Lord of the Changing Winds (13 page)

“A mage?” repeated Diene, startled. The innkeeper had not said this.

“Yes, esteemed mage—clearly so,” Nehoen agreed, but the emphasis in his voice was clearly for Jos; he was obviously continuing a long-standing argument. “I saw him, and spoke to him, and he was
surely
a mage. A strange, dangerous sort, I would guess. Well, clearly so, or we’d not be missing a girl, would we? Middling age, a hard sort of face, a thin mouth. Black eyes. Hard-hearted, I would say—if I were guessing.” The landowner paused, visibly bracing himself. Expecting condemnation, Bertaud realized, for having allowed this stranger to take away one of the Minas Ford girls on some weak pretext. Nehoen added, as much to Jos as to them, “He took her and they just went, like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I
swear
to you, it was too quick for any of us to think twice about stopping it! They were just
gone
, right into the air.”

Jos set his jaw and looked grim, as though only the presence of the king’s servants kept him from a sharp retort.

“Neither of you could have prevented him, if the man was a mage,” Diene said firmly. Her mouth had tightened. “You think this man, this mage, took the girl into the desert? To the griffins?”

“Well, esteemed mage,” Nehoen said reasonably, “it’s a striking coincidence if he didn’t, isn’t it?”

Diene inclined her head. “By your description, the man is no one I know. And a mage taking a healer girl to the griffins? This is a puzzle.”

“I should say so. The
griffins
wanted a human healer? And this mage came and got them one?” Jasand said skeptically—Bertaud could not tell whether he was skeptical of the suggested connection, or skeptical of the whole story. The general frowned at the townsmen. “So you went looking for this girl?”

“A dozen or so folk of this district, yes, esteemed sir. We found… we found the desert. It’s grown since,” Nehoen said, with a simplicity Bertaud found very persuasive.

Jasand continued to frown. “And you’ve seen these griffins? You, personally?”

The man gave Jasand a nod. “Yes, lord. More than one or two. I’d guess fifty or more. But Jos went farther up than I.” He looked at the other man.

“There are certainly dozens of the creatures up there,” the hired man said, his tone still grim. “Fifty is a near-enough guess. Not many more than that, I’d say. I walked as close to them as I stand to you, and they did not even seem to notice I was there. They ought never be allowed to rest there on our land.”

“They lie in the sun like cats,” Nehoen put in. He spoke steadily, but his eyes had gone wide, abstracted with memory. “They ride the still air like eagles. Their eyes are filled with the sun. The shadows they cast are made of light. They are more beautiful… I have no words to describe them.”

Jos said, even more harshly, “Beautiful they may be, those creatures, but they took Kes and we did not find her.”

“I made Tesme stop looking lest we come across her bones,” Nehoen said quietly, to Jasand rather than to Jos. “But… we didn’t find those either. But if there are fifty griffins up there… You brought only a hundred men?” He seemed to become suddenly aware of his own temerity in offering criticism to officers of the king, and stopped. Then he said, “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, lord. But it seems to me it would be better to have more.”

“A hundred soldiers should do well enough,” Jos said roughly. “You clean those creatures out, lord, and you might bid your men, if they find a girl’s dry bones in the red sand, they might bring them out of the desert for her sister.”

Nehoen bowed his head in agreement, looking from Jasand to Bertaud and then settling on Diene. “If you… if you do go into the desert lords, esteemed mage, if you should find her… maybe she’s still all right…”

Jos made a grim, wordless sound that made clear his opinion of this chance. He said, “Destroy them all, lord. That’s all you can do for her now.”

Bertaud did not know whether he believed a mage had taken the girl—still less whether the mage had been working somehow with the griffins. But he said, “We will certainly bring her out if we find her, even if we find only bones. But we will hope for better.” And better still, though he did not say this, if they did not, in fact, require to do battle with the griffins. Whether or not there was a mage, and whatever had happened to the girl.

After the townsmen had gone, Bertaud, Jasand, and Diene discussed the griffins and the proper approach to them by the light of lanterns that threw shadows like half-seen glyphs across the walls of Diene’s room.

