Thereafter, Prince Warrik always kept her within his sight. Even so, loneliness gnawed at Celia, for her uncle proved poor company, his words polite but sparse. And being separated from those she knew, those with whom she had trained, she grew ill at ease.
On and off she caught herself worrying her companions might mistake this forced separation as an exercise of privilege, and they would think less of her for it. This rather odd feeling, so it seemed to Celia, possessed her most often at eventide, when she found herself alone with her pensive uncle. When it occurred, she asked herself, in truth, if she missed the company of those other griffons. Then she recalled aspects of theirs she did not miss: their talkative nature, their love for continuous and unending speculation about those they sought.
“Underground, without the sun,” one would suggest as they sat around the fire, “would you not go blind?”
“Nonsense,” another would reply. “You’ve not put thought to it. Sure, no sun, but there’s bound to be light, not much, but some. Without light, how could you work?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s so. But think of the sky. Why, if I couldn’t see the sky, if I couldn’t fly, I’m sure I’d go mad. You don’t suppose, do you, that—”
Celia’s presence mattered not the slightest as they whispered their conjectures, supposing and declaring long past sundown. Seven moons it had been by her reckoning, that she had lived amongst the griffons. She had borne witness to their peculiar ways, yet regardless of such familiarity, their chatter she never understood. Their talkativeness resulted in an appreciation for the quiet she had enjoyed in her prairie home, and now, how distant it felt, more than ever. The recall of that modest dwelling, of images of her far away mother, dredged up a gnawing anxiety. Much had transpired, much had she done, yet the prospects of her and her mother remained as uncertain as on the day she had arrived in the griffon’s city. As a consequence, she found herself, like her uncle, immersed in dark thoughts.
Nonetheless, neither Celia’s nor Warrik’s mood impeded the advance of the griffon army, and under their prince’s direction they progressed with a painstaking and methodical slowness, the tedium growing greater each day. It wore on Celia. One day became two, and two, four, and so little distinguished each from the other, she gave up counting. The gray sameness started with an early awakening, then they broke camp before the formation began its cautious westward trek. Scouts dispatched soon after dawn would return before day’s end, bringing scant reports of Arimaspi, for after their defeat, the griffon’s foe had made themselves scarce. Those discovered appeared to be scouts themselves, few in number, never a threat, and regardless of whence the reports came, Warrik directed his army in a wandering and convoluted course westward.
It rankled Celia. Upon her first meeting, Lodema had declared her destine to recover her father, the vanished king, and after lengthy hours of training under the irascible old griffon, Celia believed it herself. She felt conjoined to him, and whether her eyes remained open or shut, this curious enchantment imparted a strong but unsettling message: the direction they travelled no longer led to him. So convincing was her feeling, Celia brought the matter to Prince Warrik’s attention.
“In due time,” he replied without a trace of condescension, yet offered no further explanation. The apathy left her astonished. Still she persisted, reminding him daily the way to his brother lay elsewhere, all to no avail. She grew angry, until advice came to her in the form of an ancient tale.
It was very old, for her mother had heard it from her father, and his before him. In it, a flock of crows feasted in the fields until a storm came. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and the flock took off to find shelter in the nearby woods, all but one. He flew not away, but into the menacing clouds, scolding them for interrupting his dinner. The storm, of course, cared not, and the foolish bird’s anger grew. He flew higher and higher into the black clouds until he disappeared forever.
So, while frustrated, Celia resolved to let Warrik proceed according to his opaque plans. And thus the days passed.
On one of these undifferentiated days, in the mid afternoon, a scouting party rejoined the formation. While far from a noteworthy event, the trio had set out the previous morning and spent the night afield. Soon after their arrival word went out: they bore vital information. Thus a messenger arrived relaying this to Prince Warrik, and he reasoned he should interview the scouts himself. As always, Celia accompanied him.
When she and her uncle arrived at the indicated location, they discovered three disheveled griffons lounging about, drinking from water skins and eating chunks of dark bread torn from a round loaf. All rose when their prince landed, and they bowed, but Warrik bade them continue with their meal. In the meantime, he and Celia settled themselves and, for a short while, watched as the three ate in haste.
“So,” said Warrik, beginning his queries while they had consumed the last of their bread, “I’m told you bring us wondrous news.”
“Indeed we do, Sire,” their leader said, and he downed a final swig of water. “We found ’em, just like you wanted.”
“Well done!” Warrik exclaimed and leaned forward.
