| |
The wind howled around Godfrey as he trudged through the scattered snowdrifts adorning the Wyrmwind Peaks. His cloak flapped like a banner caught in the storm raging about him. Blinding snow obscured his vision. He had lost Madeline’s trail a few days prior after recovering her gloves back in the forest. Now he wandered through the icy mountains aimlessly. Godfrey knew he had to find shelter, but all he could see was white as the snow stung his face.
Hunger pangs stabbed at his stomach. He had eaten very little since Madeline’s capture. Most of the trail rations were lost with Baruch back in the Irelven, and foraging took time Godfrey did not have. Only his own force of will kept him going. Slipping on a patch of ice, he knew he was quickly succumbing to fatigue.
He tried to lift himself, but his arms gave out. Covering his face with his cloak, he took a deep breath, which came dangerously close to becoming a yawn. His eyelids were just too heavy to keep open anymore. His heavy cloak was the only thing separating his face from the elements. The wind continued to howl relentlessly.
“Gods,” Godfrey muttered. “I am out of food. I don’t know where I am even supposed to be going anymore. You’ve taken everything from me. Now take me.”
His fingers and toes growing numb, he relaxed as if he were going into a deep sleep. That was how he would think of death. It was cold. Yet he counted the gradual loss of feeling in his extremities as a mercy. Death would be painless enough.
As he drifted in and out of consciousness, the last thing he was aware of was the howling wind of the snowstorm. It momentarily changed pitch to become more like a shriek. The wind died down, but fitfully shrieked once more before giving out entirely. Now Godfrey could die in peace.
He awoke to the sound of a crackling fire. He smelled some sort of vegetable broth cooking in a pot over the hearth. Looking about himself, he discovered he was lying in a large bed with a fine royal purple blanket covering him. The gilded furniture and decorations in the room around him were of extreme craftsmanship. Godfrey’s cloak, armor, shield, and sword were set neatly in one of the corners. He was about to stand, but he stopped when he heard the sound of feet ascending a set of nearby stairs from outside the room.
The door creaked on its ornate brass hinges as someone entered the room. Godfrey sat up, surprised to see a tall, thin man with long, white hair enter the room. On closer inspection, Godfrey saw the man’s ears were pointed.
“You’re...” Godfrey began.
“I am called Luka.” The creature’s voice was melodious. “And, yes, I am an elf. What is your name?”
“Godfrey de Bastogne,” he answered cautiously as he assessed his situation.
The elf wore only a cloak, a tunic, and trousers, but a long, curved falchion rested in a scabbard attached to his belt. Unarmed, and unarmored, Godfrey was at the elf’s mercy. He hoped Luka remained friendly.
“You have no need to fear.” Luka threw up placating hands, sensing the attention Godfrey gave to his sword. “You are my guest here.”
“I’m in Farthest Thule?” Godfrey looked about incredulously.
“No,” Luka chuckled. “You are still far away from there.”
“Then where am I?” Godfrey asked.
“You are in the Watch Tower of Uvalin,” Luka answered, leaning over the hearth.
The elf poured some of the broth from the pot into a small bowl. He handed the dish to Godfrey, who hastily began to drink the near-scalding liquid. It washed through him, invigorating every inch of muscle in his body. In retrospect, he was surprised the broth did not burn his throat, mouth, and lips, considering how hot it felt in the bowl.
“Our legion was headquartered at Olso back when the Empire still ruled these lands,” Luka continued once Godfrey had his fill. “My flying cataphracts were stationed here. Long ago, I led a cohort of griffin cavalry on patrol through these mountains hunting dragons and other such beasts.”
“My mother said ancestors of mine were griffin-riders,” Godfrey said, clumsily searching his memory for any relevant details she might have told him.
“In later years.” Luka nodded. “When the Empire’s power was in decline, and fewer legions could deploy flying cataphracts, we trained men as well as elves to ride griffins. Where is your mother from?”
“Here in Azgald,” Godfrey answered eagerly. “But it was my father’s family that had the griffin-riders. That’s why the griffin is our family crest.”
