//------------------------------//
// Ⅴ - Her Father's City 
// Story: The Tale of the Hippogriff 
// by OleGrayMane 
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With a gasp, Celia leapt up, wholly awake, and clambered backwards.
The griffon, unperturbed, scarcely budged.
Since he made no move, she sought to appraise him. Older, he still possessed a lean and muscular frame—beneath a coat of many scars. A toe was missing at the first joint on his left foot, and where his right eye should have been only a void remained, the lids sewn shut with no more consideration than one might give to a torn sack. Strapped across his chest was a creased leather harness. Affixed to it was a battered scabbard which held a sword positioned for swift retrieval.
A brigand, thought Celia and retreated a half-step back in preparation to flee.
“Ho, fledgling,” he cried out. He cocked his head and, with his solitary eye, inspected Celia’s possessions now strewn among the rocks.
Behind him and in the distance, Celia heard a noise and picked out a pair of griffons perched atop the broken remains of a distant slide. The morning light glinted off their helms and the points of the long spears they shouldered.
The griffon threw an intimidating glare at her. “Have you weapons?” he growled.
“What?”
“I want to know if you have any weapons,” he restated harshly.
“No,” Celia’s voice wobbled. “Nothing.”
A grunt followed a quick nod, and then he bellowed, “Hie to the city with word!”
Celia spun around and discovered to whom he had called. Another two floated behind her; they brandished their spears. One screeched an acknowledgement, and as commanded, both shot off. Turned around again, Celia looked at the griffon. He faced her with a grim stare. Had she fled, as she thought to do, might he have pursued? And what of those waiting with their weapons at the ready? Icy dread fell upon her, setting her ashiver. But for an instant’s delay, her life might have been forfeit.
“Now,” the griffon commanded, “gather your things, fledgling—but with care. And no delays.”
For the briefest moment, Celia hesitated and then began rounding up her belongings. While she did, she fretfully watched his movements from the corner of her eye.
He raised a foreleg. It inched towards his weapon.
Celia froze.
With his grip on the hilt, he slid the sheathed sword with a calculated slowness along the crisscrossed belts of his harness until it rested along his side.
“Come, come,” he chortled while giving the scabbard a pat. “For certain, ’tis a dangerous place we’re in, but you’ve naught to fear from me—as long as you follow directions. We’ve no time for dallying this day, for there’s much flying to do and—” He paused and turned towards those on the rocks before resoundingly adding, “It’ll take forever with one so slow as you.”
Squawks of laughter echoed in Celia’s ears. She resumed packing, sneaking hurried looks at her captor when she found the nerve. His looks, his manner, all about him was terrifying, but in due time, her anxiety was subdued by a swallow, and she dared ask, “Who… Who are—”
“What does it matter?” he snapped and, for a second or two, glared. Then he sighed. “Soldiers. Nothing more.” A moment afterwards, his eye narrowed and harshness returned to his voice. “Keep that in mind and obey the commands you’re given.”
Only her faded blanket remained unpacked.
As he waited, the griffon repeatedly clacked the sword’s scabbard until, following an exaggerated exhalation, he twisted around and shouted, “Hurry. I’ll be late for supper at this rate.” Again, his amused companions voiced approval.
With packing complete, Celia slipped the pouch over her neck and slung the bedroll over her shoulder.
“Finished?”
Along with a nod, she uttered a quaking “Yes.” The soldier approached, and Celia’s breaths came swift and shallow. He peered at the knot binding the blanket. After a disapproving shake of the head, he set about revising her work, remaining unsatisfied until entirely redoing her knotcraft. A tug for confirmation, and then he grunted his satisfaction.
“Good,” said he, milder than before. “You are to follow me. Stay close and on course. And supposing you don’t? Well, the two behind me have instructions to use their oversized pins to give aid. Understand?”
She struggled to answer, but discovered her tongue unwilling.
The fierce-looking soldier chuckled as he backed away and, without further words, vaulted into the sky.
Celia followed as he rushed towards the pair on the rocks, both now airborne. The spear bearers fell into formation as she passed, yet, minding the warning, she dared not turn to discover how near or far they trailed.
The soldier climbed to a great height, leveled off, and then accelerated. All too quick, the truth in his taunt became apparent.