“They’ve a town of sorts at the headwaters of a river. Not certain, of course, but I’d wager it empties into the northern sea.”
The northern sea: the griffons spoke of it with dread, for, they told Celia, it connected the Arimaspi with their homeland. They painted an image of cold and steely waters, a grim clouded sky, forever beset with threatening winds, although none had seen it for themselves. All the griffons knew came from those who lived beyond the mountains, but they relayed everything as fact.
“Of course.” Warrik nodded, then asked the leader in an impatient tone, “Direction? Distance?”
“More south than west. An easy enough route to follow.” He nudged one of his companions.
“Yes,” she added with nervousness, “Less than half a day’s flight at a sensible speed. We’d’ve returned sooner, you know, but we sighted the place ’round dusk. Stayed overnight to get a better view come morning.” With a hasty glance she redirected the conversation to the leader.
“Must say, for all the time they’ve been here, it’s not much to look at. Little more than two dozen buildings, all of ’em wooden, crude constructions, almost makeshift I’d—”
Warrik interrupted. “Troops garrisoned there?”
“How many? Hard to say, but few.”
“It’s true, Sire,” chimed the third griffon, eagerness hurrying his young voice. “Little activity, evening or morn.”
“I suppose we’ve thinned their numbers,” continued their leader. “And others must’ve taken off, for the place has a deserted feel. And this you’ll find of great interest. They’ve got three long boats in the water, moored, and from what we could spy, they’ve bare decks. Plenty of goods piled on the quays though.”
“Then the rest mean to depart,” said Warrik, “and soon, if they’ve not already begun.”
The tone he used took Celia by surprise, for he sounded grim. Her resulting apprehension grew, for concerns unknown but to him occupied his thoughts; he sat quite still, gazing into distant nothingness.
“And of ’em,” resumed the leader, but he waited for Warrik to shake off his stupor. “Two ride high. The third, she’s low in the water, although her deck’s as bare as her sisters’.”
Warrik peered at him through narrowed eyes for several moments. “A treasure ship—gold weighing it down?”
“Aye, our thoughts too,” the leader replied, the others signaling their agreement in a similar fashion. “We think much alike, Sire,” he chuckled.
Warrik’s eyes widened and the pitch of his voice rose.
“They’re confident we’ve no idea, so they’re taking their time. But once ready, the captives’s lives…”
Pivoting from the scouts, Warrik looked at Celia with wild eyes. But he soon composed himself and rested his talons upon her shoulder, his lingering touch failing to provide reassurance. Then, with a directness she had not heard in a great while, he spoke, a weighty calm filling his voice.
“My dear, at this time I wish for you to rejoin your companions. Tell your commander we’ll travel little more today. Yes, tell her… Tell her to inform all that we shall make an early day of it, and she’s to form a party and locate the spot for our bivouac. Go to her, Celia. Tell her to proceed with all due haste.”
Wary, Celia rose, hesitating not from unwillingness, only addled by the unexpected nature of the request.
“The time—” Warrik caught himself, and Celia saw his eyes to glisten. “The time’s soon upon us. Now, go.”
Celia nodded and set off to rejoin Rana and the others, but as she departed, she heard Warrik speaking, clear and strong.
“For you three, a different task: We need to assemble the war council.”
—❦—
Day neared its end, the shadows grew long and the light low, but from the corner of her eye Celia could catch a glimpse of Willa. By easing her head to the side, she could see her proper and watched for her to give the starting signal.
The griffon sat a way off, tall and confident, sphinx-like with her helmet resting before her, a foreleg placed on either side. Albeit temporary, Celia thought the role of instructor, fit Willa, although it struck strange how much she appeared to enjoy making one wait.
“Celia…” Willa called out sing-song. “Stop watching me. Were I you, I’d be mindful of that trickster Rana. Fail to watch her close and she’s bound to land another right on top of your head, just like before. That I guarantee.”
Bundled rushes blunted their swords, and both wore helmets, however, neither had muted the blow to Celia’s head. It had left her eyes watering, her ears ringing, but the embarrassment hurt most of all. Rana had made obvious allowances, and still Celia had failed.
“I’m watching,” she replied, loud, and focused on Rana. Her sparring partner stood but a few paces away, little more than the length of a spear, holding a small round shield close and high. Of her face, only her eyes remained visible, narrow slits hovering above the shield’s rim. This dour look chilled like a gust of wind, and while Celia knew Rana did not seek to injure, it did not matter. It unnerving her. She shifted her stance in an attempt to brave the unblinking stare.
