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// Ⅹ - The Field of Battle 
// Story: The Tale of the Hippogriff 
// by OleGrayMane 
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The Arimaspi host readied themselves for the approaching griffons, rushing to complete a series of defensive squares across the valley. The perimeter of each bristled with spears, outward-facing in the frontmost rows, upward facing in the remaining. In their centers, companies of archers stood in readiness, alert and eager to bring down airborne attackers, so that those ill-fated would drop among warriors armed with swords and axes.
Defenses of such a formidable nature negated much of the griffon’s advantage, yet this complication did not dishearten them in the least.
“’Twas what we expected,” Captain Murron intoned. “Standard defense. Used years ago. Regardless, too hazardous to approach from above. We must first engage them on the ground.”
Warrik grunted a curt acknowledgement, for he had learned this in his youth, from Murron himself, and they had discussed their response prior to departure.
“Well then,” he began, “they’ve selected a tactic from the past, and we shall respond in kind. As we agreed?”
“Aye.”
Dismissed, the Captain few off to dispatch orders, while Warrik remained at an altitude providing him a wide field of view. From on high, he mused, the scene approximated that of a diagram drawn upon a map.
With their plan decided and its implementation in progress, the griffons flew on, and once suitably close to their foe, companies descended to the ground. There they assembled into columns, five wide and six deep, and prepared to march forward, their spears before them, and shatter the Arimaspi’s lines. Meanwhile, above the columns archers gathered in support, waiting to deliver showers of arrows. At last, when all was in readiness, ominous horns sounded, signaling the advance.
The Arimaspi greeted their opponents with a reverberating battle cry and a preliminary volley of arrows.
Still watching from above, Warrik observed as an onlooker might do in a game of strategy, scrutinizing the arrangement of the pieces, ready to uncover an avenue for exploitation.
As the griffons neared the Arimaspi lines, the two sided exchanged a throw of javelins. Then a charge, and at last spears clashed and archers moved in.
Warrik impression was that all was proceeding as it should, nothing untoward, nothing noteworthy, when a considerable turmoil disrupted his rather contemplative study, for without exception every Arimaspi shouted out. Shocked by the uproar, Warrik at first supposed it another attempt of theirs to intimidate. But the outcry grew distressing, haphazard rather than organized and quite urgent.
Within a moment of the initial outcry, a panic emerged in the ranks of their spearmen. Then their lines broke, and with their protection lost, the archers scattered. In no time the intimidating, disciplined squares were transformed into fleeing mobs, with frenzied one-eyed warriors running in cross directions. Frantic throngs fled up the valley, away from the griffons, while others endeavored to escape by clambering up the sparsely wooded hillsides. A few confused individuals, disoriented or driven mad by fright, sprinted past their opponents, never looking backwards.
The griffon commanders, before embarking on this venture, had discussed many directions a battle might take, but of them, this scenario had not come up. How should one respond a fleeing foe, to such chaos? Their careful preparations had seemingly lost purposefulness, and they were paralyzed. The inaction, however, was but momentary.
The most eager amongst recovered first, breaking off in unsanctioned pursuit of individuals or groups. More joined their eager colleagues. Both Arimaspi and griffon armies alike fell into utter anarchy.
“Sound recall!” Warrik ordered. “Bring them back at once.” Urgent horns imploring the fervid warriors to return but struggled to be heard over the din. Few heeded the command, and so Warrik called for it anew, and while more returned, too many remained afield, headstrong, chasing after stragglers.
Far ahead, Warrik watched as the vast majority of the opposing host escaped up the valley, knowing every moment’s delay increased the fleet-footed beasts lead.
He dove, sweeping near the ground, seething, screaming for the restoration of order. Unbidden, Captain Murron was soon beside him.
“Warrik!” he cried.
When he halted and turned, he discovered the Captain’s face exceedingly close to his own.
“Compose yourself!”
“What is wrong with these fools? Can’t they see the Arimaspi are escaping? I want them back, Captain—back now!”
“Can you not see we try? But they are young and impetuous, seeking glory. They think they’ve already won.” The Captain shook his head. “Even when they obey, it’s no use. I can’t make sense of it. We withdraw and they don’t run, but instead counter-attack.”
“Ha! At least a few of your fearless Arimaspi remain so,” taunted Warrik, only to receive an overtly scornful glare. His own mood foul, he was undeterred. “The rest show their colors, don’t they? Where are the battle hymns? I heard screams.”
“That… That I can’t explain.”
“Captain, they flee like rabbits before us!” he said and pointed to the distant and disappearing Arimaspi army.
“Never underestimate them, Sire. They’re fierce warriors, merciless. This I know.”