Over her journey, Celia thought she had become a master flier, but keeping up with the one-eyed soldier was nigh hopeless. He flew with unparalleled efficiency, each movement incisive and precise. Compared to him, she no longer felt like a bird soaring the skies, but a fish thrashing upon the shore.
The day wore on as they sped along, twisting and turning through the convolutions of those northern mountains. Fatigue magnified Celia’s concerns, not once did she have the opportunity to glimpse those behind her. Was the soldier’s threat real? Should she stray or fall behind, would they use their weapons?
Ever onward the indefatigable griffon led the band, ascending peaks with ease, tearing through windswept valleys, swooping perilously alongside crags. As they did, a remarkable sensation swept over Celia. Did she not recall visiting these places days before? Moving at such breakneck speed allowed no opportunity to confirm her suspicions. Then she began to wonder if they had not circled back, covering the same ground twice and, mayhap thrice. How could that be? Still, everything appeared familiar. In time, it mattered not that every peak and valley looked identical, nor that the sun blurred her vision, nor how far or long they had flown. Exhaustion set in. Concentrating on matching the leader’s pace became her exclusive goal, and soon she failed at that, for after another uncounted turn, the gap separating them began to increase.
After weaving through a group of jagged spires, the soldier miraculously trimmed his speed. Between those gray towers burst forth a valley blanketed by a vast pine forest and filled with glittering streams. In its midst, Celia caught sight of a towering mesa, no natural occurrence, for it was hewn from the mountains themselves. And atop it rose a city fashioned from white stone, gleaming in the afternoon light.
With their destination near, the one-eyed soldier adopted an unhurried pace, leading the group in a slow glide over the treetops.
The city was Celia’s dream come true, even though the scene bore scant resemblance to the fantasies constructed on so many wishful nights. This did not matter to her, for the city was no longer solely words in a story, but factual, a reality before her eyes! Even from a distance the city’s scale was evident. Why, she thought, could it not hold the village ten times over—or more? Little of the place itself was discernible above its imposing walls, no more than the tops of a great number of towers, each crowned with a parti-colored pennant fluttering atop a flagstaff. This sight alone convinced Celia she had arrived at a place of ineffable beauty, unquestionably the home of her father. Fatigue soon muted this excitement.
From treetop height, the city towered above her, itself a mountain. At a point where it dominated the view, the soldier executed a crisp maneuver, banking into a steep climb. Celia’s aching muscles rebelled against this sudden change. Within moments they ascended the butte and skimmed along the city walls. Close up, it grew plain to her the stones of the walls were not pure white as she once envisioned, but a soft gray. This, Celia reasoned, was a fitting color for stone, but what she could not explain was the considerable damage the walls bore. Blocks were brutally cleft. Deep pockmarks abounded. And while bright patches of repair speckled the walls, the task remained unfinished.
A brief glimpse of structures within was all Celia managed as they cleared the wall’s top, for without delay, the soldier steered her towards the battlements. Exhaustion overcame her on landing, and she crumpled, just managing to haul herself the short distance to the outer wall where she slumped against the cool stones.
Her captor, hovering above, shook his head.
Celia did not notice, for with bowed head and shut eyes, she drifted in a private darkness, momentarily dipping into sleep until a metallic din disturbed her. She shifted, head lolling, and reluctantly opened her eyes, at last seeing the two who had followed her. Their helmets were off and lay in disarray upon a merlon, their placement the apparent source of the disrupting clangs. Of the two spear bearers, the shorter and younger looking one held their weapons and was stowing them in a wooden rack which already contained many spears of uniform length. Next, he gathered the helmets, which he hung nearby from wooden pegs embedded in joints between the stones. With no more tasks, he joined the other who trailed. She was tall, with a gray coat much darker than Celia’s. Presently both relaxed, smoothing out their long-confined feathers. Neither appeared much older than she, two or three summers at most, Celia judged.
A simultaneous clunk and wet plop turned her head. The soldier stood beside a water bucket, offering her a filled metal cup. Celia wasted no time emptying it, and still parched, she scooted next to the pail and got more. A third cup went down, and she gasped for air as she looked at the gawking griffons. Too weary to care what they thought, she continued drinking.
The somber moan of a horn emanated from the city’s core, and the griffons, as a group, turned towards it when the signal sounded a second time.