With head held high, Willa asked “Ready now are we?” Then she commanded them to begin.
Celia advanced a single step before wavering, standing stock still, leaving Rana to close the remainder of the distance between them. This she did with vigorous, yet unhurried strides. Thereafter, they parried for a short while, Celia fending off the strong but slow-moving blows. Then Rana feigned low and reversed direction, bringing her sword high.
Recognizing the misdirection from their previous bout, Celia stepped into the attack, using her shield to deflect the strike. With ease she forced Rana’s sword up and outward and then, without thought, counterattacked with a wild and wide swing, parallel to the earth. The blow landed upon Rana’s shoulder, the rushes wrapped around her blade producing a hefty thwack.
“Stop!” cried Willa. “No, no, no,” she muttered, each utterance louder than the previous. Groaning, she rose and marched towards the mock combatants.
Unhurt, Rana backed off and removed her helmet. She scratched at the feathers in her flattened crest.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled to Rana. In the time it took to make the abbreviated apology, Willa had arrived and now stood beside Celia, very imposing, very tall.
“We’ll have no more of that.” Willa glowered. “You can’t use a sword like it’s a scythe to bring in the harvest. There’s such a thing as edge alignment, and we’ve no time to cover it. Besides, it’s going to be to dark underground and crowded. Swing like that and you’re likely to strike someone you don’t mean to, maybe even yourself.” Unceremoniously, she grabbed Celia’s sword talon and, directing it, jabbed the sword’s blunted end at Rana.
“Keep a good grip and thrust, a good poke, like you’ve got a really short spear. And don’t over do it; for you, only hard enough to remind ’em to back off. Should it come to where you’ve no option but to fight, stay compact and defend. Don’t worry about anything else. Wave a sword around and you open yourself up.” She released her grip. “Understand?”
“Yes.” However, Celia’s worries remained. Facing someone at the end of a spear had proved difficult enough. Others had been beside her, but not so here, and alone, with a tiny shield and a sword so short… If practicing against Rana flustered her, she could not imagine an Arimaspi warrior, one with a real blade, or an ax, standing so close she could—
“Listen…” Rana said and tossed her head, loosening up the last of her compacted feathers. “Don’t fret. You don’t have to be good, see? Willa and I won’t be far away the whole time and it’s our job to make sure you’re safe. And if we don’t, your uncle’s sure to pluck us bald.”
Celia cut short a nervous snicker. “I know, but—”
“But,” said Willa, “You still need to practice.” She started marching back to her spot and, once there, took a seat and rested her talon upon the helmet, her claws drumming away, sending out sharp, hollow clicks. “Let’s try this again.”
Stepping back at her starting position, Rana replaced her helmet and made ready. Celia took a few steps backwards too. She reasoned mimicking her opponent’s pose would help, maybe, and so hid her face behind her shield and kept her sword upright, close beside her. With eyes upon Rana, she remained attentive this time, listening for Willa’s signal, but laughter came in its place.
Rana dropped from the ready and turned towards the source of mirth. “What exactly do you find funny?” she huffed.
From the tone, Celia could not decide if she was confused or annoyed. Likely both, for Willa had that effect upon her.
“How is that I’ve not noticed it before?” Willa said, all her affectedness lost. “You two are… are… reflections.” Neither replied. “Well, look at each other.”
And so, for a moment, they did.
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” said Rana.
Celia shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“It’s obvious, that’s why. Your plumage; your coats. The colors, they’re just about identical.”
They were both gray; this Celia had noted last autumn when, on that insufferable and exhausting day, she had met Rana atop the city walls. Nevertheless, her colors were much lighter than the griffon’s, a sliver in contrast to Rana’s charcoal gray. And Rana’s feathers had ticks of black, and hers had not. And their eyes, turquoise for her and lavender for Rana. In Celia’s mind, they were not at all alike.
“You’ve a point to this, I hope,” said Rana.
Willa chortled. “Looking as she does.” She giggle. “I fancy you two as sisters.”
With a snap of her head, Rana stared at Celia; Celia stared back.
“’Tis the light,” quipped Rana, “and your game wastes what little’s left of it. Make this our last bout, for we’ve need of food and sleep—well… rest at least.”
“Yes, yes,” intoned Willa, disappointment fast replacing delight. After clearing her throat, she announced, “On guard.” When both had nodded, she called out, “Ready… Go!”
