As a second Griffon following the panting Hystaspes lands and pelts away toward the chief warrior's yurt and a general riot ensues, I hustle a frightened Lēohtsāwend 'home', along the way gathering my bow, quiver and cap from Akakhménos' yurt.
Once she is secured with Pink and a doubled guard, I hasten back to the encampment, geared for trouble.
Those unable to fight have hidden away inside, while most of the clan's hunters and a pair of Gaumata's tiny band of dedicated warriors take the lead of the muster in the open beyond the western edge. Most everyone else capable of holding a spear is bunched up behind, trying to look intimidating.
Gaumata himself, now bedecked with an array of golden finery in addition to his usual torc, is sitting patiently while woad is deftly applied to his plumage by one of the more seasoned hunters.
I approach him, keeping an eye to the west. "No sign of them yet, I presume?"
"Not from here spirit, and the longer it remains as such, the longer Hydarnes has to gather up the patrols. We will need every claw to keep them out the camp." He says as seriously as ever.
"Then let us hope it does not come to that. If these are Lēohtsāwend's folk, we may yet reason with them." I reply, stringing my bow all the same.
"You put too much trust in that creature." Gaumata says.
"We may see that tested today." I say. "Assuming of course that these are not another group."
"And if I am right, then we will also see how stout your heart is." He adds.
His odd turn of phrase throws me slightly, but his meaning is plain enough. "It would be ill mannered of me to betray your hospitality." I look around. "Where is Akakhménos?"
"He was heading to join the watch on the prisoners, in case they take advantage of the confusion." Gaumata says, gesturing at the rise to the north-east behind which lies the yurt. "You must have missed him."
By fortune, I happen to see a figure rising from the centre of the encampment and head in that direction as I turn to follow his talon. "There he is. He must have been collecting something."
As the druid dips below the crest of the land, drumbeats begin to echo from the woods to the west. The old Griffon who was working on Gaumata takes that as his cue to hastily apply the final touches and hurry back to the rear lines.
Gaumata himself picks up his fine spear and thumps the base of it rhythmically on the ground. Others soon begin to follow suit, creating a susurration as of rain in response to the drums. Atop that, a rumbling emerges from the woods and finally, low but rising above it all like a wave, a single imperative is repeated again and again from our side.
"Begone. Begone. Begone. Begone! Begone!"
From the trees bound Unicorns by the dozen in a clamour of colours added to by their field-lights. Stone spears and axes of wicked sharpness are waved aloft as the creatures throw back their own goading retorts. A pair lagging a little behind the rest carry a standard of carven wood between them, escorted by a couple of well-appointed warriors of clear prestige. One of them even wields an axe of what looks to be cold-worked iron.
The host, a hundred and fifty-seven strong unless more are hiding in the trees, comes to a stop just beyond twice throwing range. Though their loose formation and wide frontage makes them at a glance seem greater, they are in fact outnumbered.
Gaumata barks out orders and his chosen warriors move to the flanks, in turn gathering a handful of clansgriffs to them as a screening force. In the centre, hunters armed with slings mark targets.
A tall, matronly mare bedecked in a barding of tanned hide into which has been sewn many semi-precious stones strides forward and begins yelling at Gaumata.
"I believe that was a threat." I say, recognising a few of the words.
"Oh really? Well 'taperaex' yourself!" He shouts back mockingly.
The purple mare snorts, pawing the ground.
"That may not have been the wisest-" I begin quietly.
"That's the point." Gaumata hisses over me. "If I can challenge her, one on one, then it'll be less bloody all round. I'm sure you can appreciate that, spirit."
I narrow my eyes slightly at his tone, but nod.
"Þone blōt of Calduaex, Forstiġuhrineþ ond Lēohtsāwend willane fercienne fordende, hyldereas!" The headmare shouts angrily.
"This is no raid for goods. Stall them, please stall them." I beg the warrior before dashing away.
A few of the Unicorns give chase. A fair bit of shouting and warning motions with spears make them give a wide berth at first, but as soon as I break from the main group the threat fades.
They are blisteringly fast and I am forced to turn and loose a couple of arrows while backpeddling with the intent (more hope, given their past performance with the bear) to miss.