“But Captain, these are not the ones you knew.” He grasped Murron’s shoulder. “That was years ago, my friend. The Arimaspi you fought, ferocious they might’ve been, but they’re long dead and their fighting spirit with them. See how they’ve spawned a generation of cowards to take their place.”
Upon arriving at a wye in the valley, the retreating Arimaspi split their forces, half continuing straight on, the remaining number veering off to enter a wide, flat bottomed gorge.
“Look!” Warrik exclaimed and turned Murron so he might better see. “We shall do the same. I take half southwest, you the rest, west by north.”
The Captain’s sole eye narrowed to a slit. He blinked, long and slow while intoning, “Sire, division would be ill-advised.”
“Yes. And it is they who’ve made that unwise choice so that we may profit by it.” But his assertion garnered silence.
“Can’t you see? We’ll make short work of them this way,” he entreated, but the Captain continue his mute opposition. Indisposed to being stymied in this or any other fashion, he hesitated, selecting a new strategy. Consequently, in a tranquil voice, Warrik began his appeal.
“Long ago, when they slew my father, they took more than his life, for they took a part of our lives along with it. These accursed monsters left us both with wounds that remain unhealed, raw. And even driven from our homeland, nonetheless they still wound us, all of us, robbing others of their lives, their freedom. They’ve taken so much, so many, and now, before the sun sets, we can at last avenge these wrongs. We can at last avenge him.”
Captain Murron looked away; Warrik pressed on.
“You and I, we’ve waited long for this day to arrive, and after all these years, justice is within sight. So, let this be the day we will put an end it, to them, so they haunt no longer. But we’ve little time before this opportunity’s lost. We dare not delay. Please, my friend, help me.”
The Captain said nothing; he did not even glance at him. For a moment Warrik experienced qualms about his approach and fearing it failed, wondered how he might continue the plea. Then the Captain responded.
“Yes,” mumbled Murron, nodding his head. “Yes,” he repeated, this time louder and with grim intensity. “We do this today.” And without requesting leave or receiving orders, he sped off.
With a dour look about him, Warrik regarded the Captain rushing amongst the disordered, issuing commands with effortless authority, exhorting the unruly warriors into the air and ordering them to reform their squads. He watched Murron form select groups of twos or threes and dispatch them on missions to fetch the errant. They flew off to insist their comrades disengage, or ensure they were left with none with which they might skirmish. Order was far from restored, but Warrik observed its gradual return and was gratified.
Prince Warrik returned to the heights, soaring up so as to appraise the terrain ahead. By now, eyes sharper than his still would have failed to spy a single Arimaspi. Disgruntled, but only some, he shifted and reviewed his own forces, remarking how Captain Muron’s nascent formation already stood out, and he recognized he must go now and do the same.
As Warrik glided down, he strove to maintain a certain severity, one befitting his rank as well as the significance of the moment. But in actuality, his appearance served to conceal the incomparable exhilaration he felt. Although the events of the day brought him delight, the feeling proved troublesome, for it made it difficult to concentrate on the tasks that remained. And there was so very much left to do.


—❦—


“On the left!” came a yell, for Arimaspi archers had reappeared from their hiding.
“Close ranks,” bellowed Captain Murron. “Everyone maintain position.” Weapons and shields clattered in response.
The archers, perhaps a dozen but no more, released a volley at the hovering griffons. Before the first of their arrows clattered against the wall of shields, they had notched a second set and sent them flying. Then, after delivering a third, the assailants scattered and disappeared, finding concealment among the numerous boulders lining the valley’s sides.
Too light were the Arimaspi’s arrows, for they employed the short bow, and too distant the bowmen for their attack to damage much beyond griffon pride. Regardless of the attack’s success or failure, the foe held the high ground on all sides, and with this state, Murron showed his utmost displeasure.
For the lapse in judgment which led to this predicament, he attempted to exhaust every profane oath known to him, all directed at himself. Yet, he concluded, their situation was more frustrating than dire, for while besieged in the tight valley, with archers above and warriors below, the Arimaspi appeared averse to press their advantage. Exasperated and at a loss to resolve why the fight had not yet commenced, the Captain put it aside for a moment, shifting his thoughts elsewhere, away from himself and to those under his command.
In the lull following the attack, Murron ascertained his troops state of mind, doing so by moving among the ranks, providing encouragement as he did. He spied a few rattled faces, nothing serious. Overall, what he encountered left him relieved. Finding their prior impetuousness replaced by resolve muted many of his misgivings. Still, he remained concerned, for given sufficient provocation, their restraint would give and chaos once more ensue.
Well, at least he now understood why the Arimaspi broke as they did, for it was by design. Not a rout, but a ruse, and he admitted, one well executed. Calmed now, Murron swore to refrain from useless self-chastisement. Figuring it all out was of greater import.