—❦—
In the early morning hours, one unrecognized woke Celia, and that she had been found difficult to rouse, she sat in disbelief. Although resting from the time just past twilight, as had all except those appointed to the watch, she remained unconvinced she had slept more than a moment. Over and over turbulent thoughts insisted she live out the future, the impending and uncertain future, in every conceivable manner. Now, with dawn but hours away, the actual future loomed, yet the feeling persisted, reality a dreamscape beyond wakeful comprehension.
Despite the fatigue, Celia was awake and from her vantage could make out the watch fires spread across the valley, gentle orange flickers in the mist. They provided some comfort in that chilly hour. However, not they but silvery moonlight illuminated the encampment, and awash in the faultless light, the griffons prepared to depart. The expeditious activity of those nearby nudged the still sluggish Celia to begin her own preparations. First she looped a baldric over her head, next attaching to it a scabbarded sword. The spear and javelins she had become accustomed to wielding would remain behind. Absent too was the tall shield she had borne, replaced by one, despite Willa’s reassurances otherwise, she judged inadequate.
Someone landed a way off, and Rana met him and led him to the group of which Celia was part. Older and stocky, the new arrival trundled behind his escort, the wobble in his walk exaggerated by the coarse-woven sack slung over his shoulder. While this bundle was not large, indisputably it was heavy, and as he let it slip to the ground, it emitted a weighty clank. With a grunt he seated himself and undid the rope securing the sack and reached inside. Without a word he began laying out wares from the armory—a grim array of daggers.
The task of issuing these fell to Rana: two apiece. However, when Celia’s turn came, she protested.
Staring at the mismatched pair in Rana’s talons, she said, “I don’t know how…”
“Then for others,” suggested Rana, a distinct softness in her voice. “Should they be in need.”
Hesitant, Celia took those offered.
The armorer’s parcel held other implements too: weighty hammers and long chisels of iron. The moonlight flashed off their wide, sharpened blades as he passed them to a select few; Celia was not amongst them.
In a short while nothing remained of the old griffon’s stocks, and without delay he made his departure. All the same, he took a moment to utter “Best of luck” to them in a low, gravelly voice.
As Celia’s group would be the last to leave, and now fully equipped, they only needed to bide their time. Most milled about, restless yet subdued, for once un-talkative. Celia remained rooted in the chilly dark, her gaze fixed on remote activities.
The far-off fires were extinguished one-by-one as flights of griffons got underway. Their formations took on a ragged arrangement, an obfuscation should they be spotted, so that, except for their speed, they might be mistook for high flying birds returning to their mountain haunts. Time passed, and more groups departed, until the last faraway fire winked out, leaving only the not-yet-full moon to illuminate the valley with its unwavering light. Celia gazed at the bright orb: already it hung low in the western sky, and it would disappear even before dawn’s coming.
“’Tis a raider’s moon,” someone said, startling her. Rana stood beside Celia. She too looked upward. “Not much use to us, I suppose, but it’ll serve the others well.”
Flanking her was Willa. “Auspicious for us all.”
“How so?” asked Rana.
“One only need recall the potential of the stars, their ability to foretoken,” she said, sounding rather lofty. “See the bright one, the bluish star near the moon?” After waiting for, yet not receiving, a response, Willa continued. “It’s in the constellation of the lion, the great protector, and that star, the brightest one among them, marks his heart. Tonight the moon herself rests besides it, and I dare say, no reader of the heavens could put forward an hour more opportune.”
Rana turned to her with a curious look. “Once, didn’t you tell me you were raised by your grandmother?”
“What of it?” said Willa, but their exchange ended, cut short by Prince Warrik’s arrival.
Everything faded from Celia’s mind as he approached them with long confident strides. So loudly did her heart beat that all else became inaudible. She heard not the shuffling steps of those gathering round, nor did she realize she stood alone at their center. Only one thing could she see, could she hear, Warrik, and now he stood before her, vigorous and gallant, his purposeful eyes locked with hers. He reached out and brushed her cheek.
“The time has come,” said Warrik in a gracious voice, “to retrieve your father.” He stepped back.
With a tremble, Celia lowered her head. She clamped shut her eyes. In and out she breathed, shallow and uneasy at first, focusing until her breaths grew deeper, controlled. Celia’s mind grew placid, and her thoughts roamed, expanding far beyond the horizon. Soon, what she sought appeared, like a beacon on a faraway shore. The golden light intensified until it outshone the brightest star of the heavens, and with eyes still closed, oblivious to those encircling her, Celia took to the air.