“Council, Captain?” asked the shorter of the spear bearers.
“Aye, ’tis. Second call, as well,” answered the one-eyed captain. “As I suspected, today’s catch piques the prince’s curiosity.” He rose and went to Celia and loomed over her. “Can you fly?”
Still puffing, she sat and glared down.
“It is but a short glide. We’ll carry you if need be.”
“I can fly.” Celia struggled to rise.
“No. In due time. Rest now.” Finished with her for the moment, he returned to the others and addressed the tall girl. “Rana, you and Darrow inform them we’ll arrive soon. Afterwards, report to the garrison and find something to eat. I won’t need you.” Glancing backwards he remarked, “She’s too tired to give trouble.”
“Yes, Captain,” the one called Rana replied. She and her companion prepared to leave, but the captain stopped them.
“Keep in mind they won’t let us stay long. That is for certain. Therefore, we must make the best of our time,” he instructed. “First, don’t mistake this for leave. Tell the others that and remind them I’ll be standing by on the practice field before sun up. Oh, and I’ll tolerate no drinking tonight either. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.” Rana and the other spread their wings and hopped over the innermost wall, disappearing into the city.
The captain strode over to Celia.
Having drunk her fill, she had let the cup sink to the bucket’s bottom, and now stared silently at it resting beneath the water. It proved a useful aid in ignoring the captain’s presence. What a monster, she thought, a heartless monster who had not allowed a moment’s rest to her—or the others—and only now brought water. Celia supposed he expected thanks, but refused to look at him. With his scarred body and missing eye, she deemed him the ugliest and meanest creature she’d ever known.
“Stand,” he stated, only to add a moment later, “Please.”
Out of spite, Celia waited as long as she dared before rising, and still unsteady, she slouched on the wall for support.
The captain gripped her shoulders and roughly straightened her. To begin with, he removed the old faded bedroll. “You won’t require this,” he declared and laid it aside. Celia offered no comment or protest, but when he reached for the pouch hanging from her neck, she clasped it to her chest.
“Easy now,” he said. “Keep it. I’m no thief.” And he backed away and sat, watching her closely.
For all the days she could remember, Celia thought the village ponies cruel and wicked, and despised them as much as Mother would allow. Now, the first griffon she had ever met she loathed more than any pony. Everything was wrong! This was not how she had imagined it at all. Was she not supposed to be welcomed by her griffon kin, reunited with her father so everyone would rejoice? No. Instead, she was an abused and exhausted captive of what decidedly must be the ugliest of griffons. Yet, like him or not, he was the only one who remained.
“What is to become of me?” Celia’s voice wavered.
“I do not know. But Warrik’s called council. He’s the one who’ll determine what’s to be done.”
“Who is Warrik?”
“Prince Warrik, our sovereign lord. He governs all matters.” Three melancholy notes sounded from within the city. At this, the captain rose and extended his back legs one at a time, stretching. He gave his neck a swift twist and said “And it’s time for us to go to him.”


—❦—


Celia flew beside rather than behind the one-eyed captain as they sailed over the city. He appeared not to care. Given at last a proper view, she understood the tall towers now, for this was not one city, but a city of cities. Groups of buildings encircled a tower of their own which flew a many-colored emblem. Walls separated groups one from another, although none rivaled the height of the city’s outer walls. Between the enclaves, paved roads snaked along, leading to numerous one and two story constructs not enclosed by walls. Poking from their entrances were awnings with stripes and simple patterns, resulting in a gaily colored patchwork.
As they drew near the city’s heart, the ways widened, and here, at last, green dominated gray, with trees forming long borders and lush grass covering the open spaces. While fewer in number, the buildings were on a grander scale. The griffon captain made towards the greatest of these, a stately construct upon a hill, white colonnades supporting its shallow-angled roof. And although surrounded by a wide stone plaza, curiously, no roads led there.
The captain’s destination was the great hall of the council.
Upon landing on the plaza, Celia gazed back in the direction whence they’d flown and took in the lay of the city.
The captain allowed her a few seconds before tapping her with his wing. “Let’s go. Mustn’t keep him waiting, you know.”
