Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon

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The Black Gryphon
Mage Wars 01
Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon
copyright 1994
version 2.0 compared to original, spell checked. completed January 31, 2004
Dedicated to Mel. White, Coyote Woman
A legend in the hearts
of all who know her.
One
Silence.
Cold wind played against Skandranon's nares—a wind as frigid as the hearts of the killers below.
Their hearts pumped blood unlike any other creature's; thick black blood, warmed when their
commanders willed it—only when they flew, only when they hunted, only when they killed.
Their blood was cold, and yet it ran warmer than their masters'. This much Skandranon Rashkae
knew; he had fought their masters since he was a fledgling himself. They were cruel and cunning, these
makaar, and yet the worst aspects of these manufactured horrors paled before the cruelty of their
creators.
Silence. Stay still. Quiet.
Skandranon remained motionless, crouched, feathers compressed tight to his body. He was silent to
more than hearing; that silence was but one of the powers that had made his master and friend so
powerful, although it was the power that had given him his name—Urtho, the Mage of Silence. Urtho's
champions had invisibility against magical sight—to mind-scanning, to detection spells, to magical scrying.
The enemies of his monarchy had spent much of their resources on foiling that edge—to no avail, it
seemed—and now concentrated on more direct methods of destroying Urtho's hold on the verdant
central-land's riches.
Skan kept his wings folded, the leading edge of each wing tucked under the soft black feathers at
the sides of his chest. It was important to be quiet and keep his head down, even this far from the
encampment. The journey here had been one of long soars and kiting, and although he was in his best
physical shape ever, flight muscles protested even yet. Better now to rest and watch. The chill wind
rippled against his coat of feathers. This day had turned out unseasonably cold, which hadn't helped him
any—except that it kept the makaar willing to make only the most necessary flights.
He watched them sleeping restlessly, twitching in their dreaming. Did they know how transient, how
fleeting, they were? How their creators built them, bred them, refined them, letting the bad stock die out
by assigning them to the border? Did they know their masters designed them with short lives so the
generations would cycle quicker, to reveal the defects more conveniently?
They were, despite their horrifying appearances and deadly claws, quite pitiful. They'd never know
the caress of a caring lover—they would only know the heat of imposed breeding. They knew their lot
was the searing pain of a torture-weapon if they failed. They never lay in the sun with a friend, or dashed
in the air with their wingmates....
They'd never risk their lives to do something because they felt it was right. Perhaps that was the
greatest pity of all; they could not be broken because they had no honor to compromise, no will to
subvert.
The makaar and the gryphons were a study in contrasts, despite the darker mages' obvious attempts
to mimic the Mage of Silence's handiwork. If gryphons were sinuous, graceful storms, makaar were
blustering squalls. The gryphons were bold, intelligent, crafty; the makaar were conditioned to blind
obedience. And one need only ask Skandranon which was the more attractive; he'd likely answer, "I
am." Vain bird. You'll make a lovely skin on a Commander's wall.
Skandranon breathed deeply behind the line of trees atop the hill; before him was the Pass of Stelvi.
The coming army had stormed it, at the cost of but a few hundred of their soldiers compared to the
thousand of Urtho's garrison. Farther down the pass was the split valley which once supported a thriving
trade-town. Laisfaar was now the army's quarters, and the surviving townsfolk made into servants no
better off than slaves. In the other fork of the valley the commanders had stationed the army's supplies
and creatures, including the sleeping makaar.
They might as well sleep; they did not need to fear sorcerous spying. The army's mages had shielded
the area from magical scrying, and none of Urtho's many attempts to search the valley by spell had
worked. That had left the need for study by stealth—risky at best, suicidal at worst.
Skandranon had, of course, volunteered.
Fly proudly to your doom laughing, vain bird, the best of the best; more suitors than sense,
more wealth than wisdom, sharp claws ready to dig your own funeral pit....
His meeting with Urtho had been brief by choice. The offer was made to send guards and mages;
Skandranon declined. Urtho offered to bolster his defensive spells, as he had done so many times before;
it was declined as well. What Skan asked for was enhancement of his magical senses—his Mage-sight
had been losing sharpness of late due to disuse. Urtho had smiled and granted it, and Skandranon left
immediately from the Tower itself, leaping broad-winged onto the wind's shivering back.