“A
mage
working with the griffins?” Jasand said, skeptical.

Diene gazed thoughtfully into the air. “One does not expect any earth mage to work with creatures of fire. However… there was a mage once, Cheienas of Terabiand, who loved the desert and spoke to fire and creatures of fire. He wanted to ride the hot wind, to catch fire in his eyes and understand it. He vanished from our ken, and it is said he gave away the earth of his nature and became a creature of fire. I wonder if he would strike a man as hard-hearted?”

“Would he be the sort to work against us?” Jasand asked practically. “And if he is, or if any fire mage is up there and set against us, can you deal with that, esteemed Diene? I’ve many men with animal affinities… but I’ve no one I’d set against a hostile mage. Mages were not something I expected to encounter.”

Diene raised her eyebrows, with an air of faint opprobrium, as though she found this showed an unfortunate lack of foresight. Not that she had suggested any preparations for this eventuality herself before they had left, Bertaud did not point out.

“Then it is fortunate I am here,” the mage said. “I expect I would indeed be able to handle Cheienas, if this is he.”

Bertaud asked, “And other possibilities?”

Diene considered. “There was a man named Milenne, originally from Linularinum, who lived in the high forest north of Tiearanan. One day he found a golden egg in the forest. Of the creature that hatched from that egg, he wrote only that it was a creature of fire, with wings of fire. What became of it, he did not write. But he left Feierabiand because, he said, it made him want to seek a deeper silence than that found in even the deepest forest.”

Jasand waved a disgusted hand. “Poetry and riddles. Golden eggs and wings of fire! Esteemed Diene, if you can handle this mage, whomever he may be, then I’m satisfied. What matters then is how many griffins there are, and how they can be made to go back across the mountains.”

“And your ideas about this?” Bertaud asked him.

“Well… well, Lord Bertaud, that man Jos only said
dozens
, and he seems to have had as good a look as any. Even the other man guessed only fifty or so. I think maybe we don’t need to worry about a hundred of the creatures after all. And then, we brought archers. Arrows are proof against any creature that walks or swims or flies through the air, whether it’s a creature of fire or air or good plain earth.” Jasand paused, thinking. “We must be certain of our ground. I do not want my men shooting uphill into the sun. If we leave the road—if we divide the men into two companies, say, and go up across the slant, in afternoon so the sun is at our backs—we can set up a killing field between the companies. That should do well enough. At least griffins can’t draw bows of their own.”

Bertaud nodded. “We might send back to Tihannad for more men if you think that best.”

“No,” the general answered, consideringly. “No, I think that should not be necessary. It would take time, and what if these griffins begin to do more harm to more than calves while we delay? The core of this company is Anesnen’s fifth cavalry.”

Bertaud knew Anesnen’s reputation. He nodded. “If we must bring the griffins to battle, that is indeed good to know,” he agreed. “Especially if there are only a few dozen up there. Still, we shall hope for better than battle. Esteemed Diene, have you given thought to our initial approach?”

The mage glanced up, an abstracted look in her dark eyes. “What is there to consider? We shall be straightforward.”

“But prepared to be otherwise,” said Jasand.

They were straightforward. But prepared to be otherwise. They left their horses in Minas Ford; neither griffins nor the desert itself would likely be kind to horses. They marched on foot out of the village and up into the hills. The village folk turned out to watch them go, but no one but some of the younger boys ventured to follow. Their mothers called them back before they could follow very far.

“That’s as well,” General Jasand observed. “In case any of the creatures get past our lines.”

Bertaud nodded. The last thing they wanted was to stir up the griffins and then allow one or two to escape to ravage the countryside. “If there must be a battle, we shall hope they are willing to mass and meet us.”

Diene gave him a reassuring nod. “You needn’t fear they’ll avoid us, I think. Indeed, they’ll meet us quickly enough, if we walk into their desert.
Griffins
are not likely to avoid conflict, I assure you.”