A shrill cry of “Right and low!” diverted his thoughts. Below he observed warriors emerging from hiding and mustering beside the river. Two hurled javelins skyward, striking nothing. Those with axes waved them in the air, conducting a wild dance whilst raving in their native, guttural tongue. Once completing their unfathomable mission, like the archers earlier, all disappeared.
Murron found it more than problematic to suss a strategy from the outlandish display. Not once had he known Arimaspi to shirk conflict. Why, they appeared to delight in bloodshed, so what purpose did ineffective attacks and bizarre theatrics serve? Never had his former foe engaged in such puzzling behavior.
Although no longer visible, the Arimaspi began to make themselves heard. A chilling din soon filled the rocky valley as the one-eyed warriors worked in unison, drumming upon their shields with axe or sword. In little time they arrived upon a rhythm where echo built upon echo.
Murron expressed unusual mirth at this development, for he remembered performances like this. While still unable to unraveled their current game, in this act he found a scrap of comfort; it confirmed that these remained the Arimaspi of his past. Their clangorous drumming was formulated to break one’s nerve, to disturb one’s thoughts. Interruption of the latter proved efficacious, but the Captain resolved to extract purpose from their madness.
Possibilities arose and fell. Ahead lay a bend, a place where a larger force might lurk. Did they seek to push the griffons forward into the final part of a trap? Or were they to withdraw and fall prey to attackers now secreted behind? And what of the mad dramatics, the brief attacks and rapid withdrawals? While an explanation eluded him for some time, he reached what he thought was the answer. Dread seized him.
Imbued with urgency, he tore through the lines and, with an abrupt turn, plunged into the formation, screeching out a summons to his commanders. They raced to him without delay.
“If I’ve done my reckoning right,” began Murron, “Prince Warrik’s in a spot worse than ours. Far worse. Look, how many have we seen? There’s too few Arimaspi here to fight us proper, hence their nonsense.” He faced emotionless stares.
“It’s a gambit. They’ve not divided as we assumed, but uneven. Some hid, doubled back, perhaps took a passage. Whatever they did, I’ll wager that most of their forces have Warrik busied right now. Look at the foolery they’ve offered! They’ve no battle plan, only pranks. They mean to squander our time and keep us from the true fight.
“Oh, it’s been a merry dance this day,” he continued, doing his utmost to enliven their somber faces. “But now it’s time to do our jobs. I pledge to you we’ll fly out of here, no matter what, and make it to that fight, the real one. Now, it’s going to require a bit of time—and fortitude.”
“But Captain,” Galvyn interjected, his glare a mix of confusion and resentment, “if the Arimaspi are few, should we not—”
“Warrik and the others need us, Master Galvyn,” he stated, his voice resonant, his tone even. “We’ll take the beasties on elsewhere, on our terms, not theirs. And when we do, we’ll show ‘em how it’s done, eh?”
There was silence before Galvyn returned a reluctant “Yes, Sir.”
The words failed to ring true, but Murron did not quibble. They had not the time.
“Now, here’s how we get out of here. We leave one squad at a time, skimming the water, doing this.” Murron backed up, gaining room so he might raise his shield above him. “You keep ‘em together, tight, but not so close it slows you down. You’re to form a shell like a tortoise, but run like a hare. Understand?”
A few nods confirmed their understanding. Still, all remained silent, except Galvyn.
“They’ll fire on us from above.”
“Aye, they will, but they’ve got those short bows, right? Arrows can scarce reach us now, and you’ll fly by so fast, it’ll require a mighty big lead. And trust me, from the shooting I’ve seen today, the Arimaspi’s sent their best elsewhere. Oh and don’t forget—” Murron paused and rapped the right side of his helmet “—the beasties and I share the same affliction.”
At last he received the lightheartedness he sought. Relaxed and confident, they would hearten those they led. Murron’s own tension subsided, yet Galvyn continued to give him pause. A cold determination remained in those youthful eyes.
The drumming ceased.
“Oh, praise the four winds,” Murron exclaimed as he rolled his eyes. “So, you stay nice and compact so they’ve a small target, fast so they’ve no chance to aim. I’ll come and tap you when it’s your turn. Rana,”—all eyes turned to her—“you’ll go first. Must make sure Mistress Celia gets to safety. Warrik’ll call for her again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“All right. Form up posthaste, and the rest of you, explain our plan, but do nothing till you’re called. Go!” His commanders separated, flying off at a respectable pace. Alone, Murron took a deep breath and upon its release gave a heavy sigh, making no attempt to conceal it.
However, rather than supervising Rana, he trailed after Galvyn, for he felt a private conversation was in order. Words not from an officer, but from one who understood. Indeed, he understood, for plenty in the lad reminded him of his younger self, eager at his finest, hotheaded at his worst. Vengeance presided over Galvyn’s mind, and it had since the day they ventured forth. Given the circumstances, no one dared criticize, in particular Murron.