So she followed, passing between the fluted columns which formed the building’s portico, a wide space lit by low afternoon sunlight; It fell golden upon the stone walls encasing the council chamber. Along three sides narrow openings ran, stretching very nearly to the top, glassed in subtle hues. Bronze doors, two stories high, provided entrance to the inner chamber, and to these the captain led her.
Designs resembling clouds borne on swift winds decorated these doors, but it was the great ornate rings which served as their handles which left Celia thinking a giant dwelt within.
Flanking the doors were two armored guards, quite impassive, their vacant stares fixed on an imaginary horizon. So bereft of movement they were, Celia found the pair eerie.
The captain and Celia stood directly in front of them, yet were ignored. But when the captain removed his sword and presented it, the one on the left came to life, ceremoniously receiving the weapon and stowing it off to the side. With his duty concluded, he resumed his station, once again a statue-like sentinel.
“Now,” the captain instructed, “when we go inside, I want you to walk beside me, but a half step back—no more, no less. Always match my pace. We don’t have far to go, but I want you to hold your head level and keep your eyes forward. We’ll get to the front and stop a respectful distance from the prince. When I bow, you do likewise. Understand?”
How one might determine a distance respectful, Celia did not know, but responded, “I think so.”
“Good,” he said. He reached out to smooth an errant feather on her crest. “Take heart, fledgling. Warrik’s a brusque sort, always has been, but I’ve never known him to be unjust. All he demands is honest answers to his questions. Speak the truth, and I promise no harm will come to you.”
The light pat on the shoulder did little to change Celia’s opinion of the captain.
“All right,” he declared with mock enthusiasm. “Time to go.” Thereupon, he faced the doors and indicated readiness to the guards.
Both sprang up, and each seized a massive ring and heaved. The well balanced doors parted with a fluid motion, emitting a delicate rush of air. Fully open, they revealed a cavernous gallery suffused with muted light, and inside it, griffons of all proportions and coloration and ages lined a carpeted pathway. A multitude of voices stilled.
The captain strode in and was two paces in the lead before Celia’s head cleared and she was able to follow. Her heart leapt at the sight, and despite instructions, her eyes roamed, flitting from one side to the other. So many! More griffons than she could count, and every one ornamented with gold.
Tiaras, necklaces, brooches, and bracelets: all gave off a ruddy glow. Moreover, these embellishments served as the setting for an abundance of lustrous jewels. Graceful lady griffons, with such long lashes, wore iridescent gems deftly attached to feathers, glittering like stars on a winter’s night. Elder ladies were less ostentatious; sparkling brooches secured richly colored scarves draped about their necks. All members of the court were likewise adorned, bedecked with bracelets of gold, jeweled rings, or necklaces as was their wont.
An upward glance revealed platforms above the narrow windows where more griffons lurked in shadow, but among them too, Celia caught the glint of gold.
The whole city must be present, she was convinced. With so many, her father might be among them, somewhere, and lightning-like anticipation struck her.
As Celia and the captain passed by, voices burbled behind them, lively and inquisitive, and although the words were indistinct, she knew she was the subject. When they reached the prince, all those voices became hushed and rapidly died out.
Prince Warrik, sovereign of the city, sat upon a dais, a foreleg atop a rest of polished stone, talons gripping its end. Unlike the other griffons, he wore but a single item of finery, a golden circlet, narrow, lacking jewels of any sort.
Assembled aside him, but not on the platform, were eleven solemn griffons, each one advanced in years. Draped around their necks were golden chains, heavy, fabricated from elaborately carved links, the frontmost containing a large, solitary gem whose form and color was as individual as the wearer.
But it was the prince that Celia inspected closely. This Warrik, she though, was not so princely, at least as far as she had imagined. Mother’s tales portrayed princes without fail as tall and strong, handsome and brave. This one looked neither brave nor handsome and, from what she could see, was assuredly neither strong nor tall. As a matter of fact, he looked much like any other griffon, and a tad thickset at that.
A length or two from the dais, the griffon captain halted and bowed. When he realized Celia’s failure to abide by his instructions, he gave her side a discreet, reminding tap with his wing. The bow she presented to the prince was hurried and awkward, but it was her first.
“Greetings, Captain Murron,” proclaimed Prince Warrik loud enough for all to hear. “What an extraordinary pleasure that you grace us with your gruesome visage once more.”
