Mercedes Lackey - The Black Gryphon

Mage Wars 01

One

Silence.

Cold wind played against Skandranons naresa wind as frigid as the hearts of the killers below. Their hearts pumped blood unlike any other creatures; thick black blood, warmed when their commanders willed itonly 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 nameUrtho, the Mage of Silence. Urthos champions had invisibility against magical sightto mind-scanning, to detection spells, to magical scrying. The enemies of his monarchy had spent much of their resources on foiling that edgeto no avail, it seemedand now concentrated on more direct methods of destroying Urthos hold on the verdant central-lands 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 hadnt helped him anyexcept 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. Theyd never know the caress of a caring loverthey 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. . . .

Theyd 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 Silences 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; hed likely answer, I am.

Vain bird. Youll make a lovely skin on a Commanders 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 Urthos garrison. Farther down the pass was the split valley which once supported a thriving trade-town. Laisfaar was now the armys 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 armys supplies and creatures, including the sleeping makaar.

They might as well sleep; they did not need to fear sorcerous spying. The armys mages had shielded the area from magical scrying, and none of Urthos many attempts to search the valley by spell had worked. That had left the need for study by stealthrisky 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 senseshis 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 winds 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 enemys army had advanced this close to Urthos 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 Weaponsmasters coach, staked firmly and blanketed, flanked by two canvas-covered wagons.

Hold a moment now. With a town nearbyhearths and comfortable beddingthe 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 Seers 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 peoplethose 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 windyet 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 Maar, 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 Adepts spells, feathered coats peeled back in strips by the Adepts will alone in full daylight, despite Skans attempts to counterspell. The nightmares had left him now, but the memory made him determined to protect Urthos people from the Kiyamvirs merciless rule.

Skandranons eyes focused on the town of Laisfaar. Urthos 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. . . .