That was three dozen leagues and four meals ago; a long time to cover such a distance. It was a
tactical disaster for his side that the enemy's army had advanced this close to Urtho's Tower; now it
appeared they were prepared to march on the Tower itself. The layout of the encampments showed
three separate cadres of troops; the makaar had been assigned equally to two of them. And between
those two was the Weaponsmaster's coach, staked firmly and blanketed, flanked by two
canvas-covered wagons.
Hold a moment now. With a town nearby—hearths and comfortable bedding—the
Weaponsmaster is staying in a tent?
Each side in this war had Seers and Diviners, whose powers could throw secret plans, however
perfectly laid, awry. A Seer waking with a premonition of an assassination could thwart the attempt, for
instance. The night before Stelvi Pass was taken, a Seer's vision told of a horrible new weapon that
would devastate the garrison Urtho had placed there. It was something magical, the woman had said, but
was in the hands of common soldiers. That warning alone was enough to make the gryphon wary, and
had made him determined to explore this valley.
In a war of mages, the limited number of Adepts and Masters made tactical planning easier; you
could study your opponents, guess their resources, even identify them by their strategies without ever
seeing the commander himself. What alarmed Skandranon was the idea that the power of a mage could
be put in the hands of untrained people—those who did not have the innate powers or learned skills of a
mage. The units that could be fielded with such weapons would be an unwelcome variable, difficult to
guard against if at all. A Master could ride onto a battlefield and call on his own powers, unleashing
firebolts, lightning, hurricanes of killing wind—yet he was still just one man, and he could be eliminated.
But soldiers that could do that would be devastating, even if the weapons were employed but once each.
And if an Adept had discovered a way for the weapons to draw on power from magical nodes—
That was too horrifying to think of further. Skandranon had faced the Adept commander of all the
troops below, the Kiyamvir Ma'ar, twenty months ago. He had volunteered for that mission, too, and had
limped home wing-broken, stricken with nightmares. He had seen his wingmates skinned by the Adept's
spells, feathered coats peeled back in strips by the Adept's will alone in full daylight, despite Skan's
attempts to counterspell. The nightmares had left him now, but the memory made him determined to
protect Urtho's people from the Kiyamvir's merciless rule.
Skandranon's eyes focused on the town of Laisfaar. Urtho's garrison had not all been human; there
had been hertasi, a few tervardi, and three families of gryphons. His eyes searched the ramparts, noted
the wisps of smoke of fires still burning since the attack. There were the aeries of the gryphons; the ramps
for visitors, the sunning beds, the fledglings' nests....
... the bloodstains, the burned feathers, the glistening rib cage....
All the usual atrocities. Damn them.
She had been alive until very recently; she had escaped the worst of it by dying of shock and blood
loss. The makaar had no love for gryphons, and their masters gave them a still-living one after a battle as
a reward. Often it was a terrified fledgling, like this gray-shafted gryphon had been. The rest of the
garrison's gryphons had doubtless been wing-cut, caged, and sent to the Kiyamvir for his pleasures by
now. Skandranon knew well that, unless Ma'ar was distracted by his business of conquest, there would
be nothing left of them to rescue by day's end.
If he could, Skandranon would insure the captives would not last that long. Crippled as they would
likely be, he couldn't help them escape; but he might be able to end their ordeal.
Before that, he had a larger duty to attend to.
Now he moved, slinking belly-flat to the ground, catlike; one slow step at a time, eeling his way
through the underbrush with such delicate care that not even a leaf rustled. The Weaponsmaster's wagons
had plenty of guards, but not even the Weaponsmaster could control terrain. The mountains themselves
provided brush-filled ravines for Skandranon to creep through, and escarpments that overlooked the
wagons. The encampment was guarded from attack from above by makaar, but only over the immediate
vicinity of the camp. It was guarded from penetration from below by the foot-soldiers, but only outside
the camp itself. No one had guarded against the possibility of someone flying into the area of the camp,
behind the sentry lines, then landing and proceeding on foot to the center of the camp.
No one could have, except a gryphon. No one would have, except Skandranon. The omission of a
defense against gryphon spying told him volumes about the military commanders who led this force. The
Kiyamvir would reprimand them well for such a mistake—but then, Ma'ar was the only one of their side
who understood the gryphons' abilities. Most commanders simply assumed gryphons and makaar were
alike, and planned defenses accordingly.
