The Golden Griffin (Book 3) (3 page)

Daria got the rabbit spitted over a small cook fire, then returned to rub down Joffa. Together, they searched for a tree with a sturdy trunk and strong branches. They’d be safer spending the night in the canopy than on the ground. When that was taken care of, she fetched a few things from the saddlebags, and returned to the fire. The rabbit was almost done.

Something rustled in the brush. She drew one of the slender blades at her side and was in a crouch and prepared before it emerged. It was a large badger that eyed her with curiosity as it sniffed the air.

Daria sheathed the sword. “You could get hurt that way, friend. Oh, and I suppose you want some of my supper, too.” She broke off a piece of bread and held out her hand. “Here, I can spare some of this. No?” She popped the bread into her mouth. “Well, you’re not getting my rabbit, so forget it.”

She expected the badger to wander off, but instead it stood on its back feet. Then it seemed to be stretching. Growing. Daria’s eyes widened and when she blinked, a man with a gray beard stood in front of her. A wizard. She shrank back in alarm, then saw it was only Narud.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I might ask you the same thing.” Narud licked his lips. “The truth is, I smelled cooking rabbit and got hungry.”

She sniffed. “I wasn’t going to share with a badger, and I’m certainly not going to give it to a wizard. I’ve been traveling all afternoon and evening and I’m starved. Can’t you forage your own supper?”

He pulled a pouch from his cloak and opened it for her to see. It was filled with mushrooms, leeks, and wild carrots. “I did. Or at least, part of a supper.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? How about rabbit stew?”

“Sounds good to me.”

She removed the rabbit from the fire and gingerly picked off the steaming meat. She put it in a pot with Narud’s vegetables, and collected water from a nearby stream. About twenty minutes later they had a nice-size meal for two. Then a second wizard showed up. It was Markal, huffing and bending over to grip his knees. It seemed that he’d been running after Narud too fast to bother collecting food. He had plenty of appetite, though.

Markal kept his left hand tucked against his body as they ate. She supposed he’d withered it with some spell, although what, he didn’t say. Neither wizard spoke much. Soon, the food was gone, and the berries and cheese Daria had packed for breakfast as well.

The moment they finished, Narud wiped his mouth with his beard and gave Markal a look.

“Use your own hand this time,” Markal grumbled. “I’ll be helpless.”

“The girl can look after you.”

“You shouldn’t have changed back in the first place.”

“I had to, she wasn’t going to give the rabbit meat to a badger.”

“Fine,” Markal said. “What now?”

“An owl,” Narud said. “I need my eyes.”

Markal bowed his head and chanted. Daria didn’t need to see the wizardry, so she climbed up to where Joffa nested in the tree. The griffin was asleep with his head tucked under one wing. His claws flexed in some dream. She stroked her hand along the feathers of his neck, down to where they gave way to fur. Then she returned to the fire.

Narud was gone. Markal rolled a glass sphere in his stiff left hand. He tucked it away when she approached, and the hand, too.

“Good night to you,” she said. “Will you be here in the morning?”

“Are you really going to do that to me?”

“Do what?”

“Go to bed already. I’ve been traveling with Narud for a week. I could use the company. It wouldn’t kill you, either. Toss another branch on the fire and take a seat. We’ll talk.”

She obeyed, although she was at a loss for words. If he had news, why didn’t he share it already? Did he want something?

Markal smiled. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You’re sixty miles north of the Tothian Way. There’s a company of Veyrian deserters two miles from here, holed up in a ruined castle. A few miles to the north is a band of cutthroats recently driven from the Old Road.”

“They’ll never find us here,” she said. “And if they do, we’ll take care of them.”

“Narud and I spotted dragon wasps three days ago. They seemed anxious for us to depart from their lands.”

“Their lands? They are interlopers, they do not belong here.” Daria leaned forward. “Where was it? Near the forest fire?”

“Ah, now we get down to it.” Markal held out his left hand. It was curled into a claw, raw and pink. He kept the other hidden in the sleeves of his robe. “Would you do me a favor, Daria? This hand is still aching and the other will be no good until morning. If you could stretch my fingers and massage the palm, it would be a big help.”

It was strange to touch another person, but she treated his stiff hand like she would a knot in a griffin’s shoulder. She kept massaging until it began to loosen up. He sighed.