Darrow, the lad’s cousin, had been an exemplary soldier, a rock-steady officer, admired. The manner of his death had shaken those close to him, but for Galvyn, it was personal. Those cousins from Tolan, how much like brothers they were despite their disparate temperaments. And what the Arimaspi had done, the butchery…
Yes, an earnest talk; Murron owed him that.
As he sped up, a shout went out, another warning, for the Arimaspi were repeating the performance given at the water’s edge. They leapt up and down, taunting the griffons, when from the back of the troupe, one raced forward and hurled a javelin. Only luck could have guided it, not skill, for unerringly it found Galvyn’s shield, striking it high upon its rim. While too light to pierce, the unexpected blow drove the shield into its owner’s face and sent him reeling. Uninjured but dazed, Galvyn at first hung unsteady, but shook his head several times to clear his wits.
Murron halted a way off. The blow had spun him about so he now faced the Captain, and from Galvyn’s look, he thought it best to wait before approaching, allowing him time to recover his senses and dignity. Within a moment or two, Galvyn appeared fine, but as he watched, the Captain grew apprehensive.
For the young griffon, with eyes closed, moved his head side to side, slow. The his eyes opened, and he stared gravely ahead. His right talon drifted towards the hilt of his sword.
“Galvyn!” roared Murron. Unheeded, he shrieked the boy’s name again. But with sword drawn, Galvyn turned and dove towards the Arimaspi.
Murron gave chase, his mind speeding as fast as he. Everything appeared slow to him, as if time had gone askew, events taking on an extraordinary clarity. Such perception did not aid in closing the gap between him and the feverish Galvyn. Downward both charged.
The Arimaspi on the riverbank continued their goading, unperturbed by the approaching griffons. However, the alert archers on the hillside had their bows drawn.
The Captain watched as a lone arrow passed through Galvyn’s neck, not slowed in the slightest. On exit it brought forth a small cloud of feathers and down, pristine white save for a few flecks of red. Abruptly Galvyn’s wings no longer beat. He faded right. The sword he held slipped from his grasp; its blade flashed as it tumbled downward. Unlike the sword, the gaily painted shield he bore remained fast, tugging at him as he fell, causing his body to roll over. It accompanied its lifeless owner on the descent to the river.
Unable to aid the hapless Galvyn, Murron veered off to rejoin the distant formation, executing a hard bank to the left. As he did so, a dark foreboding, like clouds blotting out the sun, came over him, for his shield was to his left, the Arimaspi his right. Ominous as the sudden thought was, he moved too fast to amend the choice.
Less than halfway through the maneuver, Captain Murron felt a dull thump on his side, just ahead of his right wing. Lamentable experience told him a stinging pain would soon follow and that it would intensify and spread, but this he knew he could bear. Instead, he felt nothing, nothing at all. He discovered his wing had gone wholly numb and refused to move as commanded. Flapping of just his left wing proved ineffective, and his bank transformed into a spiral. Unable to control either flight or descent, he floundered.
Arrows sped by, most going wide. One impaled itself in his shield, yet this good fortune came to an end. A second and third found him, striking his left side, and from these the expected pain arrived. Murron looked aghast at the pair protruding at improbable angles from his ribcage. Sunk deep, these soon robbed him of a good measure of his breath, and gasping, he plummeted headlong towards the ground.


—❦—


The warrior crouched behind his shield, for the sword-wielding griffon was descending upon him again.
Warrik sped past and struck at the Arimaspi swordsman, landing a powerful blow upon the warrior’s tall shield. Curved and three-quarters the creature’s height, it provided excellent coverage. Aided by a firm shoulder buttressing it, Warrik’s assault, just as his earlier had been, proved fruitless. Thus, with a quick bank, he circled for another run.
The Arimaspi stood and turned to flee, but froze, for a pair of menacing griffons prevented his escape with their spears. These were Warrik’s escorts who, during the attack, had thought to reposition themselves. Blocked and certain of the third griffon’s return, the swordsman hastened to take up a defensible position.
Again Warrik’s blade crashed upon the shield, this time with such tremendous force that his unprepared foe staggered backwards. It took but a haphazard step to send the Arimaspi tumbling to the ground. There he lay upon his back, limbs splayed, stunned by the fall. Whereas the warrior’s shield remained strapped to his arm, his sword he no longer held, though it rested but a short distance from his hand. The swordsman affected a swift recovery and undertook the retrieval of his weapon. He clawed towards it, ultimately discovering himself incapable of moving the slightest bit closer. Glancing up, he saw why. Above him the griffon towered, balanced upon its hind legs, its wings spread. The Arimaspi attempted to raise his shield, only to realize a massive lion’s paw pinned it to the earth.
