Paul Thompson - Alliances

The sun would set in a few hours. Above the eastern peaks, clouds billowed, dull purple below and roseate on their tops. Kerian wondered if they presaged rain. Her idle speculation was interrupted by a command from Porthios.

“I need griffon’s blood—one gill. Fresh, not drained from a carcass.” He thrust a clay cup at her.

She jerked the cup from his hand and went. As she walked away, a grin flashed over her face. Her lack of argument had so startled Porthios, he’d nearly dropped the cup.

A gill was only a quarter pint. No animal would die from losing that amount. After the nuisance Hytanthas had made of himself over it, she intended he should be the one to collect the blood.

She found him by the griffon corral. When he saw her approaching, he stood quickly. His three helpers, roused from their naps, slowly imitated him.

“It’s time,” said Kerian, holding out the clay cup. “Orexas needs a quarter pint of fresh griffon blood.”

He stared at the container. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He took the cup and drew his sword. Before she could stop him, he vaulted into the corral—not the section that contained the smallest, yearling griffon, but the portion in which resided only mature beasts. All the griffons were asleep, lying with heads tucked under their pinioned wings. The elves had hobbled both sets of their dangerous feet and tied their beaks closed with broad leather straps.

Kerian hissed at him to stop, but it was too late. At Hytanthas’s abrupt entrance, griffon heads rose in unison, and the creatures watched him with predatory eyes. Disdaining the rest, Hytanthas made straight for the eldest male Golden. The male snorted deep in its chest. The sound gave Hytanthas pause but only for a moment. He lifted his sword.

“This may hurt,” he advised the beast, “but it’s in a good cause.”

He leaned in, sword extended, intending to draw blood from the animal’s neck. The griffon had other ideas. Hobbled, pinioned, and muzzled, it nonetheless resisted, butting Hytanthas square in the chest with its massive head. The young elf went over backward and landed hard on the stony ground.

Kerian stood over him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Following orders,” he gasped.

She helped him sit up. Nothing seemed broken, so he stood carefully. They both regarded the proud griffon.

A vast bowl of purple-black clouds had formed over the range where the elves were camped. Around its lower edges, blue sky showed, but overhead the cloud mass appeared solid. It shimmered with lightning, but no thunder followed. A particularly bright flash reflected red in the big griffon’s eyes. Even Kerian was moved to prudence.

“Choose another,” she urged. “This one’s too strong.”

“He’s got an iron head too.” Hytanthas rubbed his ribs. “But he’ll bleed for me. Why shouldn’t the strongest in the herd bleed for the rest?”

He picked up his sword and circled the alert beast. It lay on its left side, heavy leonine haunches lashed together.

“Don’t worry, Ironhead,” Hytanthas said soothingly. “You’ll barely feel this.”

With a single overhand swing, he made a shallow cut through the fur and skin pulled tight over the beast’s thigh. Dark blood spurted. The griffon raised its beak skyward and screeched against its gag.

Hytanthas held the cup to the wound. Blood flowed fast into it. When it was brimming, he pulled it away. He called to his three helpers to tend the griffon’s wound, then he and the Lioness jogged away.

When they reached Porthios, he was standing at the edge of his sacred circle, stone bowl in hand, murmuring ancient words. Chathendor, acting as his assistant, stood at his side. Alhana was present but a few yards away. She’d donned a waterproof cape, expecting rain. Against the dark gray material of the hood, her face looked even paler than usual.

Hytanthas handed the cup to Porthios. “Don’t spill it,” he cautioned. “I’d hate to have to bleed that one again.”

Continuing his invocation, Porthios poured the blood into the stone bowl that contained the muddled flowers and wine. With a crudely formed pestle, he stirred the thick mixture.

Samar appeared in full regalia, down to spurs and a gilt-edged mantle. Behind him six warriors worked to guide a balky male griffon toward the circle. A smear of dried blood stained the animal’s leg.

“Come forth, the first pair to be bonded!”

Chathendor stepped aside to allow Samar to pass. The griffon smelled Hytanthas nearby and charged directly toward him, almost trampling Porthios in the process. To his credit, Porthios stood his ground. The warriors caught the griffon’s bonds and dragged him to a halt. The beast settled a bit, and the elves withdrew. Chathendor closed the circle again. Samar stood as near as he dared to the unruly griffon.

“In the name of E’li and Astarin, Matheri and Quenesti Pah, and by the grace of the Blue Phoenix, we join this warrior to this steed!” The words were punctuated by a fresh glare of silent lightning. Everyone but Porthios looked up. Even Ironhead lifted his beak to the startling display.

“Let it be done!”

Porthios put the bowl to Samar’s lips. Samar sipped, eyes clenched against the incredibly bitter taste of the potion. Then, as Porthios bade him, Samar turned and slit the griffon’s muzzle strap with his knife.

This was the most dangerous part of the rite. Griffons had been known to pluck the eye from a springing mountain lion. A slash of that cruel beak, and Samar would die.

Lightning flashed again. Ironhead screeched to the heavens. Seizing the opportunity, Porthios dipped a hand into the cup and flung droplets of potion into the gaping maw.

The beak snapped shut and the creature froze for an instant. Then he lunged for Porthios, ready to rend him limb from limb. Porthios darted backward, plainly shaken, and Chathendor quit the circle altogether.

“It didn’t work!” Kerian cried, giving voice to the anguish on every face.

“It must!” Porthios made a fist. “The ritual was flawless!”

Samar was backing away from Ironhead. In seconds the griffon would likely slice its bonds with its beak and wreak havoc on its tormentors, or fly away and be lost forever.

Porthios felt someone draw the stone bowl from his hand. Alhana stood so close, he could feel her breath against his mask as she whispered, “You are royal, husband, but… much changed. I prayed you would succeed. But I am a daughter of Speakers, and I know this ritual too. You must allow me to try.”

It was plain Porthios loathed the truth of her words, but he was indeed “much changed.” He relinquished the bowl.

“Do you remember my words?”

“I remember everything.”

Wind whipped over the plateau, tearing at Alhana’s cape. Lowering her head against the gust, she advanced to the circle’s edge. Samar and Chathendor both pleaded with her to keep back. Black hair swirling around her head like an onyx corona, Alhana commanded Samar to resume his place. He did so with alacrity.

Awkward on hobbled legs, but determined nonetheless; Ironhead came at Samar. Alhana commanded the griffon to halt. Its aquiline head turned, and the beast advanced on her instead.

Alhana tilted her face to the roiling clouds and repeated the pronouncement word for word.

Once again, lightning flared. Ironhead didn’t salute it with a cry. He hissed at the intrepid queen.

As had Porthios before her, Alhana dipped her fingers in the potion and flung droplets into the beast’s mouth. In the uncertain light, it was difficult to follow their flight, but the change in the griffon’s manner was abrupt and amazing. It ceased stalking Alhana, stood immobile for a handful of seconds, then bent its forelegs, lowering its head to the ground. The proud Golden griffon was bowing to the Queen of Silvanesti.