Chaos Storm (The Flight of the Griffin Book 2) (16 page)

The snug interior of this new room was warm and lit by a flickering orange glow cast from a brazier of glowing coals. It appeared to be a sleeping area, possibly the private room of Morgasta herself, but the person snoring softly in the silken sheets wasn't Morgasta, it was a man. Treading cautiously, Mahra peered up at the unfamiliar face, her whiskers twitching. Whoever he was, he was in his middle years, clean-shaven, and didn't look to have the build for a warrior, especially a Barbarian warrior; he was in a deep sleep. She decided he must be either an extremely close friend or a servant to the absent Queen. He mumbled something important to his dreams then turned over, pulling the blanket tightly around him before going back to the deeper breaths of sleep. With a flicker, Mahra resumed her human shape and began to search the room, keeping the unknown man in sight at all times. She opened boxes, rummaged among piles of material and found some interesting things, but no crystal skulls.

The fighting dogs were at it again, closer this time… she froze. The sound of several splashing in the mud, panting heavily from their night-time exertions as they passed the tent, eager to join their squabbling kin. Mahra sighed in frustration; the skulls weren't here. She cast around again, looking for anywhere she hadn't yet explored and then reluctantly returned to the shape of a cat. Padding past the sleeper, she passed the curtains and retraced her steps across the muddy carpet to the main entrance, the distant rumble of thunder coming from the mountains sounded just before a renewed patter of raindrops began falling upon the canvas roof.

Pushing through the tent-flaps, she left the carpet behind, felt her paws sink into the cold mud, and let out an involuntary meow of irritation, and then quickly glanced at the sleeping guards hoping they hadn't heard. Relieved to see they were still sleeping, she readied herself to transform into the owl, but then a noise made her turn and a huge black dog leapt out of the night, teeth bared and eyes glowing with excitement at finding a live cat.

She turned just as its jaws snapped, clamping onto her tail making her shriek in shock and pain, then with a twist of its head it dragged her back and a huge paw pinned her, struggling in the mud. A moment later, the jaws opened, just enough to get a better hold and it was suddenly the dog's turn to be surprised as the cat unexpectedly became a panther. It yelped in alarm as the panther turned and its claws slashed out, tossing the startled hound across the path to land in a yelping heap.

The night immediately filled with barking, snarling and howls as more dogs poured out from around the tents to investigate this new disturbance. Mahra found herself caught with her back to the canvas wall of the tent, her paws deep in mud and rain pouring down upon her. As another flash of lightning banished the darkness, she saw several more large muddy dogs dash in to surround her. They took it in turns to slide forward, barking with excitement as they tried to get past her razor sharp claws; ears back she snarled in frustration and searched for escape.

Sensing more movement to her side, Mahra turned to see that one of the guards had awoken and was backing away, a fearful look on his face as he tried desperately to shake his companion out of his drunken stupor. More voices rose from the darkness as the noise about them increased and the camp began to awake and Mahra found herself forced to edge along and then back inside the tent. There had to be twenty dogs baying and snapping at her now, the smell of blood from those that had been tempted too close was already thick in the air which drove the rest of the pack into an even greater frenzy.

Her options were limited; they were overwhelming her as a panther. Changing into the form of an owl was an almost desperate desire, but she knew the moment she did, the dogs would be on her long before getting the chance to fly. Indecision and panic tugged at her as she searched for escape, snarling and slashing her claws to keep the pack at bay. For every dog that she sent away yelping, another three took its place, and now several of the warriors had woken up to join in with the sport. They jabbed at her with spears, swords and burning torches, spurring the dogs on, yelling a confusion of commands.

All question of escape or transformation was crushed as she reached the foot of the throne and a thick heavily weighted net landed on top of her, forcing her to the ground. The dogs rushed forward, baying with excitement only to be beaten back by their laughing masters before they could tear her to pieces.

Mahra lay panting and growling, yellow eyes reflecting in the light from the burning torches, gazing out through the net as her captors made sure she was secure. Several warriors were congratulating the beardless man, the one who moments before had been sleeping in Morgasta's bed. They slapped him on the back in praise as he explained how he had seen what was happening and thrown the net.

