The Curse of the Giant Hogweed (13 page)

“Oh?” Degwel’s composure wobbled slightly. “Wouldst care to describe ye spell, noble bard?”

“It’s rather a specialty of me archdruid’s, actually. You might well call it a fate worse man death, because it first makes the would-be thief a laughingstock among all people, then reduces him to the state of me lowliest thing that crawls. Naturally it can’t affect anybody who’s honest and true to his trust, so you, noble Degwel, have nothing to fear. Nor does anybody else who performs his duty faithfully during the very short time Lord Yfor and his brothers will be away.”

“Ye return not with ye young lords?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. No doubt you’ll be receiving an honor guard and a deputation from King Sfyn, however. They may come on ahead, so don’t shoot at any soldiers until you’ve made sure they’re not your future in-laws.”

Amid cheers and laughter, the wooing party set off. The younger brothers had been loud in their demands to go in style, on horseback, but the elder ones had scruples against depriving the men-at-arms of six good mounts during Lord Ysgard’s absence. Torchyld assured them that was quite all right; the princesses would be quite willing to love them for themselves alone, so long as they brought nice presents. Since Lord Ysgard had already selected a choice assortment, that was no problem. They just bundled the baubles into their pouches and beelined it for Sfynfford.

The going wasn’t bad, even by moonlight. There’d been so much traffic of late, between the abductors and the would-be abductees, that the path was well worn. Seeing this, the six brothers set such a pace that Peter again grew anxious for Tim, and insisted they construct a litter to carry him. Tim protested, but Peter shushed him.

“For Christ’s sake, Tim, remember your dignity. You’re supposed to be head man in charge here. If you arrive at King Sfyn’s court out of wind and reeking like a horse, you’ll ruin the show before we get a chance to do our stuff.”

“What in hell are we supposed to do, anyway?”

“Search me. We’ll know when we get there. We haven’t managed too badly so far, have we?”

“We’ve got rid of that smarmy little son of a bitch Medrus, anyway.”

“M’yes, and I have a hunch we ought to be glad we did. I just hope Lord Ysgard won’t find out he’s bitten off more than he can chew.”

“Serve him right, the ornery sidewinder. Though I suppose I shouldn’t run him down. He was generous enough with his eel grease.”

“By the way, did you in fact remember to give Degwel the recipe?”

“Sure, why not? I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life, assuming I have any left, stirring a stinking soap kettle. Pete, do you honestly think we’ll ever get out of this crazy mess?”

“Ask Dan. He’s the expert on never-never land.”

“He’s contemplating his—Jesus, what’s that?”

A hideous growling, whirfling howl was rending the air and cracking the treetops. The six brothers were clutching each other in panic. Daniel Stott had assumed a posture of grave concern. Only Torchyld showed no fear, but charged headlong toward the frightful sound.

“For God’s sake, Torchyld, come back!”

Without reflecting that he must be losing his own mind to act so, Peter charged after his apprentice, yelling and waving the three useless wands he was still, for some reason, lugging around. His example emboldened the rest to run after them, all except Daniel Stott, who merely briskened his walk. Thus it was the whole brigade that burst into the clearing whence came the direful roaring.

And there beheld the awestruck group a sight to make the hottest blood run cold. A great, winged creature with the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle was rearing up on its gruesome talons to strike. And Torchyld was laughing his head off!

“He runneth mad,” cried Hywell.

“To ye rescue!” cried Hayward.

“Now Hay runneth mad,” cried Yfan, tripping up his youngest sibling and sitting down on him for his own good.

“What be we to do?” cried Yfor. “We be not cravens to just stand here and watch—arrgh!”

The monster was opening its vast mouth, sticking out its huge tongue, lunging its head at Torchyld. He, seeming unmindful of this dire peril, merely ducked, laughed harder, and punched at the huge beast’s chest with his bare fist.

Then Torchyld was down on the ground, wrestling with the monster. Then the monster was on its back, waggling its talons in the air, for all the world like a foolish puppy. And Torchyld was up on his knees beside it, rubbing its belly!

“Aw, ye silly old griffin. What ye hell hast been up to, scaring us all into fits and making Great-uncle Sfyn feel bad? Come, puff a little fire for His Majesty.”

The griffin puffed, but achieved only a lopsided smoke ring.