So Skandranon stayed in the shadows, moving stealthily, as unlike a makaar as possible.
Time meant nothing to him; he was quite prepared to spend all night creeping into place. Even in the
most strictly ruled of armies, discipline slackens after a victory. Soldiers are weary and need rest; victory
makes them careless. Skan had timed his movements to coincide with that period of carelessness.
He noted no sentries within the bounds of the camp itself; his sharp hearing brought him no hint that
the commanders prowled about, as they were known to do before a battle. Doubtless, the commanders
were as weary as the soldiers and slept just as deeply.
He spent his moments waiting committing details to memory; even if he died, if his body were
somehow recovered, Urtho could still sift his last memories for information. That would only work if he
died swiftly, though. Otherwise, the memories would be overcome by sensory input; thus the immediate
torture of gryphon captives. Daring rescues had occurred before, and once retrieved, the gryphons'
bodies were tremendous sources of information.
That could also be a clue to where the rest of the gryphon families were; it was also not unheard of
to use captives as bait for rescue-traps. Captives' minds were often stripped of the will to resist, the
prisoners forced to give information to the enemy. This was why Skandranon held a horrible power—a
spell of death keyed to gryphons—for mercy.
And he hoped with every drop of blood that he would never be required to use it again.
Halfway to his goal he froze as he heard footsteps approaching the stand of tall grasses where he lay
hidden. The cover that had seemed adequate a moment earlier seemed all too thin now—
Clever bird, hiding in grass. Better hope the wind doesn't blow—
But the footsteps stumbled, and Skan held his breath, not wanting to betray his position by breathing
steam into the cold air. He froze in mid-step, right foreclaw held a mere thumb length above the ground.
He could not see the human who approached without turning his head, which he would not do. He
could only wait and listen.
The footsteps stopped; there was a muffled curse, and the sound of hands fumbling with
cloth—Then, clear and unmistakable, the sound of a thin stream of water hitting the matted grasses.
The human grunted, yawned; the sound of trousers being hitched up followed. The footsteps
stumbled away again.
Skandranon unfroze and lowered his claw to the ground.
There were no other incidents as he made his way up the escarpment and slid under the shelter of a
knot of wild plum bushes, to wait until dawn. He could feel the beetles and spiders of the thicket
exploring their newly-arrived piece of landscape as the minutes went by. Despite the impulse to yelp and
swat them, though, he stayed still. Their irritation provided a blessing in a way; something to feel, to keep
his senses alert after nightfall.
Skandranon's tentative plan was to wait until darkness, then sneak out to explore the camp. Other
warriors suspected his stealthiness was a result of Urtho's magicking, although the elder denied it, citing
the gryphon's near-obsessive interest in dancing-movements. He had often watched Skandranon
mimicking human, tervardi, and hertasi performers in private. Skandranon had trained himself with a
dedication he would never admit except as a boast, applying that knowledge to flight, to lovemaking, and
to combat. That, in truth, was what made him quieter than a whisper of wind; no spells or tricks, just
practiced grace.
Silence alone is not enough. Urtho has learned that the hard way—we've lost border towns
for half a generation, and only now begun doing more than simply defending our borders. Eh,
well, Urtho had never intended to become Archmage. He's more suited to crafting silver and
carving figures than deploying armies.
Such a pity that a man so kindhearted would be pressed into the role of a warlord... but better he
than a heartless man.
And I'd certainly rather be off making little gryphlets.
That would have to wait until the world became a safer place to raise young, though. For now,
Skandranon waited... until a shriek rang out from the town, echoing off the walls of the valley. Only
practiced self-control kept him from leaping into the air, claws stretched to rend and tear.
One at least still lives. I'm coming, friend, I'm coming... just hold on a little longer. Just a
little. Feh, I can't wait any longer.
Skandranon stood and surveyed the layout of the encampment again; he'd heard screams like that
too many times in his life. Not again. He spread his wings half-open and leapt, down toward the
Weaponsmaster's wagons, depending on speed to be his ally. Knifelike wind whistled against his nares,
chilling his sinuses, sharpening his mind. All the sights and sounds of the world intensified when he was in
motion, sizes and details of shapes all taken into account for the entire span of his vision.