Mahra crouched, unable to move and more scared than she had ever been in her long life.

* * *

Matheus Hawk shivered as he studied with interest the tiny shapes moving far below him in the pass; he was anticipating quite a display, a display he had looked forward to for some considerable time.

One of the greatest lessons he had learned during his time with the Lord of Shadows was how important it is to know your enemy. His enemy was amongst the small shapes below him, and he had arranged this display so that he might get to know them better. When it next came time to meet, he planned to be well prepared.

Lying flat with his arms and legs outstretched on a cold rock ledge, Matheus Hawk was exposed to the cold, bitter elements of the Bolt. It was a natural place for the wind to be funnelled through at any time, but right now it howled through the Bolt with such force that, at times, it was almost peeling him from his perch. About him, driving snow danced in patterns as the blizzard ebbed and flowed, the noise almost deafening. Doing his best to ignore the constant shivers that ran through his body, he muttered a spell, pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders then wrapped his hands in its folds. From this height, the steady fall of snow was obscuring his view a little, but at least, he reasoned, they would never know he was here. Once the worst of the blizzard finally abated, and the snow flurries became less, his vantage point would offer a fine view of the Bolt. Close as it was to the entrance on Morgasta's side, he hadn't had to wait too long before the appearance of the wagon and riders signalled his patience was to be rewarded. He settled down, created a bubble of heated air over him and readied himself for the drama of confrontation that would soon play out below. Feeling movement inside his cloak, he smiled. Nhasic was sulking because he had sent the dragon away while he was forcing the little demon to stay and suffer the cold. The dragon had to be a complete surprise when it was unleashed in battle, and he didn't want to risk
The Griffin's
crew of brats seeing it too early.

The wind calmed a little, allowing sounds to come drifting up, echoing in the strange closeness of the Bolt. Leaning out a little he watched as the wagon came to an abrupt halt, the scattering of riders wheeled their mounts around and surrounded it, waiting while the driver tried to get it moving again over the uneven terrain.

'No, I will not get out again!' The angry voice of Bartholomew Bask echoed from the towering walls of the Bolt as the driver tried to explain the necessity of getting out to his indignant employer.

'But, Mr Bask,' he whined unhappily. 'This isn't a proper road. There are rocks and holes that are going to break the wheels, we have to lighten the load, just for a short while, please, Mr Bask.'

'
No, no, no!
'

It was obvious to the gathered riders that Bartholomew was going to hold things up again. Several of the guards dismounted and started rummaging through their packs standing on the sheltered side of their mounts as they searched for food or drink.

'How far into the Bolt do we need to go?' asked Tarent, glancing from the wagon back to Loras. The small Magician was silent as he scanned the cliffs to either side of them, a frown of concentration set upon his face and apparently lost in thought. Uttering a sigh of frustration, Tarent tried again to get some sort of response from his less than talkative friend. 'Loras… we aren't going to get that wagon much further up here, even if they do talk Bartholomew into getting out. Isn't here good enough?'

'The narrower it is the better,' Loras eventually replied. 'And for what I have in mind, we'll need a high section of cliff on both sides and no convenient ledges. Sorry, but we need to go further.' Pulling his horse around he dug in his heels and trotted on, the horse picking its way amongst the rock-strewn ground, head bowed against the snow, the sound of the horse's metal shod hooves echoing from along the rocky pass. Magician Falk followed closely after.

'Can't we just block the passage?' called Tarent after the two Magicians. 'You know, just bring down an avalanche to seal it all up? That would stop them.'

Magician Falk turned around and smiled at Tarent, then looked back to where Bartholomew had reluctantly left the wagon and was now stumbling across a patch of rocky ground. 'Yes, but it would also stop everyone and everything else from coming through the Bolt. Traders, animals… even us. Thankfully, we have a much better idea, but we can't do it here. Come on, the wagon will catch up with us eventually. There's no point in waiting around. Let's go ahead to try and find a better spot, shall we?' He wheeled his horse around and he and Tarent trotted after the distant figure of Loras.