With his sword held high above him, Warrik prepared to strike, yet hesitated. Both he and the swordsman remained motionless. He looked at his adversary’s alien face: the narrow mouth rimmed with fleshy lips; the angular cheek bones with the taut, sallow skin stretched over them, made sallower still by the surrounding tangle of black hair; and dominating all, that solitary eye, half repulsive, half mesmerizing.
Between them a few heartbeats passed before a sinister grin twisted the Arimaspi’s face. With bared teeth, he uttered a foul imprecation and spat.
“To the crows!” Warrik brought the sword down across the creature’s chest, and with a rattling breath, the swordsman’s head lolled to the side, its malevolent eye glaring still.
Panting, Warrik dislodged his blade and held it at the ready. He lingered on the ground, half hovering, and every moment he did, his weapon grew heavier.
An escort flew beside him and spoke. “Sire, rest now.”
With a sluggish nod, he grunted and took a few wary steps back. After glancing around a final time Warrik was airborne. He and the escorts sped over the ongoing fray, towards the rear. There the scant remains of the griffon’s reserves remained in safety, beyond the reach of Arimaspi archers.
Distanced from the immediacy of combat for the first time since the battle began, Warrik’s stamina waned. His eyelids fluttered; his vision blurred. Fatigue almost overcame him save for the aid of one unseen who thrust a water flask into his talons. In a few greedy swallows it was dry. While flat and tepid, the water rejuvenated him, and to a degree recovered, Warrik surveyed the battlefield.
He surmised they yet held the Arimaspi at bay. However, doubt persisted, for below chaos continued its reign. Arrows flew from both sides. Scattered combatants skirmished, creating small battles within the large, each a component of a sprawling, confused whole. To grasp it in its entirety while in flux was futile.
Notwithstanding, the scene before him was not unfamiliar. It was if he had seen it innumerable times although where he found it difficult to say. Ready to dismiss it as a dream, recognition came to him.
This was the grand tapestry itself, the images known since his earliest days, but static no more. Upon this day, it stretched out before him, a living, gruesome spectacle. And here he was, hovering above the battle, clutching a great sword, cast in the role of the king, his own father. As in the tapestry, Warrik held his weapon before him; his sprouted no flames, and its blade, that morn a polished perfection, now stood nicked and bloodied. He scrutinized this prized possession of his, shifting it side to side, the melee its backdrop.
Warrik arrived at a bleak truth: were this a reenactment of those long passed events, a drama upon a stage, his would be a pale and marred performance. The role of his unassailable, all but mythical father was beyond his grasp. He was no victorious king, but a dupe fallen into a trap.
Anger and frustration, those faithful, tawdry allies, rushed to his defense, demanding Murron bear responsibility for his plight. Never should the Captain have agreed upon the division. It was his failing which led to his predicament, for had Murron not…
Unqualified repugnance welled up within him. Ashamed for conjuring such thoughts, Warrik covered his eyes, fleeing into darkness as if there he might find protection from his shame. It offered him no refuge. The images from the tapestry refused to pale. His rumination did not cease. In this private dark, Warrik heard Murron’s voice assailing him, an echoing accusation asking what his father might think of him. At this he gasped in despair.
Discomfited by their prince’s state, those near him looked elsewhere.
Warrik felt estranged from himself, his senses benumbed. From the depth of his nadir, he knew what he had become and loathed it. He need not ask himself how it came about, for the precise moment of his decline he could mark, for it was upon the night he and Murron met with the Elder Council when they pleaded on his brother’s behalf. So young then, a good-natured, guileless adolescent—before his introduction to intrigue and duplicity. That long evening spent with the Council had showed him how much he had to learn, and to his dismay, he had proved an outstanding student.
To defend himself, he had fashioned an unassailable shield of haughtiness, from behind which none might discover his self-doubt. From half truths and partial lies, he had forged pretense into a weapon, and thus equipped, set out to equal them at their game, to master the Council and the other houses. He had judged himself victorious, but instead, he realized, had become their chattel, enslaved to a way of life that sickened him. Behind his princely facade, he was no better than the basest schemer among them.
But once he was not so, he knew it, and sought to remember how it was. Warrik struggled against despair’s blackness, but found what he sought. The remembrances he found possessed a remarkable familiarity, for though paled by their age in years, they were easy to rekindle. So although long passed, he summoned memories of that time.
In those days, he lived and dined and trained with others his age, Captain Murron their instructor. What a distant and different world, a time when the boundless conviction of youth still filled him. Warrik remembered how little one’s house and wealth meant to him, to everyone, and how integrity and trust meant all, and how these very qualities brought forth a kinship among them. Each had been a sister or brother to him, and they likewise. And he had been happy.