The crack of the bowstring and arrows thudding at their hooves give the opportunistic trio more pause for thought and buys me the lead I need to get over the crest, troubled only by a few inexpertly lobbed spears.
My pursuers do not seem keen on pushing their luck when they spot the four Griffons on guard outside the yurt, contenting themselves with jeers.
Without time to spare, I brush aside the questions thrown at me and rush inside, where Akakhménos and two more hunters are standing watch. The druid starts when I tap his side.
"Their leader was ranting about blood and mentioned Lēohtsāwend. I think they they believe we killed their kin and want revenge." I explain. "If we show them alive and well, the host may leave."
Akakhménos approximates a grimace. "Go then, better than a feud."
Almost before he has finished speaking, I am asking Lēohtsāwend to get up, confused and worried in equal measure. I hesitate upon Pink. She would be an uncertain prospect and keeping one back might prove useful.
Thus, I nod and beckon the more cooperative mare out. She follows as I run back toward the hopefully-not-battlefield, but halts with a gasp as she crests the ridge.
"Noro lim! Noro lim!" I urge, not that she knows half of it. The rest is made up for by tone and more arm waving.
By the time we arrive on the fringes, drawing several stares from both sides, Gaumata and the headmare are practically beak to muzzle bawling at one another. It is honestly rather impressive how either can stand it, considering the total lack of understanding. If this is deliberate, then I owe Gaumata a debt.
It turns out that one cannot endure for long however, as the headmare abruptly twists with almost the speed of a striking serpent and kicks at Gaumata, the warrior just ducking under her vicious hooves.
Gaumata of course retaliates with his spear, which is briefly caught in the beard of the headmare's golden axe. There is a contest and the spear's haft seems as though caught in a heat haze, but the Griffon's grip proves stronger than her field and he drags both away, sending the axe spinning into the grass.
Someone with more loyalty than sense among the vengeful host decides to 'save' their leader by lobbing a dart a marvellous distance using a device of a similar sort to one which I recall Tyelkormo toying with in happier days. Said dart misses, but comes near enough to the gathered hunters that a couple flinch away, and slingers among them begin to whirl their weapons.
If they loose, this is going to turn into a needless bloodbath.
Checking a last burst of speed, I practically dive on top of Gaumata and the headmare. Digging in my heels as I land, I raise my arms as much for balance as prohibition and unveil my fëa. "Hold! Hold!"
I may not match up to my father, but slings fall slack in talons as their wielders are amazed. On the other side, surprised Unicorns step back. As for the leaders, closest to hand, the two squint and raise appendages to shield their eyes while simultaneously trying to both figure out what just happened and watch one another.
Trying to draw full attention, I clap my hands above my head, dimming my fëa once more so as to be closer to a candle than a star. "Miere!"
This partially succeeds, and the headmare backs off so that she can use both eyes to glare at Gaumata and I. It may have been best to have hidden myself before their arrival, so as to appear more neutral. Hopefully that error is not beyond salvage.
Half-turning, I gesture some way behind me where Lēohtsāwend is just beginning to peak from behind a raised foreleg. "Lēohtsāwend!"
That gives the headmare pause, as she looks openly surprised and rattles something rapidly in her tongue.
Lēohtsāwend replies and nervously approaches, eyeing Gaumata and keeping me between herself and him.
"Gaumata?" I prompt.
After brief consideration, he nods and takes a few steps back.
To my surprise given the ferocity she has shown until now, when I look back I see tears welling in the older mare's eyes as she rushes forward and locks necks with Lēohtsāwend.
When they break apart, they converse, too rapidly for me to divine anything. Lēohtsāwend is pointing a lot. Of concern is that some of the headmare's anger seems to return, though Lēohtsāwend grows more urgent in response.
Eventually, the young mare makes the forehead gesture at me.
I comply and reach out to find her mind willing. '*No need fight.*'
She nods, then points at the headmare. "Mōdor." No clear words come to me, per se, but I get an impression of respect for her in a parental sense. Biological or adoptive is unclear. Either way, the headmare at this point sends her back to perceived safety.
Cautiously, given Lēohtsāwend's initial reaction to ósanwë, I contact 'Mōdor'. '*Why attack?*'
The headmare cocks her head thoughtfully. After a moment she responds. '*You unlike others.*'
'*You attack, you identify first.*' I insist.
