The masked witches

What is it? Cera asked.

I need to get outside, the familiar replied. He glanced at a tall mullioned glass window, surely an expensive luxury and object of pride in that rustic land. Already wincing, Cera imagined him leaping and smashing through it. But instead he turned and bounded down the length of the smoky torch-lit hall toward the double doors in the far wall. Startled berserkers scrambled out of the way, and she and Vandar scurried to keep up.

She threw open the doors. Jet leaped out into the dirty, trodden snow, and she and Vandar followed. She heard the sound that the familiar had caught even inside the noisy building. Faint with distance, the cries of other griffons mingled with the whistle of the wind.

Is it the wild ones? she asked.

No, said Jet. It s the ones from Aglarond.

How can you tell? Vandar asked.

For one thing, said Jet, a grim note in his voice, I d recognize the call of that male with the blue eyes. Trust me, it s the Aglarondans, and the reason they re calling to one another is that their riders are rousing them to fly.

In the middle of a cold winter s night, Vandar said. Folcoerr Dulsaer would only order that if he suddenly thinks he knows where to go to strike a blow at the undead

Cera smiled. If Jet and I shadow them, we can find out exactly what they re up to, she said.

That s a good idea, the berserker replied. But I should be the one to go.

I m no griffonrider, Cera said. But I ve at least spent enough time aloft to know how to sit in the saddle and trust Jet to take care of me. Besides, you need to get your brothers ready to travel.

Although Yhelbruna had told all the outlanders they could ask for help as needed, Cera and Vandar had judged that the Griffon Lodge needed to sneak out of Immilmar and march on the Fortress of the Half-Demon alone. Otherwise there was a fair chance that the Aglarondans or Mario Bez s sellswords either of whom could travel faster in the sky than the Rashemi could on the ground would race to their destination ahead of them, accomplish whatever could be accomplished there, and claim the credit for doing it.

Vandar scowled. But he said, All right, lady, but be careful. My impression of the Aglarondans is that they wouldn t try to hurt you themselves. But they might not care if the creatures they re hunting attacked a rival and a spy.

With that he turned and started giving orders to the nearest berserkers. Jet and Cera ran toward the shed where they d stowed the griffon s tack. He bounded, lashing his wings with each leap, and instantly outdistanced her as she labored with her short legs through the snow.

When she caught up, he crouched so she could heave the saddle onto his back. She cinched it, climbed on, and buckled the safety straps with the meticulous slowness of a novice rider. Somewhat to her surprise, Jet didn t offer any acerbic remarks.

He broke into a run, sprang, lashed his wings, and climbed into the sky the instant she was ready. She caught her breath at the sudde

As he wheeled to follow the Aglarondans, Jet rasped, Your mace keeps bumping me.

Oh! Sorry! she said. She slipped the dangling weapon off her wrist and into one of the sheaths built into the front of the saddle. The holder made a sucking sound as a minor enchantment made it clamp down tight. Do you think we can just sneak in among the Aglarondans without anybody noticing us?

I ll try, Jet replied. Don t count on the griffons mistaking me for one on their own. And if they do realize we re strangers, they may cry out. But with luck, their riders won t understand what it means. His tone made plain his scorn for human stupidity.

That sounds good, Cera said. The night was even colder up here in the sky, and she shivered. I m going to ask the Keeper to warm me. Shall I do the same for you?

The familiar laughed, a bloodcurdling sound she hadn t recognized the first time she d heard it. Don t bother, he said. Nature made griffons properly. We don t need magic just to endure the winter wind.

Well, aren t you special, she said as she began to murmur a prayer. Warmth suffused her body.

They flew on in silence for a while. She peered into the darkness ahead for a first glimpse of the Aglarondans and breathed in Jet s smell: a not-unpleasant mix of bird and cat.

Eventually the griffon asked, Are you going to stay with Aoth?

The question surprised her. She knew Jet was intelligent enough to understand the choice she was facing, but he often considered such foolish human dilemmas unworthy of his attention.

I don t know, she said. Do you think it would be hard on him if I don t?

The griffon laughed again. He s a hundred years old, he replied. He s had more mates than he can remember. He s survived more battles and foes than he can remember. He can survive losing you, too.

Cera sighed. Yes. Of course, she said.

But that doesn t mean he d like it, Jet continued. He cares about you, and you fit in his life. You fit with the rest of us.

She touched her hand to the feathers on his neck. Thank you, she said. That s good to know.

There s no reason to talk in that hushed cooing way to me, the griffon said. I didn t say that I care what you do. Look, there are the Aglarondans. Can you see them yet?

She couldn t at that moment, but when he carried her closer, she made out vague shapes racing through the sky. As Jet had anticipated, some of the other griffons screeched at the newcomers approach, but as he d also expected, the riders didn t pay it any mind except to order their steeds to cease their clamor. She and Jet flew along quietly on their rivals flank.

The Aglarondans were headed pretty much straight east from Immilmar, essentially following the track named the Huhrong s Road. If one could consider any part of northern Rashemen civilized, it was that corridor. Cera occasionally caught a glimpse of hamlets and isolated farmhouses, and land that appeared to be fields and pastures rather than woods and lonely moors. If the undead were raiding there, then that, like the attack on the sacred grove north of the Ashenwood, attested to the boldness and seriousness of the threat.

The Aglarondans griffons started screeching again.

Do they sense undead? Cera asked, keeping her voice low.

No, Jet answered. They smell horseflesh.

A moment later, Cera smelled it, too. She realized that wasn t right. She wasn t a beast with a beast s keen senses. She was a human being, who might not smell a horse even if she was standing right beside it. She definitely shouldn t have been able to smell one from high above the ground.

The Aglarondans steeds swooped lower.

In a superficial sense, that wasn t strange because horse was a griffon s favorite food. Still, properly trained mounts would ignore the distraction if they were working, and if they didn t, experienced riders could quickly reassert control.

But that wasn t what was happening. The Aglarondans barked orders at their mounts, and their voices became louder and shriller as the griffons ignored the initial commands.

The smell of warm, juicy meat thickened in the cold night air. Lightheaded, Cera realized her mouth was watering. She looked for the horses and finally spotted them. Apparently oblivious to the threat descending on them, the animals were standing placidly in a snowy paddock.

The griffon in the lead Cera wondered if it was Folcoerr Dulsaer s slammed down on a horse and crushed it to the ground. Screaming, the equine thrashed. The griffin dipped its beak and tore loose a first chunk of flesh. The man astride the steed bellowed at it and pounded it with the butt of his lance. His efforts were no more effective than the maimed horse s struggles to writhe free.