This fellowship he had not experienced before nor since, and those days had been too short, and those extraordinary ties long vanished. Despite that, the faces and events he recalled brought an ache to his heart, and he longed to return to a life such as that. Often he had spoken of it and just as often dismissed it as naught but fancy. Even if it remained a foolish notion, the yearning to recapture the lost camaraderie did not lessen, and it altered the nature of his thinking. Still, remaining clear in Warrik’s mind was the tapestry.
It was an integral part of his past, and long familiar with it, he could recount its details with great precision. Now, it seemed he perceived it anew. Beyond the stilted figures locked in everlasting conflict, beyond the deft artistry and vibrant colors, Warrik grew aware of its extent. He envisioned its entirety and felt as if the whole was unfamiliar to him. Everything remained in its proper place, the melees on the ground, the attacks from the air, the city in the distance, and his father presiding over it all. In the lifelong familiarity, he now realized the superficiality of its details concealed its meaning from him.
Warrik reassessed his understanding, focusing on the image of his father. Always he had thought he looked at the sword held before him. No longer. It was now his conviction his father’s sight was fixed upon the distant city, his city—their city. And Warrik thought of all those in the city and those who had fought and died that day. In rapid succession, the tapestry’s scenes appeared to him with their old, familiar combatants. But now in each and every one of their faces he instead saw himself.
When he opened his eyes, Warrik regarded those upon the battlefield. No longer were they warriors. Nor were they members of rival houses. And neither were they subjects nor servants nor anything less than his own griffon kin. And realizing this, he solemnly vowed he would find a path that would lead him back to them.
Far behind him a horn blew, and from the assembled reserves came shouts of surprise and joy. Warrik turned, seeking to ascertain what merited the commotion, and by squinting he made out the first flight. Behind them were more, strung out like dark beads upon the blue: Murron’s forces had returned.
So deep and hardy was Warrik’s laughter that the outburst startled those nearby. “Yes!” he cried aloud, for now, assuredly, the day was theirs. He tarried not a moment and rushed out to meet the arriving forces, leaving his escort lagging.
On the way, he pledged that forevermore he would heed the Captain’s sage advice. And he owed him an apology for those most unfitting thoughts, his duplicity, but near bursting with elation over his discovery, his resolution, bringing together suitable words proved difficult. Warrik chortled at his foolishness. Was this not the behavior of an overexcited child? Thus he concluded it could wait, that it must wait, for later. Yet, there was something he refused to postpone, for it was foremost in his heart. He would find the Captain, his friend, and embrace him.
The individual flights slowed on approach and coalesced before reaching the battlefield. But upon sighting the gaudy plumes of their prince’s helmet, they halted and formed ranks to await his orders.
Within their lines Warrik scouted, darting about, indifferent to the varied faces, for he sought only one, and his failure to locate Murron left him irritated. At last, in the final group to arrive, he spied Celia and flying beside her the young commander Murron favored. If not accompanying them, without fail either of those two would know his whereabouts. Warrik glided over, his spirits ever rising. He called to them in an informal voice, saying, “Tell me, please, where might I find Captain Murron?”
Rana’s voice quavered as she said, “Your Highness…”
The despondency in her voice left Warrik bewildered.


—❦—


The inner blackness had receeded, yet Murron could not see. Neither could he recall events leading to the present, for as with his sight, his memory remain clouded. It took some time before his vision returned and he recalled the impact at the river’s edge, striking the rocks embedded in damp sand. A sharp-edged pain accompanied his recovery, and he remembered the arrows lodged in his side. While most unwelcome, it hurt no worse than what he first experienced. Little consolation this was, for his breaths remained difficult and grew more so.
An easy wind blew over him, and he shivered as the cold penetrated his bones.
Quiet filled the valley. No drumming, no shouts or cries, naught but the subdued notes of the adjacent waters. The silence meant that whatever had come to pass, it had ended. And death did not befoul the breeze, which gladdened the Captain. Whilst now certain that no battle had taken place, a desire to confirm the supposition overcame him. However, his attempt to rise proved painful in the extreme, and he slumped down, sharp-cornered rocks once more gouging his cheek. The failed maneuver trapped a twisted foreleg beneath him, adding to his discomfort. It pressed against his chest and throbbed with every beat of his heart.
Laying in this state, with his face pressed into the earth, was a terrible indignity, one he would no longer suffer. Murron hungered to see the sky; he would not be denied this. So, with halting purposefulness, he raised himself to remedy the situation. On the third agonizing attempt he prevailed and rolled upon his back. During the processes, an unpleasant and unsettling sound came from his right wing which now lay pinned beneath him. It did not add to his suffering though, as the absence of sensation worked to his advantage.
He saw the sky.