Snatch and fly, that's your plan, isn't it, damned foolish bird? You're going to die the hero
they all call you, for what? Because you couldn't stand another moment of another gryphon's
pain? Couldn't wait any longer.
The wagons rushed closer in his sight, and their magical alarms blazed into light, waiting like barbed
snares to be triggered. Were they traps, too, besides being alarms? Would they trap him? Were they the
bait, not the tortured gryphon?
Would it matter? You're too damned predictable, Skan, too sensitive, couldn't stand to wait.
She'd die anyway, you know it, by the time you'd have gone in. Why do it?
Colors and textures rushed past him in three dimensions, as he dove ever closer to the wagons.
It's because you're not bright enough, stupid gryphon. Stupid, stupid gryphon.
Well, death is inevitable anyway, so dying for the right reason is...
Just as final.
Stupid gryphon.
Too late for reconsideration, though. The wagon alarm-fields loomed nearer, and Skan had to risk a
spell to disarm them—the easiest was one which made them detect another place nearby, instead of the
place they were supposed to protect. He focused on them, released the flow into them, diverted their
field away to an open part of the camp... and they did not sound. Now his troubles stemmed from the
soldiers who might still be outside—and the makaar. He might be invisible to the alarms, but he was still
pitch black to anyone's vision. A soldier of Ma'ar's army would not wonder at a shadow that moved
through the sky—he'd call an alert.
He half-hoped for detection, since he would likely have the quarry before any spells could be
leveled against him. Once discovered, he would not have to skulk about any longer... he could blaze
away with a detection spell to find the gryphon whose scream he'd heard earlier. Otherwise there would
be delicate searching around for—who knew how long. Of course, discovery also brought such pesky
distractions as arrows and firebolts and snares and spells....
He backwinged and landed, kicking up clods of dirt next to the wagon, and his head darted from
side to side, looking for spotters. None yet, but that could change all too quickly. Two steps to the back
of the wagon, then under it—no one ever guards the bottoms of things, only sides and doors—and
he began prying at the wagon's floorboards, next to the struts and axles, where the mud, water, and
friction of traveling always rots the wood. He was curled up under the wagon completely, on his back,
tail tucked between his legs, wings folded in against his ribs, hind claws holding the wingtips. He didn't
dare rip at the canvas of the wagon's bonnet—past experience had shown that apparently flimsy defenses
were often imbued with alarm-spells. His claws glowed faintly with the disruption-spell he was using, and
the wood shriveled above where his claws slowly raked, silent from the sound-muffling of his cupped
wings.
The enemy's wagons traditionally had an aisle down the middle, and that was where Skandranon
was working... another four cuts, five, six, and he'd be able to pull the boards down under the blanket of
a silence-spell. Then he'd get a look inside at their coveted prize.
He began mentally reciting the silence-spell, calling up the energy from inside himself and releasing it
around the wagon. He was careful to mold it short of touching the wagon itself, building it up from the
ground. The wagon's defenses might yet be sensitive to the touch of just such a spell. It was hard to tell
anymore, so many variables, so many new traps....
He hoped that the mages under Ma'ar's command did not sweep the camp for magic at work.
Things were going so well, so far. Skan reached up, claws digging firmly into the crossbrace,
cracked through it, and the entire aisle section fell to the ground, inches in front of his beak....
... and Skandranon found himself face to face with a very upset, recently awakened
Weaponsmaster, who was drawing something—surely a weapon—up from beneath his bedding. The
weapon pointed at the gryphon and started changing.
Skan's right claw shot out and struck the human's scalp and squeezed, finding yielding flesh. His
thumb pierced the man's eye socket, and inside the envelope of silence, a gurgling scream faded into the
wet sounds of Skan withdrawing his talons from the kill.
The man's hands twitched and dropped the weapon, which was still pointing at Skandranon. It was
a polished rod, wrapped in leather, with a glowing, spiked tip revealed where the leather ended. It rolled
from the dead man's fingers and fell to the ground, and the tip withdrew into the rod.
On your back, underneath a wagon, in an enemy camp, you kill a Weaponsmaster
one-handed? No one will ever believe it. Ever. That was too close, too close, stupid gryphon.
Someone will come by soon, Skan. Move. Get the whatever-it-is and get away. That's all you
need to do. Get away.
