point, not when he was a mass of raw nerves and trembling on the edge of a breakdown. He had seen the signs of such things too often not to recognize them in himself.
In tents and shacks he passed, small lanterns or lightstones illuminated solitary figures. They carved surgical instruments or sewed torn clothing and bandages. The surreal acoustics of the still night made an old Healer's work-time whistling seem louder than it should be, as he cut and assembled arm slings by lantern light, apparently oblivious to the world outside his opened tent. On perches by the surgery tent, messenger-birds slept with their heads tucked under soft-feathered wings, with kyree sleeping soundly in front of them. The soft jingling of hanging harness and tackle sounded like windchimes from a tranquil garden. How odd that such poignant moments could still occur even in the middle of upheavals.
Healer Tamsin and his lover and coworker, Lady Cinnabar, were on night duty for the next ten days or so. He should be able to find them inside the surgery tent. There, past the Healers' and surgeons' tents, on the little rise ahead of him called "Healer's Hill," stood the common tents being used for infirmaries and treatment centers. Several of the tents had been used, in happier days, to hold Kaled'a'in celebrations, and had the capacity of housing a hundred or more. Their colors had been allowed to discreetly fade over the years since their current uses were anything but festive.