“Yes...” Luka’s gaze was lost in Godfrey’s shield, as if recovering some forgotten detail. “Men are still patriarchal like that, I suppose. Where is your father from?”
“The Duchy of Bastogne back in Lortharain.” Godfrey frowned. “But my mother and father are dead now, and the King has seized the Duchy for himself.”
“Then you are an exile?” Luka sat on the bed next to him.
“Not exactly.” Godfrey had not thought of himself as such before now. “I was on crusade up here in the Nordslands when my father passed away, and King Wilhelm stole my inheritance.”
“I am also not exactly an exile,” Luka divulged with a sad smile.
“Then you could not take me to Farthest Thule?” Godfrey’s hopes were dashed.
“I could not do that even if I were in the city’s good graces.” Luka stood again. “It is not our way to let the other races venture among our people since the fall of the Empire.”
“But you brought me to your tower.”
“I found you alone in the storm about to die of cold,” Luka explained. “When I saw the griffin on your clothing, your shield, your necklace... I had questions I needed to ask. Now I have my answers.”
“What does my father’s family have to do with griffin knights in the Wyrmwind Peaks?” Godfrey responded with a puzzled expression.
“Men are so short-lived,” Luka sighed. “You do not know the songs of your families. You do not know their stories.”
Godfrey gritted his teeth at the elf’s patronizing tone.
“Elinor Bellator and Tristan Galeo.” Luka grew visibly frustrated as Godfrey failed to recognize those names. “Those were two of your ancestors. I trained them to be griffin cataphracts in Bastogne after my legion disbanded. We fought a war against a mad king, destroyed his undead minions, helped forge the Kingdom of Lortharain from the ashes.”
Luka’s story sounded vaguely similar to the myth about the necromancer Lycus Godfrey had heard alongside stories like the Tale of Cheldric as a boy. Godfrey assumed Luka’s version was probably closer to the truth, since apparently he had been a living participant in those events. Luka must have been both very old and very well-traveled.
“Please,” Godfrey cut in. “I left the crusade to persuade the elves of Farthest Thule to help us. The crusaders are few and the Clansmen are many. We sacrificed so much not just for Azgald, but for everyone the Nordsmen might attack if left unchecked. I lost my friends, my steed, and my inheritance while away from my family on the gods’ errand. The Nordsmen have captured my lady, and a witch called Nera is trying to awaken someone called Vozzab. Is there nothing you can do?”
“Nera is trying to awaken the dragon?” Luka froze in place. “That is what she has been doing at Olso.”
“Vozzab is a dragon at Olso?” Godfrey tried to keep up with the details. “How do you know Nera has been there?”
“My eyes see far indeed.” Luka grabbed Godfrey’s empty bowl, setting it on a table. “Put on your arms and armor. Then come with me to the aviary.”
Standing, Godfrey felt fresh, as if he had not spent the last few weeks out in the wilderness. He pulled on his hauberk with ease, and was surprised to find Luka sliding his tabard over the chainmail. Luka handed Godfrey’s belt and sheathed sword to him.
“Time is of the essence,” Luka chided. “Do not marvel that an elf would debase himself assisting a man in donning his armor.”
He helped Godfrey finish dressing, and the two exited the room. Godfrey followed him up several flights of stairs running along the walls. As Godfrey glimpsed through a window on the way up, he saw that the tower overlooked a sheer cliff face on the side of a mountain. He pulled away, his legs trembling. He was too high up. Trying to forget what he saw, he focused on the immediate task of following Luka up the stairs.
Reaching the top of the stairs, any fear of heights Godfrey felt was quickly forgotten as he saw what lived in the aviary. Nestled on a large, straw bed, a majestic white griffin cocked its head at them. The resemblance the creature bore to the griffin in Godfrey’s vision was uncanny.
“I saw this griffin before.” Godfrey took a reverent step towards the creature.
“This is Spathi.” Luka gestured to a few other empty nests. “He and his brother and sisters serve as my eyes and ears in the Wyrmwind Peaks. Spathi found you in the snowstorm. He saved your life.”
“Thanks.” Godfrey bowed.