She climbing to a great height and headed north and east, flying fast, while below her the unseen moonlight painted the mountains with jagged shadows. Before long the rugged valleys pictured in her mind took on a certain familiarity, and she opened her eyes. It mattered little though, for from here she knew her route, every peak memorized, every turn rehearsed.
Downward she plunged, catching Warrik and the griffons unawares: they raced to match her. Together they flew amongst ink-black shadows, where only the absence of stars defined the boundary of earth and sky. Concealed thus, through the early morning hours Celia and the griffons dashed along a tortuous path, the lion and moon always in the fore. On occasion the celestial pair hid behind wispy clouds, setting them aglow, but always they eased towards the horizon, preparing to relinquish the sky to a new day.
Sensing her destination near, Celia rose high and checked her speed. Mindful this time, the griffons anticipated her actions, and with caution, fanned out behind her. She had led them to the distant parts of the western mountain range, a land wholly unfamiliar to griffonkind. Here the great jaggy peaks ended, replaced by lower, rounded hills, the valleys they delineated wide and shallow, much like those in the familiar east. Yet, in this alien land, the streams and rivers ran counter, not east and southerly, but due west, bound for the northwest’s icy seas.
The last light from the low-hanging moon cast long, knife-sharp shadows in a rubble strewn valley ahead. Celia began her descent, drawn towards a black maw in a hillside.
Warrik, however, overtook her and bade her follow. They traced a high arc in the lightening sky, as he led her to a hill overlooking the valley. There, upon its eastern side, the once scattered griffons reassembled. With all accounted for, Warrik dispatched two scouts; the remainder sat in silence.
The abrupt change from possessed flight to inaction left Celia disordered, harassed by a tumult of anticipatory thoughts and images. Yet, within her chaotic thoughts, sage words came to her, words uttered by Captain Murron. While the circumstances in which they had been offered she could not recall, with a hint of humor he had once observed that waiting composes the greater portion of a soldier’s life. A simple task it may appear, yet it is not, for it entails preparing for what you know will come. And whatever that may be, he advised, it always comes soon enough.
In recalling his words, she heard his voice once more, and that summoned the vision of the Captain spiraling downward, falling ever faster, and striking the earth, remaining forever motionless. Then remembrances of the following pandemonium assailed her, and Celia heard the terror-stricken cries again and, above the din, Rana’s voice, her ragged screams, as she sought to maintain order. Other nightmarish memories, too vivid, surged forth, growing so great she could not bear it. But with a cold shudder, she escaped, and Celia looked about, wondering if the others were likewise beset.
Little more than scattered moonlight reached the hillside where they waited, and with dawn not yet lurking on the horizon, not a single face could she resolve with clarity. Regardless of their true demeanors, she imagined them composed, unbothered by the past or the future, not at all like herself.
As for her uncle, he sat a short distance away, a tranquil shadow with head erect, talons stretched out before him, a vigilant eastward-facing statue.
Time passed, steady but slow, and the moon had all but departed, when the first of the scouts emerged from blackness. Warrik rose to meet him and receive his report. The others gathered round, listening with rapt attention.
“Sire,” the scout began, muffling his excited voice to an extent. “There’s a road leading south and west, in the direction of their settlement. Too dark to determine if it’s seen use of late, but what I can say is there’s not a sign of camps or outposts along it. The slopes are likewise bare. I’d have to conclude that if any were stationed here, they’re now gone.”
“Thank you. Fine news to begin the day,” said Warrik, yet his face remained dispassionate. “We’ve one less concern now.” As he spoke the words, from above came the sound of fluttering wings, and the griffons moved aside for the second reconnoiterer to land.
“What have you found, pray tell?” said Warrik.
“As you thought, the entrance lies beneath that outcropping, forming sort of a cavern. Tools and carts inside, machinery. They’ve concealed nothing.”
“Guards?”
“None in sight, but further back a light. A small fire or just a torch perhaps. How deep within, I cannot say, for I didn’t enter, but the true entrance must be there.”
Warrik turned aside, offering no thanks. A forbidding look swept over Warrik’s face as he grasped the pommel of his sword. He made an abrupt turn and, for a moment, looked skyward, to the east, pondering, before he made his address.
“As I speak, our comrades’s mission has begun, to put the Arimaspi town to the torch, and before the sun reaches its zenith, their fortifications, their homes, the storehouses and docks, everything and everything therein, shall be ash. Yet, I’ve decreed there’ll be no slaughter, for we are not brutes. Although our enemy, and our grievances many, we know not the sins of the individual.
