Vol 6, Chapter 4

"Told you it would work." I patted the stunned healer on the shoulder and jumped down from the griffon.

He probably didn't hear me. My own ears were still ringing despite careful prep for the blast.

I stepped to the crater and peered in. Smoke rose from the earth, hiding the bottom completely. It looked like a bottomless portal to the Abyss—which, in essence, it was.

Troops were converging on the crater from all sides, including Kurt's already badly mauled detachment. Their job was to cut down any runners, but there were none. The greedy goblins made my job considerably easier by stampeding to the barrels of their own accord. There were probably a few loners who hadn't answered the Warchief's call, though I didn't think there were many, considering how ruthless their chief was.

We'd comb the fields regardless and give the land back to the peasants.

I nudged a red‑hot shard of a sword with my boot and turned toward the griffon… griffons? Another was circling above, dropping lower with each pass.

Squinting up, I recognized the rider as Baronet Falcon. That could mean only one thing.

"I need to rush to the King again, don't I?" I called to Falcon as Laura came in to land.

"What? Yes…" Falcon answered distractedly, tightening the tack. The griffoness halted and let out an earsplitting sneeze, jerking her birdlike head. Gunsmoke hung over the field.

"I don't even want to know what happened here. I felt the blast even in the air, and I'm sure it was visible in the neighboring county," he said after a short pause.

Sergeants' orders drifted over the smoke hugging the ground. Soldiers were forming into columns. There was nothing left to do here. Even the goblins who had been far from the epicenter were found only in pieces.

"I could explain, if you like."

"No need. I would be obliged to report anything you told me to the King."

"Then better not. I need time to change for an official audience," I said, patting the revolvers at my hips.

"You've neither the time nor the need," Falcon shook his head. "Throw on my spare cloak; we're flying as fast as we can."

*******************************

He kept his word.

We flew a full day and night, with only brief stops to water Laura before taking to the air again. The wind didn't just cut the eyes; it made breathing hard.

Perhaps that's why I missed the attack.

Air magic is always the least visible of all. When you're at full speed and the wind howls in your ears, it's twice as hard to notice it deciding to kill you.

The griffon's wing snapped with a crack. Something slammed us sideways, as if an invisible BMW had rammed us. I dispersed the wave, yet the airstream still tried to rip me from the saddle; the safety straps creaked, then held.

A piercing screech. Warm droplets of griffon blood spattered my face. The saddle slid out from under my feet; sky and ground traded places. To my right an unnaturally twisted wing blocked the view. A jagged shard of bone jutted out, smearing the brown plumage with red.

An instant later the ground was beneath me again, only to flip away once more. Spinning on our axis like a celestial body, we hurtled toward the earth, picking up speed.

"Falcon! Falcon, devil take you!" I shook my pilot, but the reins slipped from his limp hands. Unconscious or dead—no time to find out.

Faster and faster. Laura tried to level out, but with one wing there was no chance. More blood. Any moment the airstream would tear the mangled wing clean off.

"Aviation accident," the absurd term clanged in my head. When we hit, it would be easy to say the wing broke in the fall. The perfect murder, written off as an unfortunate mishap.

"Sorry, Laura." I ripped my sword free and, seizing the moment, drove it into the wing, straight into the bone.

She shrieked at the betrayal, but that was only half of it. I tapered the hilt to a spike and rammed it into the bone at the wing's other end. A massive beak snapped beside me; luckily a griffon can't reach a rider on its back.

"Hold," I ordered, and bound the wing with steel.

With a sickening grate the bones set side by side. The wing stuck out absurdly, yet it worked again. The griffon stopped tumble‑spinning, though it kept trying to get at me with its beak.

I grabbed up the dropped harness and hauled on it, keeping her from pecking me, while I scanned the ground below. Where…?

Sensing a knot of power, I tried to steer the griffoness toward it. She fought me.

"Enemies—there! Stupid hen!" I shouted.

My relationship with griffons wasn't going well lately, huh.

Forcing her around, I strained to spot our attackers.

Soon I found them: half a dozen men in a circle on a small clearing in the forest. They saw us, saw we were coming straight at them, and didn't run.

My danger sense howled.

A wall of air coalesced ahead. Counting on the griffon to break her neck on it? Unlucky for them.