Sharp, torturous shadows flooded the valley at this unknown time of day, but the sky remained bright. Late he supposed. Yes, quite late, he acknowledged. With vacant eyes Murron gazed into the blue, a vivid, faultless azure. Above he observed a sparse company of clouds advancing with vigor, driven eastward by winds on high. They only added to the unequalled splendor of the scene. But best of all was what the sky did not hold: scavengers.
The ordinary act of rolling over had permitted his breaths to come easier. Notwithstanding the petty triumph, Murron did not delude himself. Little difference it would make, perhaps a few minutes, no more. Although brief, moments remained, and he would use them to soar that boundless, pristine sky once more, if only in his mind. He tried to do so, but as with the clouds above, forces unseen put his thoughts in motion.
In the fore of Murron’s mind was young Master Galvyn; without a doubt the lad must lay nearby though he knew not where. No resentment did he bear, for he could not do otherwise. The blame was Murron’s alone. He had sensed ill long ago, before they had left the city behind, on the very day when they had returned with Darrow’s remains.
It struck the Captain then how the always impassioned Galvyn remained even-tempered, and he perceived the potential danger. Given the youth’s nature, the magnitude of the provocation, a calamitous event no doubt awaited him. But their preparations were the priority, and the matter went unaddressed. As much as that lone arrow, anger and vengeance had felled the luckless Galvyn.
And him too.
Frustrations past and present, his helplessness, the utter futility enraged the Captain, and in exasperation, he attempted to cry aloud, only to gag and cough. The sour taste of metal filled his mouth.
Mindful of the unseemliness of ending in such a manner, Murron reined in his fury. He tried his utmost to concentrate on nothing further than the sky, yet his thoughts were wayward and set off, wandering through time.
He reveled in fair skies long passed, their boisterous harvest-time contests, racers speeding over a valley aflame in colors, a father’s good-natured encouragement, and a mother’s kindhearted embrace. Then half a dozen young commanders flew by, shouting orders as they led the early morning drills, Rana’s crisp voice resonating in the misty air, self-assured, overshadowing all others. Then recollections muted and remote, of standing above a child in slumber, a minute marvel, wrappings covering all but a tiny, superb face. And the babe’s mother and father, so proud, chortling as he stared rapt at their newborn son. And to the recent; the nighttime’s numbing cold, a long path, the bitting onrush of snow. At last, the silent opening of a timeworn door, behind it Constable Brenna’s jovial mien, the remedy of the fireside within, conversation of bygone days, and sweet wine to warm inside and out. Returning to the distant past; arriving at the Council Hall, its resplendence unequalled, on the day of his consummate honor. Kneeling in homage with spirit dauntless, he heard his own voice, assured, reciting the oath of fealty again, the echo of the words off stone. Arising then, possessing certitude, the feeling of potential beyond measure. So much hope, and then… Then… Their plans thrown akilter… The future, slipping away… Dreams all dead… Time lost, wasted, wasted…
Captain Murron’s recollections ceased, for he grew ever fainter, the drawing of a single breath taking the entirety of his being. Drained, he yielded and slipped into the twilit world known solely to those who must soon leave.
Dove-gray now tinged his perfect sky. In marked stages, the clouds, powerless to resist, melded with the ebbing blue until an unbroken monochrome held mastery over the heavens. A fog soon arose from the surrounding peaks, its gray equal to the sky’s, and it swept down the hillsides and flowed over the water’s surface, leaving an opaque, substanceless expanse.
Fear seized him, for it appeared he had been cast upon the wasteland, the one where the doomed roam for eternity, sorrow their sole companion. He did not succumb to panic, instead resolving to remain valorous unto the last. Stouthearted he would step forward and accept his well-earned judgment. Not that demeanor mattered. No reasoned defense, no desperate pleas could aid one in the Hall of Truths. There mercy was unknown, deception impossible.
An immeasurable distance away, a form appeared in a misty whorl, and unhurried, it approached. Unsubstantiated optimism sprang up, for Murron supposed it Rana come to retrieve him; he would have to admonish her for such recklessness. No reprimand was necessary, for his ostensible rescuer was not Rana
Nor was the creature any other inhabitant of the living realm, for motionless, translucent wings guided its descent. When Murron saw through the vaporous body, these otherworldly aspects gave rise to a sober uneasiness.
With effortless and unnatural grace the being proceeded, halting above him, brought to a standstill by a subtle flick of a wingtip. There the Captain’s visitor waited, only to have a smaller ethereal being materialized a moment thereafter. It descended and joined the first. Both floated in stationary silence.
He recognized the visages, and tears welled, for although long absent from his life, his heart and theirs were eternally entwined.
To him the pair beckoned; Murron shook his head. They above all should know he could never accompany them. His burden was too great. Ineffable grief made him weep; he begged for their torture to stop.