“Yet, there remains those to whom we reserve unrestrained enmity. They reside here, underground, and their crimes are manifest. In these final moments, we must prevent them from compounding their atrocities. So I say to you, to them, we shall show no mercy.
“We begin a new day, and do so by bidding farewell to the Arimaspi, sending them home bearing a story, a tale of griffons united. And indeed they shall depart with little else than a story. We will make certain to send them off unsupplied, their empty stomachs and parched throats, I hope, enriching the tale they bring their kinsmen. They shall journey homeward with neither food nor water—and likewise no treasure, and neither shall we.
“Greed and villainy has tainted their gold, thus we cannot permit its presence to curse our city. The Arimaspi’s treasure ship shall be burnt, the gold within left upon the river’s bottom, returned to the earth from which it came.
“This shall our brothers and sisters do. And so it falls to us, we few, to recover the true treasure, those taken from us, those enslaved in darkness, those long abused. This day we shall return them to the light, and in doing so, I say again, we must be ruthless, lest the Arimaspi seek to rob us a final time.”
Thereupon Warrik paused and surveyed their faces.
“Make yourselves ready. We await the dawn.” With these final words spoken, the griffons, silent, shuffled off.
Celia too started to move off, but before she could, she felt a tap upon her back. She turned; it was Warrik.
“A word, if I may,” he said and, not bothering to wait for a response, directed her with his wing. As they walked, he glanced back at intervals, and when no other griffons were visible, he halted.
“I have—” began Warrik only to pause, looking at Celia with an affected squint. “I have thought long on this matter, unsure of what I should say—how I should say it—so, should I err, I beg forgiveness in advance.”
Following an uncomfortable dry swallow, Celia nodded. “All right,” she said, but her voice shook.
“Always I knew you must be here, at this time and place, for reasons which require no explanation. Now, it may seem that only the hard-hearted would seek to deny you this moment, yet…” Again he paused, quite long, and when he resumed, his speach was rapid.
“You have seen much these last days, have you not?”
She required no clarification. “I have.”
With his eyes pinched closed, Warrik stood silent for a time. “Shortly, we will enter that cavern, and I remind you, it is likely that not all of us shall exit.” His eyes opened. “I, myself, may not return, a fact the Captain reminded me of not so long ago. And since—since his loss, my mind dwells on such possibilities.”
Celia responded without a moment’s delay. “I am not afraid.” She spoke the truth, yet the utterance acted as a conjuration by name, summoning fear. It emerged and set upon her, momentarily stealing her breath. But Celia remained steadfast, and it passed.
“Oh, no, no,” replied Warrik, and the manner in which he said it left Celia with the impression she had provided him with a modicum of amusement.
“This is about neither courage nor determination, and beyond question you possess both. After all, few griffons posses the resolve to journey as far as you have, and from what you say of your mother’s kind, even fewer of them posses the courage to venture into the unknown. But I digress.
“Let me see…” Looking upward, his head cocked, Warrik gave the impression of scrutinizing sky. Then, with a jerk, he returned his attention to Celia. “We are much alike, are we not?”
The unexpected suggestion elicited a scoffed “How?”
“Well, like you, I grew up without a father.” Warrik halted for a second, striking Celia as appearing wistful, however, whatever occupied his thoughts, a shake of the head cast it off. “Yet, unlike me, and should fortune permit, today you’ll have both father and mother, your family restored. Was this not your desire, the very reason you came here?”
Time and again, the questions he posed left her perplexed. When he spoke, too often Celia spied the glint of roguish thoughts in those eyes of his and therefore deemed all his words suspect, half-truths belying any true sentiments he might possess. In that early morning hour, little light shone upon his face, so she dared not surmise the intent of his questioning. That being the case, she did not provide an answer.
“So, Celia, you mustn’t—no… It is imperative that…” Warrik sought to end his fumbling by glancing away. After drawing a hearty breath, he said, “If after these many years, I am fortunate enough to look again upon my brother’s face and then tell him who led us here, who secured his release, and should something untoward happen, and I be obliged to say she no longer lived… It… It would be better if Boreas were to strike me down this very instant.
“And thus,” he concluded, his voice firm, his stance imposing, “it is best that from here on you not accompany us.”