“A little harder. Yes, yes, that’s good.” He eyed her. “Are you investigating the fire, or are you looking for Darik?”

Daria didn’t answer. There was a reason they called this wizard the Talebearer. And it wasn’t because he knew how to keep a secret. For her part, Daria was terrible at withholding information, so she thought it best to keep her mouth shut.

“Very well,” Markal said. “I thought I’d ask because Darik is nearby, you know. Ouch!”

Daria was gripping his hand like a griffin with a lamb in its talons. She dropped it and felt her face flush. “He is? Where?”

Markal flexed his fingers. When he looked up, he smiled. “You know what I love about the griffin people? You are so honest, so transparent. You have no guile. It’s refreshing.”

“Yes, yes, but where is he?”

“Riding with a company of knights. I’m trying to keep an eye on him—we were supposed to ride east to Veyre, after all—but I’ve been distracted.”

“Distracted by bandits and cutthroats?”

“No, the Veyrians are traitors. They have no intention of returning to the khalifates. Why would they? They’d only end up in battle again, on one side or the other.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re up to any good here,” she said.

“No, they’re not. But they’re not my worry. It’s the servants of the enemy who have infiltrated the north country who have my attention.”

“The dragon wasps,” Daria said with a nod. “And the dragons in the mountains.”

Markal leaned back. “Ah, tell me more.”

“I don’t know much.”

“You know more than I do.”

“Three dragons survived the battle. One was badly injured and fled into the southern deserts. The other two have taken refuge on the Spine. Mostly, they stay deep in the mountains, in caves, where evil magicians from the khalifates—torturers, and the like—stoke their fires.”

The wizard looked disappointed. “Right.” He flexed his hand, then reached for a stick, which he picked up clumsily and poked at the coals.

Daria fell silent. He knew all of this already, it was clear, and she felt foolish.

“Anything more?” he asked.

“They came out of their lairs a few days ago and did battle over the leeward hills. You might have seen smoke from the burning forest.”

Markal stiffened and fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “By the Brothers.”

“What is it?”

“And that’s where you were flying?”

“Yes, to search for the dragon caves.”

“And when you find them?”

“We’re going to mount an expedition to drive them from the Spine, but we’re not strong enough yet. Perhaps by spring.”

“Too few griffins?”

“Too few riders,” she corrected. “We’ve been keeping our excess fledglings instead of turning them loose into the wild. And we’re training new riders as fast as we can, but it will be another season before they’re ready. They are too young yet, children, really.”

“There are many orphaned young men and women in Balsalom,” Markal said. “Bright, eager to learn. I’m sure the khalifa would send more than you need.”

“We tried that. But they aren’t from the mountains. They’re so different.”

“Ah, I see. You’re afraid of flatlanders.”

“Shouldn’t we be? They are so many, we are few.” Daria was getting distracted. She shook her head to clear it. “Why did you react like that when I told you about the fighting dragons?”

“It might be nothing. I don’t want to alarm you.”

“I’m not a child, Markal. If you’ve got information, give it to me.”

“The truth is, I don’t know yet, but it isn’t a good sign. For now I’d rather not speculate.”

“Speculating is what you do best.”

“Yes, and it gets me into trouble. I’ll investigate. If I turn up something, I promise I’ll share. Meanwhile, there’s danger on the Old Road. The Knights Temperate are riding to clear it of bandits, and they’re unprepared for what they’re going to find. That’s why Narud and I were traveling. And why I’m so happy to see you here.”

“Is Darik in trouble?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Markal chewed his lower lip. “No, I think not. He’s with a company of twenty Knights Temperate. So long as he stays with the other men . . . but never mind that. Now that you’re here, you’ll save me time. Narud flew off and who knows when he’ll reappear. He’s an owl now and will likely forget his duties while he swoops around hunting voles and field mice. Who are you riding?”

“Joffa. He’s bedded down for the night.”

“But once he’s rested, can he carry two?”

“Of course.” Daria had nearly forgotten the purpose that had brought her so far north, to investigate the fighting dragons. “Let’s find Darik. If he’s in trouble, we can help.”

