Dave Gross - Lord of Stormweather

The lead rider and his first two wingmen escaped the explosion, and the two in the rear veered away in time, but the four griffons between them screamed as they emerged from the sudden fire. Their wings trailed smoke as they bore their scorched riders up and away from the skwalos.

Cale noted with a little disappointment that none of the men had fallen from their mounts. Either they were bound to their saddles, or they were very elite indeed.

The leader and his first two wingmen kept low, the bowmen picking out targets of opportunity while the lancers sought out elf archers. Arrows struck at them from every shelter among the brush, and a pair sprouted from the flank of one of the griffons, one to either side of the lancer's thigh. The creature screamed its anger, but it remained in formation.

Shamur shot at the lead lancer, a captain judging by the long orange plume on his helmet. The arrow missed him by feet, but his bowman spotted the attack and pointed to Shamur. The captain shouted a command and steered his griffon toward the strange humans among their elf foes. His wingmen followed in tight formation.

"Ready," called Shamur.

Cale disliked her plan, but to abandon it would only endanger her further. He raised his long spear as if to throw it, while she crouched beside him and aimed another arrow at the rider to the captain's left.

The lance came speeding toward Cale's heart. Just before it reached him, he thrust the butt of the spear against the "deck" and braced it with his foot. The griffon-rider pulled back on the reins but kept the point of his lance steady. Cale deflected it to the left and ducked low to avoid the griffon's talons. At his right, Shamur dropped her bow and leaped at the griffon. She grabbed its harness and clung tight to the creature's feline body as the attackers swept past.

"Shamur!" cried Cale.

This was not the plan she had described.

Cale raised his spear to hurl it at the back of one of the other riders, but before he could throw it a powerful blow sent him tumbling to the deck. A griffon screamed triumphantly as its shadow passed over him, and a bright ringing filled his head as he turned the fall into a roll.

Back on his feet, Cale cupped the back of his head to feel the deep talon wound. His hand came back smothered in blood. A wave of vertigo rose in his skull, and he fended it off by sheer force of will.

He crouched and looked high for the griffon on which Shamur had pounced. The attackers' once-regular chevron formation had scattered in disarray, but it still wasn't hard to spot the flyer with Shamur attached. That one tumbled in its own exceptional sphere of chaos.

The bowman had already fallen from his high saddle. Tymora smiled on him, for he landed upon the surface of the skwalos and rose stunned but alive. Beshaba took her turn with him next, though, and a cloud of elven arrows descended on the dazed man. He fell again, and this time he did not rise.

Up on the griffon, Shamur and the captain struggled for control of the reins. The man was almost twice Shamur's size, but she had thrust his helmet forward and held it there with her left hand, covering his eyes as she unbuckled his sword belt and slung it over her shoulder in a motion worthy of a prestidigitator. Rather than draw the blade, however, she unfastened leather straps that secured him to the saddle. She released her grip on the captain's helm and grabbed the reins in both hands as she rose up to stand on the griffon's back. The man pushed back his helmet just in time to see her leap up and kick him with both feet. Shamur fell to the side, holding desperately to the reins as her weight pulled the griffon's head down. The captain plummeted from his seat.

He did not land on the skwalos.

Cale ran back to his bow and nocked an arrow, looking for any target that threatened Shamur as she struggled to regain the saddle. He wasn't well practiced with the weapon, but he could at least serve as a distraction. If he could get his hands on a blade, and the attackers landed on the skwalos…

Cale sprinted to where the bowman had fallen, for the man had been wearing a short sword at his hip. Cale's vision faltered, and his legs wobbled beneath him. He'd lost more blood than he'd realized, and he knew he must tend the wound on his scalp. He found shelter beside a thicket. Kneeling there, he glanced up to see whether or not he had attracted the attention of the remaining griffon-riders.

The surviving bowmen concentrated their fire on the elf archers aboard the skwalos, while their lieutenant rallied them back into formation. Before they'd regrouped, two of the burned griffons had already turned back, and a third fell to elf fire.

A flash of blue light overcame even the bright sunlight. Cale blinked away the temporary blindness and saw Akil levitating above the smoldering ruins of his tent. The old elf cackled with glee as he flicked his fingers for a second time and sang out a staccato phrase, scoring a black line across one of the attackers and sending his helmet flying. The man lolled insensate in his saddle as his bowman reached forward in a panic, trying to catch the reins.

"Stop wasting your strength, old fool," called Rukiya. Cale could hear her with perfect clarity, even though she hadn't raised her voice. "You tell them too much! This is only a probe of our defenses."

"She is right, my husband," called Kamaria, Her voice was similarly enchanted. "Save your strength for the Sorcerer. Look, the enemy is repelled."

Cale donned his black cloth mask and said the prayer of healing. He'd performed the ritual often enough that he found the cool trickles of divine power a familiar sensation as they surged through his arms to his fingers. He pressed them against his injured head and felt the tingling sensation of healing flow into his skin, through his veins, and down to the bone. In moments, he felt only a faint line where the open wound had been.

Cale shook his head to dispel his dizziness. Evoking divine power was at once draining and exhilarating, not unlike a vigorous fight. He liked the feeling.

Cale put away his ceremonial mask and located the fallen bowman, or what was left of him. It appeared that every elf on the skwalos had put an arrow through his body. Cale took his sword belt and secured it to his own waist.

He looked up to see the last five griffons retreating, while one flew back toward the skwalos. Shamur sat confidently in the front saddle, grinning like a child on her first horseback ride. She guided the griffon toward a spot near Cale. The creature landed with feline grace, apparently undisturbed by the exchange of its rider.

"Let's go before our hosts decide to stop us," said Shamur.

Cale glanced back at the three old elves hovering above their sparsely defended home. None of them looked in his direction, and Cale knew they were purposefully ignoring their guests. They were giving them their chance to leave, thus sealing their agreement.

Cale hesitated before mounting the griffon. The thing was the size of a grand carriage, and he couldn't see how to climb onto its back.

"The other side," said Shamur.

Cale walked around the enormous beast to find a sort of leather ladder built into the griffon's harness. It trailed down from the saddle, between the creature's wing and flank. At Cale's touch, the griffon raised its wing in a well-trained gesture allowing him access.

Cale passed his bow up to Shamur and clambered into the seat behind her. Even before he could secure the straps to his waist and thighs, she slapped the reins and clucked. The griffon responded like an old, familiar mount. It leaped into the sky once more, its beating wings deafening both its passengers as it rose up from the skwalos. When it flew above the clouds, the griffon spread its great wings and glided southward.