'Loras, wait for us,' called Tarent, but the young Magician had already moved out of sight, further down the Bolt.

* * *

The first glow of daylight brought sleet, on a cold northerly wind that drove through the camp with a mournful howl. It didn't seem to be dampening the spirits of the Barbarian tribesmen. A crowd of jeering warriors, gathered around the wagon where Mahra was caged, were taking turns to jab at her with sticks and swords while her jailers made only half-hearted attempts at keeping her from harm. She snarled, turning again to face another warrior who had just lunged at her with a blunt sword as he stepped back and her claw struck the cage with a clang, she felt a stab of frustration. His face changed from a look of fear to one of delight at her reaction. Keep calm, she told herself, wait for your moment, it will surely come.

Mahra had spent an awful night. After they dragged her from the net, they had pulled her into the cage and subjected her to countless hours of cruel torment. The temptation to change her shape was strong, yet she knew it was futile. If she became a cat they would catch her, same with an owl and there was no way she was going to resort to her human form. If they knew she was able to change then she would be watched even closer, so she stayed as a panther. These people had no regard for the life of an animal; she was simply an object of entertainment to lift the boredom and monotony of waiting for the spring thaw. It was only when the cage was loaded onto the back of a wagon that she realised they didn't mean for her to spill her life here for their entertainment, they were moving her.

As the wagon began its journey, squelching through the mud and out of the camp, the followers fell away, a couple staying to throw handfuls of mud at her, a Barbarian farewell accompanied by a chorus of throaty laughs.

The cage was a strong one, the bars set close together, too close for her to escape either as a panther, a cat or an owl. Resigned to her fate, at least for the moment, she lay in abject misery on the pile of stinking straw, looking out at the world through half closed eyes and wondered, not for the first time, just how she was going to get out of this.

It was midmorning when the bumping wagon came to a halt beside a rocky outcrop. The five guards accompanying her lit a small fire to warm themselves and make a pot of foul smelling brew. Mahra gazed out of the cage, studying them. They were ignoring her in favour of the warmth that the fire offered, crouching down out of the wind talking in low voices.

Each guard carried either a sword or an axe strapped to their waists with long strips of animal hide. Their armour was the usual assortment of designs with anything apparently being acceptable as long as it was stained or painted in black. Mahra felt hunger gnawing at her belly as she smelt the rabbit they were cooking and watched them tear apart a loaf of dirty bread. She let out an involuntary whine of despair and one of the warriors turned at the sound, then laughed at her.

'Hungry are you? Like to eat me, wouldn't you?' the speaker threw his head back in a long deep cackle of amusement. 'You must wait to meet Morgasta. She will like you, and then maybe feed you with people in her pit.' He threw a piece of bread that struck the side of the cage and fell away into the mud. This brought laughter from his friends, and a decision for Mahra on just who would die first when she did finally get out of this cage. She turned away from them, shivering in the icy wind and then smiled to herself as a shape moving through the falling sleet resolved into a familiar figure.

'
Hello,
' called Quint as he got closer. 'You haven't seen a big black pussycat around here have you? Only mine went off last night, and I can't find her anywhere.' He walked in a little closer and stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the track about twenty paces from the crouching Barbarians. His sword remained in its scabbard on his back, and he appeared wet but relaxed.

The warriors came warily to their feet casting about them, looking for anyone else that may be about to pounce. When nobody appeared, the big one who had thrown the bread at Mahra took a step forward.

'Who are you boy? Why do you come here seeking your death?'

'I told you, I'm looking for my cat.'

The warrior walked towards him as the others called encouragement. 'Your pussycat is now ours, and I think you might as well join it in the cage. Where did you get that sword boy? Did you steal it from your daddy? Are you a man yet? Can you use it?' The warrior drew his own sword and cut left and right with mighty strokes, trying to intimidate Quint.' He frowned when Quint refused to be baited into drawing his sword.