Skan released his wingtips and pulled himself across the body of the slain human, keelbone scraping
against the ragged edge of sundered wood. His wing-edges caught, pinning him in the opening, and he
wheezed with the effort of pulling himself through. It was dim inside. Only the waning light from outside
leaking through the canvas-openings provided any illumination. Around him, stacked in open cases,
waited glistening objects, the same as the Weaponsmaster had held, each the size of his foreclaws.
Each far more deadly than his claws, he was sure.
They must be some entirely new kind of weapon, and he needed no spell-casting to know their
magical origin. They exuded magic, their collective power making his feathers crawl like being in the heart
of a lightning storm abrewing. Now to grab one and leave! Skan reached toward the cases, almost
touching one of them, when his inner voice screamed "No!"
The Weaponsmaster had one, he was guarding these, these may all be trapped....
A hair-thin crackle of reddish energy arced between the weapons and his extended foreclaw,
confirming his fears.
Then there may be only one that isn't trapped....
He moved slowly, wings folded so tight it hurt. Up onto his haunches, then back down to all fours,
until he faced the rear of the wagon. Then he reached down through the shattered floorboards, groping
for the slain Master's weapon. It didn't make sense to Skan that the man would trap his own weapon,
even if he was a mage; Weaponsmasters as a rule tended to be terribly impressed with themselves, and
thought they could handle anything.... Too bad, so sad, first mistake and last. What's that, stupid
bird, you're getting cocky because you've lasted this long? More to do, and every second is
borrowed time.
At last came the feel of the rod, warm to his touch despite the thickness of his scaled skin. He
reared back, eyes closed to the thinnest of slits, concentrating on not touching the racks of trapped arms.
He transferred his prize to his mouth, clenching it tightly above his tongue, and fell forward across the
gaping entrance he'd made, stretching across it toward the untied flap of the wagon bonnet.
All right. What's the worst that could happen? I touch the canvas, and the entire wagon goes
up with all the energy in these things. That'd be just like Ma'ar, if he can't have them, no one else
can.... I'd better count on it.
Skandranon bunched up his leg muscles, preparing for a massive leap through the exit, when he
heard bootsteps outside, and a moment later, a shadowy figure opened the flap, cursing in the enemy's
tongue.
Now. Now!
In the same instant, the figure opened the canvas, and the gryphon leapt. Skan used the man's
shoulders as a vault, crushing the man's face against the back of the wagon from his momentum. He
snapped his wings open, catching the edges, as the human crumpled underneath him. Then a deafening
sound exploded around them as the wagon's massive final trap was set off—a crimson circle of fire
spread across the ground, incinerating the human, catching the other wagon. A thrashing body was
engulfed in the flame arcing from it as Skandranon gained altitude.
The makaar roused.
End of your charmed life, gryphon. At least now you can cast freely before you die... find her,
wherever she is, accomplish that at least—
Skan's wings rowed at the air, clutching for distance from the camp. There was one thing yet to do
before his conscience would let him leave. Somewhere—his mind searched through the camp and town
for where—there was one of his own kind being killed, slowly....
He searched, and found her tortured mind as he crested the ridge. It felt as if her body had been
lanced deep by thousands of needles, cut on by a hundred mad surgeons, broken by mallets, yet still she
lived. There was a wrenching moment as Skan's mind reeled from the backlash of what had been done to
her, and he felt his wings fold involuntarily.
:Kill me,: she screamed, :Stop them, something—anything!:
:Open up to me,: Skan sent to her, :Open up to me and trust—there will be pain at first, then
all will be dark. You'll fly again, as Urtho wills—:
She halted her scream as she recognized the code sign for the death-spell. No one had made a
move to block it yet—
He pulled back from her for a bare second, trying to steady himself in his flight. He reached out
again, riding the wind, then unleashed the spell, caught her mind, pulled it free of her body for one
gut-wrenching second. The spell struck home and stopped her heart.
I am sorry, so sorry... you will fly again after the dark.... Then he released her spirit to the
winds.
Somewhere in the captured inn, a bound and wing-cut body convulsed, then lay still. Above the
valley, Skandranon raced away desperately, unable to cry out for her, as seven makaar surged skyward
to destroy him.
At last, the General slept.