Murron rose as the prince finished and rejoined, “My liege, I am pleased to find you filled with such excellent health. Your campaign against the royal kitchens must be progressing splendidly, no? Drawn up the articles of the chefs’ surrender yet?”
Aghast, Celia stood wide eyed, for the sport in which they engaged was foreign to her.
A hearty guffaw emanated from Warrik’s chest, reverberating throughout. “Crafty opponents, the lot of them, but I shall not be bested. Ha, ha! Your single eye discerns the truth better that ten equipped with two. Have I not always said so?” Then, after a slight interval, he bent forward and wistfully asked, “Have I declined so?”
“Nothing a year afield could not undo, Your Majesty.”
“Bah! And through what act of wizardry might I accomplish that? This lot”—and he motioned towards those arrayed about him—“will forever keep me here, a caged nightingale whistling for their amusement, growing ever plumper. Simple fare shared around a campfire would serve me well, would it not? Ah, ’twere it possible.”
“A great shame,” said Murron, “for we would be pleased to have you join us again. Amongst those old enough to remember, you are much missed.”
Warrik nodded, and when he spoke, his tone was earnest. “I was proud to sup with those who served my father. Tell them I will forever remember, and it is my fervent hope to someday rejoin them.”
The captain briefly bowed, and, confused by what had transpired, Celia bowed too, showing no improvement from her first.
“We will have your report now, Captain.” Warrik’s voice resonated throughout the great hall.
“Yes, sire. Our tracking began when this one first entered the mountains. We keep distant and only observed, for she was alone and, for all appearances, not a threat. Initially, she gave the impression she was bound for the city, so I tasked my charges with the course of action. A practical test of their training.”
“Yes. Well thought,” interjected the prince. “As always.”
“Observation was the prudent course upon which they decided, planning to intercept should she come within sight of the walls. Then, after a few days of moving through the southwest valleys, she became lost and confused, drifting farther west each day. A ruse, I thought at first. Perhaps she reconnoitered, but for whom and to what purpose I could not fathom, for her wanderings appeared random.”
Celia wanted to explain what he called wanderings, but realized interrupting might bring his ire—or the prince’s.
“Only one might seek to scrutinize our defenses, but despite her unusual nature, I doubt she is in the employ of our friends.”
A guttural sound of amusement came from the prince.
“By my estimation, in another day or two she’d have crossed the western border and met them, a fate I wish upon no one.”
Warrik leaned forward, grunting as he did so. “Agreed.”
“A great storm came from the north yesterday, grounding us, an opportunity for the taking. So last night, I decided we’d observe no longer. At sunrise, she was easily apprehended. No resistance.”
“Yes,” murmured the prince. “We were informed of these happening earlier.” One after another, his talons drummed upon the rest.
“Sire, I do offer a sincere apology for taking so long to return. We were forced to travel slowly, for she is a weak flyer.”
Weak? How dare he! Celia knew she flew perfectly fine, just… just not so fast. Riled by this remark, her resentment towards the captain grew greater.
“I see,” said Warrik and sighed. During the ensuing pause his tail thumped the floor. “And?”
“She holds promise. Conceivably with time and training—”
“And?” the prince repeated insistently.
Murron cocked his head toward Celia. Through narrowed eyes, she hurled a spiteful glare.
Unperturbed, Captain Murron concluded, “And so we are here. Nothing else is left to report, sire.”
Silence. A sudden, ponderous silence descended, the type that is conspicuous by presence more than absence, one given birth by profound uncertainty. In this heavy stillness, Celia knew all the griffon’s eyes were upon her: those that stood to her right and left, those who lurked in darkness above. And seated before her, Prince Warrik watched with all the compassion a raven gives its meal.
The prince cleared his throat. “Thank you, Captain.” He shifted position, sitting taller, appearing more attentive. “You are dismissed.”
Once again, Murron bowed. Upon rising, he turned, but hesitated before leaving. He sought to draw Celia’s attention with a movement of his head, not wholly a nod and in reverse.
The act left her mystified.
His signal lost, he breathed a sigh, then he left.
Now, amongst so many, Celia was alone.
“Well, fledgling…” Prince Warrik paused and inclined his head. “What manner of creature are you?”