To his surprise, the griffin nodded in reply.
“Griffins can’t speak,” Luka explained. “But they are very empathetic creatures. You’ll find they have an intelligence to match as well.”
Luka reached for Godfrey’s hand, and set it on the griffin’s beak. Spathi chirped in reply. Luka removed his own hand, and the griffin playfully nipped at Godfrey’s finger. Recoiling, Godfrey turned to Luka.
“Spathi seems to like you well enough,” Luka noted encouragingly. “But you will also find griffins to be as proud as they are strong. Respect Spathi, and he will respect you. Disrespect Spathi, and his beak and claws will teach you your folly.”
Godfrey extended his hand with the palm out. Spathi sniffed it, barely touching the palm with the tip of his razor-sharp beak. Sensing the griffin’s approval, Godfrey stroked the side of Spathi’s head. The white feathers were soft yet firm. Godfrey continued petting for a few more strokes before turning back to the elf.
“Training a flying cataphract to legionary standards would normally take several weeks from dawn to dusk each day,” Luka reminisced. “Most candidates failed in their training, and truly mastering the art of flying cavalry is a process that often takes years. However, I fear we do not have that time. Your training with horses will have to suffice.”
Stunned, Godfrey did not know what to say. Though the loss of Baruch was still fresh in his mind, Spathi was a magnificent creature, and he already felt a bond with the griffin. Tears welled in his eyes.
Luka retrieved a saddle of elvish make, and allowed Spathi to sniff it. Standing, Spathi looked from the saddle to Godfrey, and pawed at the saddle in understanding. The griffin then gave Luka a long, sad stare.
“We never ride the same wind twice.” Luka scratched Spathi’s feathery feline ear. “I will miss you too, friend.”
Seeing the exchange between griffin and elf, Godfrey was reminded of his own love for Baruch. Could he really accept such a gift? He knew how hard it was to be parted from his own faithful steed.
“Let me show you how to properly harness a griffin.” Luka offered the saddle to Godfrey. “It’s a bit different than a horse.”
Luka mostly pointed and offered corrections as Godfrey did the majority of the work. It was a teaching philosophy similar to Fallard’s. Learn by doing. Godfrey had grown to appreciate that method. He would retain the lesson better that way.
“Why are you doing all of this?” Godfrey asked after the saddle was securely harnessed. “You’re making a great personal sacrifice for someone you don’t even know.”
“Spathi’s brother and sisters will find mates in due time.” Luka caressed Spathi. “Griffins are not so uncommon they cannot find their own kind. I’ll see to raising the next generation of griffins as I have in the centuries since returning here. One day their numbers may be great again. Your need right now is greater than mine. And Spathi himself seems to be very fond of you.”
Luka’s expression grew sterner and less whimsical. He stopped petting the griffin, and looked at Godfrey with a piercing gaze.
“Though you are generations removed from your ancestors...” The elf was looking at something deep inside Godfrey. “I see not just Elinor and Tristan’s image in you, but their courage, determination, and spirit.”
“They must have been great people.”
Godfrey thought on his more immediate relatives. Perhaps his father’s courage, determination, and spirit were traits he gained from his father and his father’s father before that. Godfrey’s memory of his father was of a man like Cheldric. When Godfrey was young, and he imagined the knight in the story, it was his father’s face Cheldric wore. That face was something Luka apparently saw in both Godfrey and this long-dead Tristan.
“I trained your ancestors to be flying cataphracts,” Luka went on. “I fought alongside your family long ago, Godfrey de Bastogne. They helped me see that right and wrong go beyond duty to lords and kin. And you are right. If Vozzab is set loose, all that is good in the Nordslands will suffer for it. A knight such as you wielding a holy blade, mounted on a griffin stands a chance.”
“You saw Uriel?” Godfrey asked.
“I had to search you.” Luka made an apologetic gesture. “I had to know who Spathi brought to our home.”
“Griffins and magical swords in and of themselves are pretty rare and powerful.” Godfrey frowned. “You said with their aid I only stand a chance?”