I drained it before it finished forming. We hit a cushion instead—a brake, nothing more. They kept lashing out: air fists, arrows, blades… of course to no effect.

Only at the last moment, having despaired of breaking through the defense, did they try to scatter. Too late.

Laura went into a dive like a fighter, snapping branches on the way down.

"The hard landing nearly throws me from the saddle, but the straps save me. The couple of mages the griffoness buries under her bulk, though—nothing will save them. And the one she went for first? Her sharp beak spears him like a lance. The hole is so wide that if she opens her beak even a little, it will tear the mage in two.

Momentum carries us into the forest, even though the griffon's talons are furrowing the ground with all their might.

The survivors try to pelt us with whatever they can, but fireballs and water spears dissolve without a trace. I yank out a revolver and fire a few shots, yet Laura jinks so hard from side to side that hitting anything is impossible.

A hefty stone whistles past. Fresh turf clings to it—clear sign I'd better dismount; my antimagic doesn't help against plain rocks.

I cut the straps and slide off Laura, letting her keep after the mages. I pick my target: the earth‑mage, the dangerous one.

Shot!

The bullet smacks into a stone wall thrown up in an instant and ricochets away with a whine. The mage spooks and does the sensible thing; a mere earthen wall I'd have punched through no matter how he reinforced it.

I fire two more shots to keep him busy while, at the same time, I send my second revolver floating into position behind his back.

He holds the wall with his hands. It's the only way he can control the stones: any mana that reaches even a little beyond the body is sucked straight into the Abyss.

Of course he doesn't see the revolver behind him rise on its own and aim at his head.

Shot!

He drops, and the wall collapses with him, making a decent cairn.

Laura rips the water‑mage apart... And the fire‑mage, left alone, bolts for the woods. I shoot him in the back and realize at once I should have aimed for the leg.

There will be no interrogating the others; the griffoness tore them to pieces.

But you can't outrun a bullet. The mage crumples, smearing the tree trunks with his blood.

"Damn. There were a lot of them…" I grumble.

When your main weapon shuts down, fighting a griffon is a terrible idea, as these fellows just proved.

I call the second revolver back to my hand and, just in case, count the bodies. Seven. Wait—ah, that's simply two halves of one body…

Without holstering my guns, I head for the fire‑mage, hoping the big‑bore round didn't kill him outright.

A step. Another. The sun bakes my head, but the forest is cool and pleasant. I lean over the body and…

I duck hard. A rush of air chills the damp skin of my neck. Instinct kicks in; I snap the revolver toward the strike.

Shot!

The bullet bites a tree and sprays splinters. No one.

Clipped hairs lie on my shoulders.

"Thanks, but I prefer professional barbers," I say, scanning the surroundings.

No one.

I see, or rather feel—shadows stirring to my side.

Shot!

The round whistles into empty space. Maybe it was only the wind?

My gaze catches on the shadows. Shadows. Got it.

I back away slowly. Out onto the clearing, where there are fewer of them.

"We had a deal, sweetheart… or have you changed your mind?" I ask the shadows, retreating step by step toward the open ground.

No enemy shows. Spooked by the way I'm blanketing the place with antimagic?

I ease off a notch and, at the same time, reshape the emptied revolver into a dagger.

A step onto the clearing. Nothing. I feign relaxation and offer my back. If I don't kill her now, I'll have to stay on guard forever. That's a bad plan. Sooner or later they'll catch me slipping.

This time I do the catching. She doesn't miss her chance; my own shadow betrays me.

Slash! I give my strike a burst of speed with magic, beating her blade to the mark.

The hilt slams into a palm and deadens it. Got her.

A severed hand thumps onto the clearing, still clenching an obsidian blade. And that's it.

The attacker slips away, even with me trying to smother them. I hate shadowcasters.

I stay wound tight for several minutes, but what I hear is hoofbeats fading somewhere beyond the forest. I lower the dagger and look at the hand.

Muscular, scarred—definitely male, not female.

Hell. I don't understand anything anymore.

The baronet came to toward evening. I tried to pull him off the griffon, but Laura hissed the moment I approached. Stupid bird; I saved you!

"A soft landing, Sir Falcon," I congratulate him, saluting with a freshly reassembled revolver. I was just finishing reloading it.

"What… happened?"