“Hey, Ffyff, art feeling off thy feed? What hath that old bat been a-doing to ye?”

“May I be of service?” Daniel Stott had intrepidly advanced to Torchyld’s side. “Am I to infer this is not a well griffin?”

“Nay, I know not. Ffyff hath always breathed fire before.” Torchyld was running his hands over the vast body, feeling for signs of injury. “He feeleth not—I wot not how to say it.”

“Allow me.”

Stott knelt beside the griffin. The six sons of Lord Ysgard sucked in their breath. Tim muttered, “Cripes.” Peter said nothing. Dan knew his stuff. He rubbed and pressed, felt the griffin’s back, put his ear to me heaving chest and listened to its heartbeat.

“I did him no hurt?” Torchyld was asking anxiously. “I meant not to be rough. ’Twas but that I was o’erjoyed to see him.”

“He was equally gratified to see you, I am sure,” Stott replied. “I suspect his affliction to be mostly fatigue and perhaps malnourishment. He is, as you have explained, an elderly griffin, and one used to what might be termed the easy life, though no doubt performing his court duties with punctilio. I should venture to suggest this griffin may have been held captive in too confined a space and deprived of adequate rations, possibly with the idea of weakening him and thus making him more amenable to captivity. Fortunately he cannot have been imprisoned long enough to effect serious debility. Against this factor, however, must be weighed his advanced age. I can find no serious injury, but there is a definite tremor in the wing joints and a general flacidity in the muscles, along with shortness of breath and a rapid heartbeat that would be consistent with exhaustion. The noble beast has obviously managed to escape his prison and fly some distance.”

“To meet me! Good old Ffyff. But what be we to do?”

“I should say our wisest move at this juncture will be to camp here with him for the night, feeding him at intervals from the stock of cold boiled eels I brought as provision for the march, and keeping him well watered. I mention boiled eels, Sir Torchyld—that is to say, apprentice bard—because you say he is accustomed to such food as you yourself eat. Perhaps you might select a succulent tidbit and try him with it.”

“Ye be going to feed that griffin our food?” demanded Yfan. He was, as Peter had noted earlier, inclined to be greedy.

“I am going to feed him my own food,” Stott replied with vast dignity. “For a beast of his size, adequate nutritional intake is essential to the maintenance of full vigor. His need, as Sir Philip Sidney will one day put it, is greater than mine. Perhaps you would be good enough to fetch water from yonder spring I hear trickling, so we can give him a drink. According to the literature, your helmet would make a suitable receptacle.”

Chastened, Yfan went to get the water.

P
ETER OFFERED TO TAKE
a turn sitting up with the griffin, but Dan and Torchyld wouldn’t hear of it. Dan was quite happy having a large animal to doctor, even when its affliction involved its inability to breathe fire; a circumstance for which the cows, sheep, pigs, and horses of Balaclava Agricultural College had not prepared him.

Torchyld was even happier merely to sit beside the griffin with that immense beaked head resting against his knee, stroking the long wing feathers and bursting forth with an occasional, “Aw, ye fat old griffin, ye,” at which Ffyffnyr would beat his long, skinny tail with its arrow-pointed tip against the ground and purr for a while before falling into another griffin-sized catnap.

As dawn broke, Dan Stott found a patch of catnip growing beside the stream from which they’d been baling Ffyffnyr’s drinking water From this, he managed to concoct a medication which so improved the griffin’s condition that he coughed up enough sparks to light a small cooking fire. This enabled Stott to brew several quarts of catnip tea, using the young lords’ helmets for cooking pots. So efficacious was this potion that after a few helmetfuls, Ffyffnyr belched a wonderful globe of blue-green fire with vermilion trimmings and was pronounced ready to travel.

The six prematurely lovesick swains all had some catnip tea, too. They’d grumbled at the enforced rest, being of a mind to march by night and burst upon their unwitting ladies by sunrise. Shandy, however, had managed to convince them that they must give the princesses time for their morning baths before arriving.

Anyway, they had to wait for Torchyld and the griffin. If they’d gone barging up to the castle without proper introductions, they’d have been more apt to get a hail of spears through their gizzards than tender maidens’ greetings.

The catnip tea and a snack of bread and meat spared from Ffyffnyr’s breakfast perked them up. Then Shandy led the six embryo fiancés down to where the spring widened out into a pool, and made them take morning baths. When they got back to the campsite, they found Dan and Torchyld still bending over Ffyffnyr.