#

Daria and her griffin slept in the upper branches while Markal made a bed of pine boughs in a thick branch below, maybe ten feet off the ground. It was warm beneath Joffa’s wing, and she nestled into the comfort of fur and feathers.

She woke a few hours later to a strange blue light. She looked down to see something glowing within Markal’s robes. His eyes were closed and he muttered softly, speaking first to someone named Memnet, then arguing with another wizard. Markal said something about a dragon made of mud and sticks. The bone gurgolet.

The light faded and Markal quieted. He’d never awakened, so far as she could tell. After a few minutes, the rumble from Joffa’s chest soothed Daria back toward sleep. She thought of Darik, riding behind her, his arms tight around her waist. He would be breathing hard, thrilled by the flight. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

Remember. Flatlanders don’t simply blurt their feelings. When you see him it’s better to say nothing at all than say something foolish.

Chapter Three

Darik gave up the chase when his horse began to stumble and the magic trail grew difficult to follow in the darkness. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t overtaken the thief and his brother by now. They must have known he was following, must have even changed horses.

He found an abandoned barn on the edge of a ruined farmstead and bedded down for the night. He was back on the hunt by the first hint of dawn. When the sun crept up behind the peaks of the Dragon’s Spine to his east, he’d picked up the trail again. It led across the field to a gutted crofter’s shack, and there he stopped.

The ground was torn by horse hooves. The fence had been broken, and blood dripped from one of the split rails. The thief’s plow horse lay dead a few yards away, hacked to death with vicious blows from a sword or ax. A brown crofter’s cap lay next to it in the dirt, cleaved nearly in two. It was damp with blood. The thief had worn a hat like that.

Darik sighed. Someone had beat him to it. In fact, it might have even been Roderick and the others. Darik had ridden in pursuit until he lay well north of where he’d left the knights the previous afternoon. Maybe something had turned them from the road and they’d chanced upon the two outlaws. That would explain why the bodies were missing. Justice administered, Roderick might have sent them back to the village as proof. Hard to explain the dead horse, though.

Something shimmered on the edge of Darik’s vision and a scent caught his nostrils. There, to the right. The remnant of the magic he’d used when shaking the thief’s hand. It was faint, but still there. He was wrong. The young man was still alive.

Some other strangeness hung in the air. More wizardry beyond his little spell, though he was too inexperienced to identify it properly. Like a burned flavor, almost. Something about it reminded him of Balsalom. Nothing to do with the Knights Temperate, he decided. Magic from the khalifates. A Veyrian torturer perhaps. If only Markal were with him.

Wary now, Darik mounted his horse and followed the trail across the fields. It led east, then came onto the King’s Road, where it was weaker still. Whoever had the young man was moving quickly. Darik picked up the pace, traveling north on the highway. The trail was easy enough to follow.

Fields gave way to marsh, with the road maintaining a solid path through the waterlogged stretches. Castle Crestwell appeared to the right, rising on a hill, but Darik continued. The knights were probably on the road already, and he suddenly began to wonder what would happen when they encountered the band of riders who had carried off the two outlaws. There might be trouble.

The Old Road threaded a gap between two of the higher peaks in the northern range. It was a vital route between Eriscoba and the khalifates now that the castles of the Tothian Way had closed off that road. Armies could still march along the Way, but merchants and smaller companies of men had to pay heavy tolls to the greedy mountain lords.

Unfortunately, the brigands, highwaymen, and Veyrian deserters had so infested the Old Road that it would soon be closed as well. Now that he was finally here, Darik could see why. The north country was nearly empty of people. There were a few villages, closed tightly behind walls or huddled for protection atop easily defended hills, but people had withdrawn from the outlying farms and fields.

A small keep guarded the intersection of the King’s Highway with the Old Road as the latter cut east toward the mountains, but it was abandoned. The massive oak doors hung from their hinges and fire blackened the stone walls. No bodies.

The magic trail continued up the Old Road toward the mountains. Darik followed it, his unsettled feeling growing. He passed through another marsh, then the peat bogs gave way to thickets of brambles as he gained elevation, and soon a dense hardwood forest encroached to the edge of the road. More than once he heard bird calls that sounded suspiciously like men calling warnings. It was dangerous riding alone through thick cover. Branches overhung the road; any one of them might hold a cutthroat who waited to fall on him.