Hollow eyed, Celia looked at him, wondering what she should do, what she could do. Shocked, she could think of nothing, and so Warrik remained before her, an adamant obstruction. By chance, she caught a twitch in his left eye, and however brief, this distraction released her, and no longer was she bereft of thought. But the thoughts occupying her were the pursuing doubts which had so disturbed her sleep.
“May I ask a question?” she said, unsure if she sounded childlike.
The severity of Warrik’s posture lessened and with extraordinary kindness, he replied, “Why, yes. Of course.”
“On the night I arrived, you brought Lady Lodema, and she said that… that my mother may never come to the city.”
Warrik answered with an emphatic nod. “It would be nigh impossible were she but an ordinary pony, for our instincts are rooted deep and, I fear, our pride deeper. Her presence within the walls is unimaginable. Could I will it different, but even a king may not command the change of long-set minds.” Warrik huffed in self-amusement.
“No, her safety could not be guaranteed, my dear,” he declared. “Not by anyone. Then… then there’s your father’s rank among us, and their relationship; these things complicate the matter to such an extent that… Why, the dangers she would face…”
Celia blinked; she swallowed.
“Well,” stammered Warrik. “What of ponykind? Should a griffon arrive to live in your village, what reception awaits them?”
In a monotone, Celia replied, “The Councilor would send for soldiers. They’d be taken to jail. Maybe worse.”
Warrik acknowledged with a series of slow, meaningful nods.
“So… then, after we find Father—” For a moment, Celia’s voice failed her. “What happens?”
“On the very same night, when the two of us spoke with Lodema, recall that I pledged to honor Ahren’s decisions on these matters. I remain so committed.”
With solemnity and poise, Celia told him, “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” sighed Warrik. “Yet, it is all I could offer then and all I can offer now.” He waited, as if expecting her to speak in turn; she remained silent. “Place your trust in your father’s wisdom and hope for the best.”
Celia gazed at the ground. That word again, hope. Long had hope sustained her and her mother. It had encouraged her on this journey, brought her this far, so very far from her home to the unimaginable world of the griffons and beyond. Perhaps, hope could sustain her a little longer, until—
Warrik cleared his throat and, roused from thought, Celia looked up.
“So—” The dawn sparkled in Warrik’s eyes. “You will not heed my counsel, will you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m going with you to find my father.” Celia waited for his rebuke, the inevitable quarrel, but nothing came.
Warrik grasped her shoulder and turned to appraise the nascent dawn. “Time to go,” he stated and leapt airborne.
Celia hastened to catch him.
Twice above the others Warrik circled, and when all were airborne, he ordered the scout who knew the way to lead them towards the cavern, the black maw in the hillside. They proceeded in muffled flight, and there landed, remaining low, hugging the rocks. Warrik moved amongst them with haste, but remained stealthy, checking on each. He came to Celia, gave her a glance, then addressed Rana who waited beside her.
“Someone has a fire going,” he whispered. “Choose another and deal with them. You’ve a count of forty, no more, then we follow.”
“It is enough,” Rana replied and cocked her head, signaling Willa to accompany her. Off both flew, colorless forms within the cavern’s gloom, and disappeared.
Warrik sat and shut his eyes; concentrating upon his counting, Celia supposed. As he did, his face remained placid, almost as if he slumbered. But while his breaths appeared slow and easy, Celia noted the vibration at the tip of his tail, revealing his underlying calm was illusory.
With the counting finished, Warrik’s eyes opened wide. “We begin,” he announced. At the sound of his voice, Celia’s heart leapt.
They flew into the cavern and within seconds hovered outside a timber-framed opening whence came a flickering light. They entered with a hushed urgency. A short distance inside they came upon a small fire, beside it the Arimaspi who but a moment before tended it, lifeless now, his blank face turned towards the flames. Willa stood over the corpse, clenching her bloodied sword, her face unperturbed. Celia could not reconcile this Willa with the one she thought she knew.
The scene slowed the griffons not the slightest, and as they moved on, Willa fell in behind them. They could not fly here, for although a wingspan wide or better, the low ceiling of the passage prevented it. And so, deeper into darkness they trotted, the stagnant water pooled on the well-trodden earthen floor splashing beneath their feet. Around them, ancient and darkened timbers reinforced the walls and ceiling, while moisture glistened on the stones. A musty odor pervaded throughout.
As they continued, they passed pot-like lamps emitting foul stenches which, while stationed far apart, provided a trifle of illumination, but no more. Despite the gloom, Celia could feel the downward slope steepening, and the deeper they went, the more the ceiling closed in upon them. Then from ahead arose sounds from a commotion, its exact nature muddled by the stone walls.