In the daylight, the griffin was even more awesome than he’d appeared at their moonlight meeting. The rich scarlet of his coat, like no other fur they could ever have imagined, shimmered as the morning sun struck it. The feathers on his wings and legs were that intense red of a scarlet tanager’s, almost incandescent in the brilliance of their coloring. Shandy noticed, however, that both fur and feathers were rubbed and frayed in spots. One great flight feather was broken, its tip flapping loose, and Stott was gravely debating whether to amputate.

Peter went over to examine the damage at close range, too. “That’s funny,” he was beginning to say, when Torchyld interrupted him.

“Look!”

“At his collar, you mean?”

“This be no collar. ’Tis a braid of my darling Syglinde’s hair.”

Sure enough, Peter was looking at an elaborately plaited strand the color of spun gold, cunningly intertwined to fit snugly and securely around the griffin’s neck.

“By George, so it is. What a marvelous color. I gather Ffyffnyr wasn’t wearing this when you saw him last?”

“Nay. I told ye he’d but a collar of gold set with gems. Naught so fine as this.”

“The gold collar wasn’t—er—welded on or anything? Lady Syglinde could have got it off without too much trouble?”

“She must have.” Torchyld was caressing the plait with his fingertips. “This be a pattern none save my Syglinde can braid. She made me a baldric for my sword in this same wise, from strips of colored leather. ’Twas not done in a moment, I can tell ye.”

“M’yes,” said Peter. “I’m no pigtail expert myself, but I can see this is a beautiful job of braiding. I’d say she must have done it yesterday after she and the griffin were both spirited away. That means they were put in the same hiding place together. Would Lady Syglinde have had a small knife with her, such as ladies might use for their fancy work?”

“Aye, that she hath. I gave it her myself. ’Tis no longer than her sweetly tapered finger. She carrieth it always in a silken pouch slung from her waistband. How wot ye of the knife, bard?”

“If she’d had a bigger knife, she could have used it to defend herself and might not have got carried away. If she’d had none at all, she couldn’t have cut off her hair to make this collar. That’s a bright young woman you have there, Torchyld. As I see it, she meant this as a message to you. She’s alive and kicking, but she’s shut up some place where she can’t get out. The griffin could and did, but not without a struggle. She helped him escape, and sent him to find you.”

“Noble Ffyff!”

Torchyld flung his arms around the griffin’s neck and wept until the beast began to utter plaintive squawks at getting its head soaked. Torchyld wiped his eyes on the soft, red fur and composed himself.

“Turned him loose from where?”

“Oh, from the castle, I should think. Is there any room up in a tower or somewhere that has a lockable door and a window barely large enough for a griffin to squeeze out of? It must be high off the ground. I can’t think of any advantage an old griffin would have over an active young woman, except its wings.”

Torchyld shook his head. “Ye castle windows be not large enow. Big windows invite attack.”

“I know that. But there must be one somewhere.”

Torchyld shook his head. “None. Save only,” above his mustache and beneath his sunburn, he paled, “in ye tower of Ruis ye Accursed. But Syglinde would never go there!”

“Why not?”

“It be a direful place. None hath entered yon tower since Ruis was killed in years agone. His own men slew that wicked king to punish crimes too black for speaking, and walled up his body inside ye tower whence erst he hurled his victims to their doom after he had worked his evil will of them. His fearful ghost still walketh there. Great-uncle Sfyn was going to raze it to the ground, but Dwydd warned him against loosing ye wickedness encased therein.”

“That so? Is this tower actually a part of the castle?”

“Woe unto us, it be.”

“Would it be situated anywhere close to the banqueting hall?”

“Aye, bard, it leadeth up from ye west end of ye hall, but there be no door. Ye king’s men blocked it in years agone with great stones that none dare move, and covered ye stones with a thick-woven arras.”

“You don’t say? Well, don’t worry, Torchyld. At least we’ve got the griffin back, and we know Syglinde still has her wits about her. I do think we ought to press on to the castle as fast as we can, though. Is Ffyffnyr able to travel, do you think, Dan?”

“I should not advocate his attempting to fly with that broken wing feather, but his legs and talons appear to be in good order. If we find our pace too quick for him, I can stay behind and bring him along slowly. How far do we have to go?”