Bertaud supposed that was true enough. He did not find it especially reassuring, however.

They turned around a curve of a hill and, for the first time, found a handful of villagers waiting to watch them pass. Jos, whom Bertaud recognized, and a scattering of grim-looking men and excited older boys. A couple of the men lifted their hands in recognition and salute. Some of the soldiers, pleased to be recognized, returned solemn nods. As Bertaud passed the villagers, he offered a deep nod that was almost a bow, acknowledging their presence and concern.

He remarked to Jasand, “They’ll follow, I’m sure, and watch from a safe distance. I trust it will be a safe distance. In fact, I’d send a man to make sure of it, if necessary.”

“I hope we’ll have plenty of men to spare for all sorts of minor functions,” the general answered drily. But he also gave one of his men a glance, and the soldier peeled off from the column and went to speak to the village folk.

The edge of the desert was a remarkably clean line: On one side, the gentle green of the ordinary Feierabiand countryside; on the other, the empty desert. They halted on the ordinary side of the line. General Jasand, with a nominal glance at Bertaud for approval, divided his men and began to arrange a company to either side of the approach he thought most promising for battle. But for the first hopeful approach, Diene and Bertaud simply walked straight up the mountain to see what they might meet. Bertaud gave the mage his arm, which she leaned on gratefully.

“I’m far too old for such nonsense,” she grumbled. She flinched as they crossed into the heat and drought of the desert, muttering in dismay and discomfort. Bertaud found the pounding heat uncomfortable, but from Diene’s suddenly labored steps and difficult breathing, he thought that the elderly mage was indeed experiencing something more than mere discomfort. There was a wind off the mountains that blew into their faces. It was a strange, hot wind, carrying scents of rock and dust and hot metal—nothing familiar to a man born on the sea side of these mountains. There was an unfamiliar taste to it. A taste of fire, Bertaud thought.

Sand gritted underfoot, on slopes where there never had been sand before. Red rock pierced the sand in thin twisted spires and strange flat-topped columns, nothing like the smooth gray stone native to these hills. Bertaud glanced over his shoulder to where the men waited, drawn up in the green pasture at the edge of the desert, and shook his head incredulously.

A shape moved ahead of them. Not a griffin, Bertaud saw, after the first startled lurch of his stomach. A man, seated on a low red rock, fingers laced around one drawn-up knee. He sat there as though the rock were a throne, watching them approach with no appearance of either surprise or alarm. His face was harsh, with a strong nose and high cheekbones. There was a hard, stark patience in those eyes, and also a kind of humor that had nothing to do with kindness. He looked neither old nor young. He looked like nothing Bertaud had ever seen.

“That,” said Diene, “is surely the stranger that the man spoke of. And quite clearly a mage.” Her voice was flat with dislike. She shaded her eyes with her hand, as though against light.

Bertaud said nothing. He took a step, and then another, feeling heat against his face as though he walked into a fire. The feeling was so vivid he was faintly surprised not to hear the roar of leaping flames before him. He glanced at Diene, but her expression was set and calm. He could not tell what she was thinking or feeling.

The man rose as they approached, and inclined his head. “You were looking for me, I believe,” he said. His voice, pitiless as the desert, nevertheless held the same strange, hard humor Bertaud saw in his eyes. “Kes told me I might look for lords of Feierabiand on this road. Your soldiers I saw for myself.”

Bertaud tried to focus his thoughts. But a hot wind blew through his mind, shredding his focus. The wind seemed to contain words; it seemed to speak a language he might, if he strained hard enough, learn eventually to comprehend. At the moment… it only confused his wits and his nerve. He tried to work out whether this was something the man was doing purposefully or merely a strange effect of the desert, but he could not decide.

“You are a griffin,” Diene stated. The familiar human words seemed somehow surprising; they seemed to hold a meaning beyond what Bertaud grasped. The woman stood straight, but there was more than straightness to her posture. She had gone rigid with a hostility that alarmed Bertaud. It was not fear. That, he would have understood. Her feeling appeared stronger and more dangerous.