“Not a good one,” Luka admitted. “Hunting dragons was a task which normally required the combined efforts of an entire flying cataphract cohort. With one bite, claw, or gout of flame, Spathi and you will die. But Spathi is faster than Vozzab. Fly high against the Sun if possible. Dive in behind the dragon as fast as you can, and keep flying after you strike.”
“All right.” Godfrey nodded, exhilaration shortening his breath. “It sounds a bit like jousting. There’s just a few more things to remember.”
“And it’s much faster,” Luka cautioned. “Be aware of everything around you. Not just to your front, sides, and rear, but look above and below as well. You will not be fighting on a plane but in a sphere.”
Godfrey nodded, beginning to grasp what combat in the air might be like.
“One last thing,” Luka added. “You will lose speed as you climb, and gain speed in a dive. If you need to get away, dive low and fly close to the ground. Take courage. Go now. Spathi will find the way.”
Spathi turned to face one of the large openings in the aviary’s wall. The griffin screeched. The noise reminded Godfrey of a large eagle or some similar bird of prey.
“Thank you so much,” Godfrey said, mounting Spathi.
Raising a hand in farewell, Luka took a step back. The time for words had passed. Godfrey spurred Spathi on. The griffin howled again as he pounced out of the aviary’s opening.
Lurching out into the air, Godfrey felt the sickening sensation of freefall abruptly cut short as Spathi’s wings caught the breeze. The griffin beat his wings hard as he climbed higher into the sky. For a moment the griffin struggled, and Godfrey thought Spathi might not be able to carry his weight.
Godfrey’s heart pounded. His hand trembled. He was afraid to look. Yet Spathi did not fall. Realizing he could not hope to ride into battle like this, Godfrey ventured to crack open his eyes. The mountains were tall and steep. Snow covered the tops of most of them. Behind them, the Watch Tower of Uvalin grew ever more distant. The similarity of seeing the Wyrmwind Peaks from above in reality to his vision back in the Temple of Spes was too great to be coincidence. Godfrey began to take courage as he realized this was where Loxias wanted him right now.
After reaching an impressive height, Spathi took to gliding on the air currents. Once Godfrey’s breathing was under control, and his hand stopped trembling, he began to appreciate just how small he was from such a high vantage point. The sight reminded him of how he felt out on the sea.
“We should probably practice a few maneuvers before we face Vozzab,” Godfrey shouted over the wailing wind.
With a shriek, Spathi went into a steep dive. Godfrey’s stomach reeled. This was not exactly what he had in mind. Screaming, he held onto the reins as tightly as he could. Godfrey’s vision was quickly filled by the sheer face of a cliff.
“Up,” he bawled, pulling on the reins. “Up! Up! Up!”
Rolling away at the last second, Spathi began to climb again. Godfrey shifted his weight to the right, and the griffin banked accordingly. He shifted to the left, and Spathi changed direction. A broad grin creased Godfrey’s face.
“Now we’re getting somewhere, Spathi.” Godfrey let go of the reins with one hand, patting the griffin. “Let’s try this again.”
Pulling on the stirrups with his legs, he hoped Spathi would go into another dive. The griffin understood. Ready for the rapid descent this time, Godfrey’s fear transformed into excitement. Whooping, he tugged on the reins. The griffin went into a loop. With a tug on just one of the reins, Spathi rolled on his side.
The thrill of flight made Godfrey oblivious to everything else. The rolling, spinning, diving, these were sensations he had never even dreamed of before. It was something beautiful he was sure no mortal men had experienced in centuries. To think that there had once been hundreds if not thousands of men who flew on griffins like this. Godfrey’s thoughts sobered as he remembered the task he still needed to accomplish.
“Luka said you could find the way,” he said as Spathi glided low through a mountain pass. “Let’s get to Olso. If we’re lucky, we can defeat Alvir and the dragon, and maybe save Madeline too.”
Screeching, Spathi flapped his wings. The griffin climbed over the tops of the Wyrmwind Peaks, and banked hard to the left. So much rested on Godfrey’s shoulders. Even with such incredible fortune, he was more certain than ever that he was flying to his death.