Amberdrake started to rise, then sank back down to his seat on the side of the General's bed as
Corani woke convulsively, with a tiny gasp. The anguish was still there, filling the room, palpable even to
the weakest Empath. For an Empath as strong as Amberdrake, the impact of Corani's pain was a blow
to the heart.
Amberdrake waited for the General to speak, while radiating warmth and reassurance,
concentrating on the soothing scents still flavoring the air as a vehicle for that reassurance; the gentle hint
of amber incense, the chamomile in the oils he had used in his massage, the jessamine covering the taste
of sleep-herbs in the tea he'd given Corani. He ignored the throbbing pain in his own temples, his
tension-knotted stomach, and the terrible sense of foreboding that had come upon him at the General's
summons. His feelings did not matter; he was a kestra'chern, and his client—more patient than client, as
was often the case—needed him. He must be the strong one, the rock to rest against. He did not know
Corani well; that was all to the good. Often men of power found it easier to unburden themselves to a
stranger than to a friend.
The General's suite was in Urtho's keep and not in a tent in the camp; easy enough here to pull
heavy curtains to shut out the light and the world with it, to burn dim, scented lamps that invoked a feeling
of disassociation from the armed camp beyond the keep. The General himself had not summoned
Amberdrake; the few times he had called to the camp for a kestra'chern, it had been Riannon SilKedre
he had wanted—slightly inferior to Amberdrake in skill, an accomplished and well-respected female. No,
one of Urtho's aides had come to the tent—quietly, with his livery hidden beneath a cloak, which said
more about the aide's visit than the boy himself did.
Urtho was still closeted with his General when Amberdrake arrived, but when he finally returned to
his quarters, he did not seem surprised to see Amberdrake there. He was clearly distraught, and yet it
had taken Amberdrake hours and every bit of his skill to persuade him to unburden himself.
And he knew why Urtho had chosen him and not Riannon. There were times when it was easier for
a man to reveal his pain to a man—and Amberdrake was utterly trustworthy. Whatever was revealed to
him remained with him forever. He was many things to many people; tonight he had been something of a
Healer, something of a priest, something of a simple, noncommittal ear.
"You must be disappointed," the General said into the lamp-lit dimness, his voice resigned. "You
must think I'm a weakling now."
That was what Corani said; Amberdrake, being what he was, heard what Corani meant.
He was really saying, "I must disgust you for falling apart like this, for looking so poorly composed,"
and, "You must despise me and think me unworthy of my position."
"No," Amberdrake replied simply, to both the spoken and unspoken assertions. He did not want to
think what the General's collapse meant to him, personally; he must not think of it. Must not remember
the messengers that roused the camp last night; the premonitions that had awakened the more sensitive
and marginally Gifted among the Healers and kestra'chern from nightmares of blood and fire against the
outline of the mountains. Must not think of the fact that Corani's family came from Laisfaar at Stelvi Pass,
and that while his sons had posts with the army here, his wife and all his relatives were back there.
There, where Skandranon had gone. He and Gesten did not know why, or for what reason; Amberdrake
only knew that he had gone off without a farewell.
"No," Amberdrake repeated, taking the General's outflung hand before Corani could reclaim it, and
massaging the palm and fingers carefully. The muscles felt cramped and tight; Corani's hand was cold.
"How could I be that stupid? You are human and mortal; we are the sum of our weak moments and our
strong. Everyone has a moment at which he must break; this one was yours. It is no shame to need help
and know it."
Somewhere, deep inside, he wondered if it was also his. There was pressure building inside him that
threatened to break free at any moment. He was not so self-confident that he thought he could do
without help. The question was, would there be any there for him? Too many battered spirits to
mend—too many bruised bodies to comfort—the resources of Healers and kestra'chern alike were
stretched and overstretched. That he was near the end of his reserves made little difference.
Far too many of his clients had gone out to battle and had not returned. And Skan had been due
back this morning; it had been near sunset when the aide left him in Corani's quarters. Skan was never
overdue.
But for now, this moment, he must put his own strain aside. None of that must show—he shouldn't
let it break his concentration or his focus. Corani came first; Corani must be comforted enough, given
enough reinforcing, as if he were a crumbling wall, that he could function and come to heal. Something
had gone wrong, terribly wrong, at Stelvi Pass. Corani had not told him what, but Amberdrake knew
with dreadful certainty. Stelvi Pass had been overrun; Laisfaar, and Corani's family with it, was no more.