The beckoning ceased, and for a short while, they made no further motions. Then, the first of the apparitions swept a foreleg before him, left to right, in an authoritative, solemn command.
Murron felt himself hurtled from the gray world of the riverside to one of blue, dark blue-black. Thunder-like rumbles pummeled him, not a storm but the endless waves of the ocean, a mounting roar as the seas rose up, reaching for him. It took hold and beneath the waves he sank, descending into nihility. Yet he knew no fear, for the waters did not so much engulf but embrace, and in its hold, the ocean silently spoke. It prevailed upon him, bidding him to trust its sincerity, to surrender, to relinquish his burden. He did.
Around him the benevolent waters swept, soothing, carrying off the accumulated acrimony of a lifetime. No longer did Murron bear remorse for deeds done. Neither had he guilt for those undone. Nothing remained to torment him. He was free.
Captain Murron’s heart lightened, and what had once felt as heavy as a stone weighed less than any feather. Thus, he departed.
None save the river heard his final exclamation, but it pays mortals no heed. Bearing neither enmity nor sympathy, the cold mountain waters sped over their sandy beds and weaved amongst obstacles of rounded stone, all the time murmuring with everlasting, impatient detachment.


—❦—


With their wounded and dead attended to, the griffons had moved from the battlefield, traveling eastward more or less, distancing themselves from the Arimaspi. They established their camp atop a rocky knoll, and from there kept a vigilant watch around the surround area. Settled, not a single task remained except to wait for day’s end.
In due course the lingering day gave way to night, and a pronounced chill crept in with it, the prevalence of quiet enhancing its effect. Gathered beside their campfires for light and warmth, near silent griffons spoke in somber whispers. Seldom were their voices louder than the snaps and cracks from within their fires, and when they were, night’s attendant breeze whisked the words away.
Celia sat at a fire with her uncle. Prince Warrik had requested her presence, something extraordinary, but alone she might as well been. For while Warrik sat near, he did not speak, and neither did he look at her, instead directing a lifeless stare into the undulating flames. Upon rare occasion he blinked.
Warrik did not dine, and when offered food and drink, he gave an unequivocal but polite refusal. Oft moody, none questioned this behavior, and none possessed the boldness to further disturb his fascination with the flames. Celia too considered this sensible, but remained nearby, a weary participant in a wordless vigil.
Like most, Celia was left uncertain, not understanding how victory felt so much like defeat. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she desired an escape into sleep, nothing more. It refused to come, for there were images her shut eyes saw that drove slumber off. She could not set aside what she had seen; she feared she might never.
A distance away from Celia and her uncle, incongruous laughter burst forth to break the night’s leaden stillness. In actuality it faded fast, yet it reverberated in Celia’s ears. This left her inexplicably shaken, and with great effort she managed to hold back her oncoming tears.
The harsh voices had interfered with Warrik’s trance, and he turned and lurched towards the disturbance. Following the abrupt movement, Celia supposed he would shout and demand quiet. He did not. Alert, with his neck twisted, he waited, glowering.
Celia caught a glimpse of his face in profile, but the wavering firelight cast exaggerated shadows, concealing more than illuminating. Always changeable, she gave up trying to understand him.
How long he sat that way, unmoving, glaring, Celia could not tell. Even awake, the night struck her as dreamlike, but now she half-dozed with her eyes open, and it seemed more so. Then, without warning, Warrik moved, jolting her awake.
He stood and with vigorous strides walked away and vanished from sight. In no time he re-emerged from the dark bearing his helmet, which he deposited near the fire with a thoughtless toss. The flickering of orange flames imparted a ruddy glow to its gold. Upon sitting beside it, Warrik let his head droop and sealed tight his eyes.
Celia watched.
Warrik brushed aside his crest, and with eyes reopened, he reached down and snapped a plume from the helmet. He cast it into the fire. The long red feather floated, tossed by the rising heat, as if it sought to escape. But it sank and came aflame, overwhelmed in an instant. When the flare from its destruction receded, a blackened twig stood in silhouette against the coals.
As soon as the light of the first had died, Warrik broke off another and consigned it to an identical fate. Over and over he repeated this ritual, adding but one at a time, never plucking the next until the previous existed in memory only. And with the last of the feathers gone, the helmet stripped bare of adornments, he drew himself up with an exaggerated slowness. He set off in a near stagger, appearing aged, infirm. To where he went, Celia did not see, but his helmet he did not take with him.
Not wanting to stay, though unwilling to venture forth into the darkness alone, Celia lingered by the fire. She thought about her uncle’s curious behavior, but not for long. In time the somnolent rhythm of the flames allayed her mind and coaxed shut her eyes. Someday, thought Celia as her heavy eyelids came down a final time, she must ask him what it all meant.