She huffs. '*Wise Mother, daughter of Light Mother, who was Mother before.*'
'*I Maglor, son of Fëanáro, lord of the lights. From far away.*' I gesture at the wary mass behind me. '*Trade, friends. Why attack?*'
'*We from far too, where sun sets. Crossed ice young.*' Her thoughts grow turbulent with anger. '*Bird-beasts raided. Slew Mother, took many. We find murdered, eaten. Butchers! We flee north. Strong again. Raid bird-beasts.*'
'*When?*' I ask.
'*Sixteen years past.*' She replies. I sense no lie in any of this.
I turn to Gaumata. "The Mother claims you attacked and ate her kind sixteen years ago."
He shakes his head. "Never! These creatures are strange, but they think. We..." He pauses, then points at one of the hunters nearby. "Get Ariaramnes, now!"
The hunter does not need asking twice and dashes back into the encampment. He soon returns, tailed unhurriedly by an elderly Griffon.
"Good morning, Gaumata." Ariaramnes greets cheerfully, as though there were not a small army before him.
"In your travels, you never met any of these creatures before, correct?" Gaumata says, gesturing at the increasingly restless host.
The old cob squints, then shakes his head. "Never. Never heard of them, even."
"What about griffs who might eat speaking creatures like them?" Gaumata asks.
Ariaramnes cackles. "Marsh-griffs! Oh, they're complete savages, live below the southern end of the mountains. I had a run-in with them when I was working for the Badger clan oh... Seventy, eighty years ago? I've lost track. They think not plucking a stranger as soon as lay eyes on them is a high honour. The sted-dwellers in the area have a feud with them. The old gang riled them up to a raid just in time to save me and Orsabaris from the pot. Good times!"
Gaumata looks less cheery, but lifts his head respectfully. "Ariaramnes has been everywhere."
I nod and resume the contact, turning on a little of the diplomatic flattery. '*Apologies, noble Mother. Wise traveller knows marsh-griffs you feud. These not same. These hill-griffs.*'
'*Prove. Prove or fight! Where Frosty Touch, Cold Axe?*' Wise Mother demands.
Not knowing names, I present a memory of the sight of Pink.
She nods. '*Cold Axe. Where Frosty Touch?*'
I gesture uncertainly at Lēohtsāwend, who is lingering near the front of the host.
'*Not her.*' Wise Mother sends. I then get a mental image of a black coated Unicorn, tall and slender compared to the others.
'*No know. Ask Gaumata.*' I reply. Then I turn to the warrior again. "She wants to know what happened to one of her kind. Tall and black."
Gaumata points south toward the hills. "Killed in the fighting. We were not sure what to do, but since they speak, we buried it with its goods."
I translate that as best I can within the limits of ósanwë. '*Dead. They show. Show Cold Axe too.*'
Eventually, Gaumata is persuaded and, after leaving clear instructions to not let any approach the main encampment, leads the Mother with a couple of bargained escorts toward the guarded yurt.
Akakhménos seems to have expected this and meets us outside. Though wary of the Unicorns, none of the hunters on watch question Gaumata as he pushes past with them.
I stay outside and bring the druid up to date, and since no violent sounds emerge from the yurt, all seems to be well.
Wise Mother is looking less leery when she comes out, bringing Cold Axe with her. '*Show Frosty Touch.*'
I translate again, inserting appropriate politeness along the way. Akakhménos beckons the headmare to follow and we walk for an hour or so south along a faint trail. The bumpy ground eventually reveals an open field dotted with yet more bumps, these ones clearly artificial. Raised mounds of earth. At one end of the field is a neat line fronted by standing stones, but the majority are smaller and seem to have little order to them.
Akakhménos launches himself off the rise and glides down toward a fresher mound, the covering turfs of which have yet to fully settle.
"Here." He says once we catch up.
The headmare's horn flashes and she looks at the mound contemplatively for a moment, then she turns to me. '*Is her. Nothing was done?*'
Once the query is passed along, Akakhménos pulls a feather from his neck with a wince. Then drawing his flint knife, he pricks his palm, wipes the vane across it and proffers the feather to the Unicorn. "She was buried as she fell. May I be cursed if I lie."
