Mercedes Lackey - The Silver Gryphon

Skan ignored him as best he could, concentrating every fiber on getting a little more strength out of his wings. Drake was not doing well down there; the treacherous currents kept pulling him under, and each time he rose to the surface it took a little longer.

They were about halfway across when the sounds of battle erupted behind him; short screams and cries that echoed above the roaring river. He ignored those, too, as best he could.

His world narrowed to the face of his friend in the water below, the rope in his front talons, the pain of his laboring body, and the farther shore.

His lungs were on fire; his forelimbs ached with all the tortures of the damned from the strain of holding Drake and pulling him onward. His vision fogged with red, as it had only a few times in the past, when he had driven himself past his limits.

The bank was only a few lengths away—but he was out of energy, running out of strength, and just about out of endurance.

He wasn’t going to make it. He could drop the rope and save himself, or they would both be dragged under.

No! He was not going to surrender with the goal so close! Come on, gryphon. If he can do this, so can you. You’re a team, remember? He’s counting on you not to let him drown.

Think of what Winterhart would do to you if you did! Think of what Gesten would do!

Amberdrake has been with you all your life, gryphon, all your life. He’s had his hands in your guts and your blood in his hair, putting you back together from pieces. He didn‘t leave you then, he wouldn ‘t leave you.

From somewhere came another burst of strength, and with a cry that was half a scream of defiance and half a moan of agony, he drove himself at the bank.

He made it by mere talon-lengths, dropping down on it with all the grace of a shot duck, and landing half on the bank, half in the water. With a groan, he grabbed the rope in his beak and dragged himself and Drake, talon over talon, onto the bank and safety.

He wanted to just lie there, panting, but there were still four more people on the other side. Somehow he pulled himself up to a standing position on shaking legs, just as Drake got to his hands and knees, and both of them turned toward the far bank at the same time.

All they saw was torn foliage, the slashed end of the rope hanging off the tree Drake had tied it to, splashes of red that weren’t likely flowers—and the empty shore. They watched, panting and slumping down against each other until the fog closed in, leaving them staring at blank whiteness.

They were alone.

It could not be much longer before whatever it was that had attacked them found a way to cross, unless it took a long time—to eat.

For a moment, he felt stricken, numb, frozen with shock. But he had been in too many fights, and lost too many comrades, for this to paralyze him now.

Mourn later, find safety now!

Drake looked at him from beneath a mat of hair that had become a tangled, dripping mess, his clothing half torn from his body by the fight of last night, and a strange look of hope in his eyes. For one stark moment, Skan was afraid that he’d gone mad.

“Blade—” he began hoarsely, then coughed, huge racking coughs that brought up half a lungful of river water. Skan balled his talons into fists and pounded his back until he stopped coughing and waved Skan off.

“Blade—” he began again, his voice a ruin. He looked up and pointed north along the riverbank. “She’s that way. I can feel her. I swear it, Skan!”

With one accord, they dragged themselves to their feet and stumbled northward over the slippery rocks and wet clay of the bank below the cliff face. North—where their children must be.

Tad inspected the last of the traps with no real hope that he would find anything at this one that differed from all the rest. The first wyrsa they had killed had been the last; none of the traps worked a second time. In fact, the wyrsa seemed to take a fiendish delight in triggering the damned things and leaving them empty.

So far, they had not dared the last one, another rockfall that he or Blade could trigger from inside the cave. He suspected, though, that it was only a matter of time before they did. On the other hand, they would not be able to disarm it without triggering it, so perhaps they were all even.

As he had expected, this snare lay empty, too. He decided that the rope could be better used elsewhere, and salvaged it. It certainly would have been nice if this one had worked, though. His nerves were wearing thin, and he was afraid that the wyrsa might be able to drain mage-energy from him constantly now, since they were so close. He didn’t dare try shielding against them; shields were magical too, and they could surely be eaten like anything else magical.

When they had first found the cave, he had thought that the noise of the river and the waterfall would cover the sounds anything approaching made, but over the past few days he had discovered to his surprise that he had been wrong. To a limited extent, he had actually gotten used to the steady roaring, and was able to pick out other noises beyond it.

But the very last sound he had been expecting was the noise of someone — a two-legged someone — scrambling over the rocks at a speed designed to break his neck. And panting.

Especially not coming toward him.

Those were not wyrsa sounds, either, not unless the wyrsa had acquired a pair of hunting-boots and put them on!

He had barely time to register and recognize the sounds before the makers of the noise burst through the fog right in his face. He hadn’t heard the second one, because he had been flying, and his wingbeats had not carried over the sound of the falls. Tadrith looked up to find his vision filled with the fierce, glorious silhouette of the Black Gryphon.

“Father!” he, exclaimed, in mingled relief and shock. “Amberdrake — “

“No time!” Skandranon panted, as Amberdrake scrabbled right past him without pausing. “Run! We’re being chased!”

No need to ask what was chasing them. Skan landed heavily, then turned to stand at bay to guard Amberdrake’s retreat. Tad leaped up beside him, despite his handicap. Witjh two gryphons guarding the narrow trail, there wasn’t a chance in the world that the wyrsa would get past!

But they certainly tried.

The fog was as thick as curdled milk, and the wyrsa nothing more than shadows and slashing claws and fangs reaching for them through the curtain. But they couldn’t get more than two of their number up to face Skan and Tad at any one time, and without the whole pack able to attack together, their tactics were limited. They were fast, but Tad and Skan were retreating, step by careful step, and that generally got them out of range before a talon or a bite connected.

Step by step. And watch it. Slip, and you end up under those claws. Thank Urtho for giving us four legs. They retreated all the way to the shelf of rock in front of the cave, and that was where their own reinforcements stepped in.

“Duck!” came the familiar order, and this time when he and his father dropped to the ground, not only did rocks hurl over their heads, but a pair of daggers hummed past Tad’s ear like angry wasps. They both connected, too, and one was fatal. The wyrsa nearest the water got it in the throat, made a gurgle, and fell over, to be swept away by the rushing torrent. The second was lucky; he was only hit in the shoulder, but gave that familiar hiss-yelp, and vanished into the fog. Skan and Tad took advantage of the respite to turn their backs in turn and scramble into the cave itself.