"Nothing unusual. Someone tried to kill us." I waved toward the bodies I'd piled together and the remnants of the ritual circle.

For the record, their bodies offered no clue. Common clothes, no notes. A few coins in the purses. The fire‑mage had a handful of fire crystals, which I appropriated.

The baronet looked around, undid his straps in silence, and dismounted. For several minutes he examined the steel gleaming on the wing.

One touch and Laura let out an indignant clack. He pulled his hand back from the patch at once.

"Hm… Can you remove it? I'm afraid it would take me a long time."

"I can, but I don't advise it. It's screwed into the bones and holds the break together."

He ran a fingertip along the plate, barely touching it. I felt him reach for his Gift to gauge how deep it bit into the bone.

"An interesting method," he said, then added, sadly, "but a merciless one."

"At least we're alive," I frowned.

"My apologies. No doubt you did the right thing. And I should apologize, since flight safety was on me. It's just… the healing will take longer now. Poor Laura." He shook his head and opened a saddlebag.

"How many assassins did you say there were? What rank?" he asked as he pulled out bandages.

Alas, I could answer only the first.

"Seven. As for rank, I'm not sure… There definitely wasn't an archmage."

"Figures of that caliber don't usually take part in attempts on ordinary mages," he says with a nervous smile, then adds, "Hm. I count only six bodies."

I lift the trophy hand and give it a little wave.

"Six, and a bit extra."

"Unfortunate. If someone got away, we need to hurry; otherwise they'll try to set up another ambush." He pulled a squat bottle from the bag—more like a two‑liter jar, and let the griffon drink.

Curiosity got the better of me. The bigger and stronger the beast, the harder it is to heal its wounds.

"Something for healing?" I ask.

"No, just a painkiller. It's usually taken before a fight—such is the nature of aerial combat. Sometimes the pain from a non‑fatal wound can make a griffon crash, and if the wound is fatal… this gives the rider a chance to survive at least. Unfortunately it's rather hard on the body."

He patted Laura's crest and waited for the draught to take effect.

"I thought the rider wasn't worth much compared to the griffon."

"Yes and no. Any rich fool can make a lap over his city on a well‑trained, tame griffon. But those with a real talent for the sky are rare. In such cases, even saving the rider at the griffon's expense can be justified. Though after this incident it's hardly the time to brag… Laura and I are fairly good."

He paused and lifted the griffon's eyelid with a finger. The round eye was filmed over.

"Looks like the potion worked. Give me a hand folding the wing? Otherwise it'll be hard to move through the trees."

A bit of field surgery later, the wing was bandaged and folded as needed. It didn't help much with bushwhacking through the forest, though: the killers had set their ambush deep in the backwoods, far from any road. I wouldn't have been surprised if, after combing the area, I found another portal. I saw no other way to get here quickly and easily.

Be that as it may, we reached the road and then took horses so as not to burden the wounded griffon.

To my surprise, the enemy made no further move—no ambushes, no attempts.

We reached the Capital without incident, but it still took a full four days. Alas, even with fresh mounts, our speed couldn't compare to flying. At least the griffon kept pace with the horses on the ground.

We passed the city gates without trouble as well. After handing me over to the guards, Falcon led the griffon to the healers, and I headed for the antechamber.

The master of ceremonies informed me I'd be received in half an hour, which meant I had only to wait. Damn—had I known, I'd at least have changed out of my travel clothes. When I asked to step out for thirty minutes, the master of ceremonies rolled his eyes in dismay. What if the King called for the guest earlier and he wasn't there?

Too bad.

All that remained was to sit in a velvet chair in the waiting room and await my turn. I feared that, after so many days on the road, the chair wouldn't be very velvety when I was done with it.

The door creaked. I looked up, but no, it was Grandfather, and badly out of breath.

"Made it," Count Condor managed, gulping air.

Looked like he'd run here flat out.

"Made what? By the way, I hope you got my letter?"

"I did," he panted, dropping into the seat beside me to catch his breath.

"Excellent. Then I won't have to wear out my tongue before the King yet again explaining what happened…"

"You won't. Because you're going to keep quiet."

"What? Why?"

He skewered me with a look, leaned in, and whispered with utter seriousness,

"I have reported nothing to the King about the Second Prince's death. And you won't either. That is my order, as head of the house."