It would be better for them to be dead than in Ma'ar's hands unless they'd hidden their identities and
vanished into the general population. And that was unlikely.
Corani accepted this, as wise generals accepted all facts. Corani had accepted Amberdrake's
comforting as well. For the moment, anyway. That was another of Amberdrake's abilities; it bought time.
Time to bring distance, time to heal. "My sons—"
"I think that Urtho has seen to them as well," Amberdrake replied quickly. Urtho would have seen to
everything; it was his way.
Skan—
Quickly, he suppressed the thought and the anguish it caused.
The drugs in the General's tea took effect; in the dim light, Corani struggled to keep his eyes open,
eyes still red and swollen from weeping. The General had fought those tears, fought to keep them
properly held inside with the determination that had made him the leader he was. Amberdrake had fought
his determination with a will of his own that was no less stubborn. "It's time to sleep," Amberdrake said
quietly.
Corani blinked, but held him with an assessing gaze. "I'm not certain what I expected when I saw
you here," he said, finally. "Based on Riannon—"
"What Riannon gave you was what you needed then," Amberdrake replied, gently touching the
general's shoulder. "What I do is what you need now. Sometimes neither is what the recipient expects."
He laid a soothing hand on Corani's forehead. "That is what a kestra'chern does, after all; gives you what
you need."
"And not necessarily what I want," Corani said quickly.
Amberdrake shook his head. "No, General. Not necessarily what you think you want. Your heart
knows what you want, but often your head has some other idea. It is the task of the kestra'chern to ask
your heart, and not your head, what you need and answer that need."
Corani nodded, his eyelids drooping.
"You are a strong man and a good leader, General Corani," Amberdrake continued. "But no man
can be in two places at the same time. You could not be here and there as well. You cannot anticipate
everything the enemy will do, nor where he will strike. The War thinks its own way. You are not
answerable for the entire army. You did what you could, and you did it well."
The muscles of Corani's throat tightened visibly as he fought for control. Amberdrake sensed tears
being forced down. Corani was on the verge of more than tears; he was on the verge of a breakdown.
This would accomplish nothing, worse than nothing. The man needed rest, and with Amberdrake's hand
resting on his forehead, he was open to Amberdrake's will.
"You must sleep," kestra'chern Amberdrake said, imposing a mental command on top of the drugs.
Corani closed his eyes, and this time he did not reawaken when Amberdrake rose to go.
Gesten would be where he had been since dawn; at the landing field, waiting for Skandranon to
return. Amberdrake left the keep, slipping unobtrusively out into the scarlet of a spectacular sunset. The
landing field was not far away, and Amberdrake decided to head there, rather than going straight back to
his tent.
Depression weighed heavily on his heart, a depression that was not relieved at the sight of Gesten
alone on the field, patiently making preparations to wait out the night-watch.
Amberdrake held his peace for a moment, then spoke.
"He's not coming back this time," Amberdrake said quietly.
His hertasi companion, Gesten, looked up at him with his expressive eyes and exhaled through his
nostrils. He held his pebble-scaled snout shut for a long minute. "He'll come. He always does," Gesten
finally said. "Somehow."
Amberdrake wished with all his heart that the little hertasi would be right this time. Skandranon had
flown from the Tower two days before, and Stelvi Pass was less than a day away, flying; he had never
been delayed by so much before. Gesten was going about the task of building a watch-fire for their
friend, laying out colored smoke-pots amidst the kindling. It might be a useless gesture, but it was all he
could really do right now, with dawn so far away. Light up a pattern of blue and white to welcome the
flyer home, let him know from afar that safety was close... Amberdrake tried to help, but he was
awkward, and his heart wasn't in it. How odd, that one so graceful in his calling could be so clumsy
outside it.
"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.
摘要：

TheBlackGryphonMageWars01MercedesLackey&LarryDixoncopyright1994version2.0comparedtooriginal,spellchecked.completedJanuary31,2004DedicatedtoMel.White,CoyoteWomanAlegendintheheartsofallwhoknowher.OneSilence.ColdwindplayedagainstSkandranon'snares—awindasfrigidastheheartsofthekillersbelow.Theirheartspum...

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