The griffons, wary for a second, hesitated, but Warrik urged them forward. Before they had progressed much farther, they halted when a form materialized from the distant shadows.
Rana approached, panting. “One’s escaped.”
They dashed onward again, passing a victim of Rana’s formidable skills, when again, from the unseeable distance came a racket, accompanied by distorted and sinister shouts. The noises soon faded, and as the passage leveled off, they came to a gate of iron bars, which brought the griffons to a standstill. On the opposite side they saw a cart and barrels wedging it shut, but not a single Arimaspi defender.
At Warrik’s command, four burley youths made short work of the obstruction, as its intent was to imprison not to keep out intruders. With the path cleared, they poured though, finding themselves inside a lofty gallery. Shaken by the transition to openness, they paused before spreading out.
It took a moment for Warrik himself to adjust, and when he had, he directed them to take to the air. They did so, hovering low, for the space above menaced like a hollow, starless sky, the torchlight unable to reach the roof.
The light illuminated the floor well enough so Celia could see. There were rocks, large and small, in piles and more packed into barrels and carts. These sat beside great stone disks, querns of black basalt, each resting outside openings leading further into the earth.
Distant cries reverberated, coming from everywhere and nowhere, their true direction twisted by the high space. Banging, dull and deep, followed. All were befuddled, especially Celia. She searched for Warrik, finding him hovering some distance away.
“They’ve sounded the alarm,” he called out. “We must find the captives!”
Celia knew the echoing cries must emanate from deep within the tunnels. But which ones? She closed her eyes and, within a flash, saw. No longer was there a distance for her to cross, for her journeys always led to this shadowy place, yet on this occasion, what she saw was different. The once angry lights swirled with confusion, and those that once flickered, doubtful and weak, now scintillated with hope. And foremost amongst them, as it had been since the first, a great golden star shone brighter than sunlight: Celia knew with the absolute absence of doubt.
“That way!” she exclaimed and pointed to a far away opening. No one acted on her words. Only Warrik threw her a backward glance, staring for a moment.
“There!” he commanded. “Go!” And the griffons raced to enter where both he and Celia pointed. Then he dove to join the others.
Celia followed, accompanying the rest in their frantic dash. The passage she entered was darker and far narrower than the one leading to the gallery. Even so, the griffons surrounding her, driven by eagerness, surged forward without heed. In the crowd, she was jostled. Knocked off balance, Celia snagged a hoof on a lurking rock, and she plunged forward, grating her side against the wall. As she tumbled down, her helmet became dislodged, and her unprotected head struck the hard earth.
Black silence shrouded her senses. Then, as if in a fleeting dream, someone raised her up, bringing her to her hooves again. The one who gave aid asked if she was all right. Celia did not respond, but instead started a confused search for her helmet. The other griffon found it, helped her put it on, and left her alone, dazed. She sensing light in the distance and staggered towards it. As well as light, there came shouts and the clang of clashing swords, so although Celia remained unsteady, she drew her weapon. Stumbling forward this way, she entered a dismal room, and once within, rested against the wall. Five griffons occupied the space, three not of her party. With glassy eyes she took in the strange proceedings.
Two warriors worked with hammer and chisel to remove the irons around a standing griffon’s talons. The sound of their tools rang in Celia ears. Beside them a manacled griffon lay on his side, injured, while a third tended his companion’s wound. He too was in irons. A heavy chain bound all three, snaking along the floor to an iron ring affixed to the wall.
In a corner, a single quivering torch illuminated the room, casting deep shadows which exaggerated the captive’s gaunt faces. All three were thin and shabby, and as for their coats and plumage, so dirty and disheveled were they, they appeared a uniform brown.
The standing griffon kept his head down so he might observe the work of his rescuers. Although not yet free, he conversed with them, his voice husky but soft. While unable to hear his words, Celia realized he had stopped speaking mid-sentence. He then lifted his head, as if attune to something one could neither hear nor see, and for an instant, appeared puzzled. With a wary look, he turned and spied Celia. Light from the imperfect flames shimmered in his eyes. His gaze was powerful, piercing, not a trace of anger or fear. Instead, she thought he radiated nothing but gentle strength.
Celia gripped the side of her head, for a thousand kaleidoscope-like images began to overwhelm her, and from within, she felt something depart. The sword slipped from her talons, clattering down. Dizzied, she took a half step forward, but slumped to the ground, and the hushed darkness once again swept over her.