Richard Byers - Prophet of the Dead

When the telthor had nearly plunged into striking distance, he gave a scream intended to petrify his prey. Jet, however, took the shriek as his cue to raise one wing, dip the other, and, with the agility Aoth’s prenatal enchantments and a lifetime of aerial combat had produced, dodge out from underneath the gold’s talons.

The gold plummeted through the space he’d just vacated, and now Jet was the one who held the high air and had his talons positioned to stab and seize. He furled his wings and dived after his foe.

The griffon chieftain zigzagged, trying to evade. Steadily closing the distance, Jet compensated as necessary and reached to catch the muscles bunching between the gold’s wings.

An instant before Jet’s talons could strike home, the telthor dodged a final time. Instead of plunging down on his foe’s back, Jet caught the middle of his right wing. Well, that ought to be good enough.

Jet’s aquiline claws clenched in flesh. He raked with his leonine hind legs and lowered his beak to bite. Then the pinion to which he clung lashed with startling violence and flung him off.

Jet snapped his own wings in an effort to close and grab hold once more. But he was too eager, lunging before he’d quite recovered full control of his body. Jet couldn’t dodge when, flinging blood, his foe’s faintly striped golden wing flapped and struck the side of his head.

The blow slapped Jet sideways and stunned him for an instant, and when he looked for the gold, the creature was no longer in front of him. He cast around and located his opponent just as the telthor swooped in from the right.

The gold’s talons stabbed into Jet’s back, then, one foot at a time, released and grabbed anew as he shifted his orientation. The telthor likely wanted to align himself in such a way that he could snap his beak shut on his opponent’s neck.

Jet lashed his wings, tucked his beak down against his chest, and flipped himself and the gold upside down. They tumbled earthward like a stone.

Probably still trying to bring his beak to bear, the griffon chieftain clung to Jet for a moment longer. Then, however, he sprang away to keep himself from slamming to the ground along with his foe.

Jet wrenched his body into the proper attitude for flight, resumed beating his wings, and pulled out of his fall. But in the process, he once again lost track of the gold.

Instinct screamed that he should veer to the right. He did, and, talons outstretched, the telthor hurtled past him.

Jet raced after the gold, and now it was the griffon king’s turn to dodge back and forth. Jet managed to claw the end of a wing anyway, and then the gold spun away from him.

The telthor started to climb away from the wide-eyed, upturned faces of Cera, Jhesrhi, Vandar, Yhelbruna, and the other humans standing in the snow. Jet climbed with him, and, as they spiraled around one another, peered to see how much harm he’d inflicted.

Lots. An ordinary griffon might not even be able to fly with wings so torn and bloody.

Whereas Jet was in better shape. The gold had torn up his back, but the initial strike hadn’t had the momentum of a long dive behind it, and in the moments thereafter, his adversary had been more interested in turning around to use his beak than continuing to rip with his claws.

I’m winning, Jet concluded. I’m stronger and faster than a stinking telthor, and I’m tearing him to shreds. The realization filled him with exultation.

But the gold wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Blue eyes blazing, he screamed his rage.

And that, Jet decided when his surge of savage satisfaction subsided, was unfortunate. He’d kill the gold if necessary, but he didn’t actually want to. Should he survive, the telthor would be one more attacker to send against the undead, and besides, Jet respected his ferocity.

Still, even wounded, the king griffon was so formidable that if Jet didn’t simply strive for the kill, he could still lose the fight and his own life with it. He tried to think of a tactic that would serve his need and resisted the temptation to consult with Aoth. His master was watching the combat unfold through his eyes and would surely help in any way he could. But Jet had resolved that he’d fight this fight alone.

At first, no idea came to him, and as the telthor circled to attack, he resigned himself to ending the stubborn creature’s life. Then, however, a notion popped into his head.

He flew at the oncoming gold, then abruptly lashed his left wing less vigorously than the right, as though the wounds on his back were hindering him. The uneven beats turned his progress into an awkward wobble.

Eager to take advantage of his seeming distress, the gold drove at him even faster. At the last possible instant, Jet swooped beneath his foe’s gaping beak and outstretched talons with what he hoped sounded like a rasp of tortured effort.

He kept right on swooping too, as if he no longer cared about anything but fleeing. The telthor wheeled and plunged after him.

The color of the sky danced from azure to iris and back again. The prickling in the air turned to fiery stinging where it jabbed into Jet’s open wounds. But he didn’t care because, behind him, the gold shrieked in agony when, forgetful of everything but the desire to pursue his adversary, he plunged into Yhelbruna’s zone of forbiddance.

Jet wheeled. The king griffon was doing the same, but more slowly. Bigger than his foe, he had more momentum to contend with, and the ongoing torment inflicted by Yhelbruna’s magic made him flounder.

But he’d still get clear in a few breaths unless Jet prevented it. Lashing his wings as fast as ever in his life, he gained just enough altitude to plunge onto the gold’s back. There, he bit down hard enough to penetrate the feathers on his foe’s neck and draw blood from the hide beneath.

The gold’s wings buffeted Jet’s flanks, and the rest of his body thrashed and flailed. But with hathran magic assailing him, he couldn’t dislodge his adversary.

Jet bit down harder, and then he could taste blood as well as smell it. I’ll take your head if you force me to, he thought. I’m done playing with you.

The gold gave a different cry than before, this one mournful and resigned. It was surrender, but Jet watched him anyway as he let go and sprang away to make it easier for both of them to fly. Normal griffons didn’t lie, but he couldn’t be sure about a telthor.

But evidently neither the Earthmother, the Forest Queen, nor the Moonmaiden had gifted the gold with that particular human propensity because he labored clear of the punishing magic and then swooped earthward as he was supposed to. All the common griffons descended too, to submit to their new chieftain.

Licking blood from the edges of his beak, Jet wondered how he was going to convey the relatively complex commands he’d have to give them in the battle to come. He assured himself he’d manage somehow. For the first time in a while, he felt certain of his ability to accomplish anything he set his mind to.

The wild griffons were the first to spot Aoth and Jet winging in from the south. Still seemingly exhilarated by their liberation from the hathrans’ cage, they screeched, swooped, wheeled, and flew along beside them. Aoth wondered if it perplexed them that their new leader carried a human on his back.

Their commotion alerted the folk down on the ground, where the Storm of Vengeance sat and gleaming golems stood motionless in the snow. Aoth’s lieutenants-for so he chose to consider them, whatever opinions any of them might hold on the matter-assembled to hear what he had to report. Cera’s pretty, round face beamed up at him; Orgurth gave him a grin; and Jhesrhi offered what he’d come to think of as her frown of welcome. Bez wore a crooked, ironic smile; and Vandar, who stood well removed from the Halruaan, a scowl; while Yhelbruna and Shaugar’s masks hid their expressions.