Wise Mother takes the reddened feather in her frog as I translate, inspects it and nods. Once it is away in a pouch, her horn lights and she tears a black stone from her barding, lifts one of the turfs and places it beneath, muttering something in her tongue.
As she steps away, the two chosen warriors of the headmare plant their spears in the soil and canter around the mound, singing a slow lament I wish I could understand.
Our return is sombre, but the hostility has passed. Upon return to the encampment, a few words break the rusting tension and Wise Mother presents her notched axe to Akakhménos, who raises his head respectfully.
Then the headmare turns and walks away and all her host follow, fading into the trees. Last to linger is Lēohtsāwend and we exchange a smile before she too passes out of my life and the history of the north.
As has become the norm in the five years since my appearance in this place, the spring thaw brings work. The dawn hunt went so well yesterday that I found myself with time to spare in the afternoon to gather daub materials, for which the local wild boar obliged. The cottage is coming along nicely. The walls are up (if in need of livening inside) and this last panel will see my main attention turn to the roof. This year I plan to begin tilling the soil to grow some straw for good thatch, if the Griffons cannot come through. If they do, then planting some vegetables so I do not have to scavenge hither and yon cannot hurt.
Trading bronze tools for raw materials, food or simple labour when they pass by might not free up much time, but the arrangement does let me spend my working hours on things I prefer. Metalworking is not so bad as I recall, now I am working to my own ends rather than at the demand of Father, and once I find the right tree for it, I will certainly enjoy making a door for my abode.
In fact, since this seems likely to be my home for some time, I am considering planting one of my nuts as an experiment. Some will never germinate, but a few are intact. If I can get a mellyrn grove thriving, then I will be able to look forward to fine wood for craft and even finer drink for after.
More still, I hope to make a replacement for my harp, once I have suitable tools. It has been too long since I heard such sweet music and if my beloved old one were to be found, it would have turned up by now. One day, I should investigate how its loss came to be, though I suspect answers might not be forthcoming to an incarnate such as myself.
At the rumour of heavy wingbeats, I look up from the basket I sacrificed for daub mixing to see a familiar figure approaching.
Akakhménos lands nearby. "Hail, spirit! A fine new year to you!"
Raising an eyebrow, I move over to the nearby water to rinse off my hands. "The snows departed sooner for you than I then."
"Blessedly." The Griffon replies.
"I would have imagined every talon would be needed." I say.
"Two less talons, one less beak." Akakhménos says. "It is not so bad."
I stand, shaking my somewhat cleaner hands dry. "I meant your duties as druid."
"I thought it was a good chance to let Amytis test herself." He says, briefly inspecting the basket before leaving well alone. "Actually, it is in part why I have come to you. Lefkiourá died before he could pass everything on to me, which is why I took Amytis on early, but... I realise just how much I missed. The other druids at the moot know so much more than me, and I am sure she sees it too. It is bad for the clan and for her." Searching about, he settles on my proper cleaning station, set up on the island for my return. "Why does adding fat to ash make it better for cleaning, for example?"
"Saponification. Wet ash on the skin makes soap from any grease, but it burns. Better to make the soap and then apply it." I explain, recalling one of Father's brainwaves. "Plant fats and oils tend to be kindest to the skin."
"You see what I mean then, I did not know that when she asked!" Akakhménos says, a little pleadingly.
"You wish to learn from me then?" I ask.
He nods fervently. "What better teacher than a seelie spirit? Even half a cycle will help the clan, and you know we are good for our debts."
That, they certainly are. Possibly a little more than is strictly good for them, but I have not seen much of their dealings with other Griffons. The reputation Lefkiourá so unexpectedly saddled me with has coloured our relations ever since. That or Akakhménos is subtler than he looks, playing a game of obliging generosity in exchange for generosity. I do not mind either way.
"Be warned, I know more of stone and song than of herblore." I say.
"I can share that at the moot in exchange for other lessons, and I'm sure Amytis would love it!" He answers candidly.
"You are quite taken with her." I observe.
Akakhménos fidgets. "She is bright, and nice and well, you met her before winter. I like her."
"I know the feeling." I chuckle, though mirth is softened by a pang of longing. "Come then, let us impress the lass."
Picking up the basket, I lead the way toward the soon-to-be cottage and another of life's little adventures.