Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

He looked hard at her. “What battle?”

“The Netherworld is at war.” She looked into his broad, avian face. “Siddonie of Affandar has gone to war to conquer all the Netherworld.”

He looked hard at her. “You come here alone.”

“Yes.”

“You would go alone to fight her? And how would you stop her?”

“I would stop her with truth. She wins with lies, with deception, but the Amulet can destroy lies.”

“You have only the Amulet with which to defeat her?”

“And a sword. And—and your power, if you would carry me.”

“And what would I gain by doing that?”

“Siddonie caged you. She took you from your forests. If you help me defeat her, you will fly free again.”

The Griffon shifted his weight. When he tried to lift his cramped wings, she could see they were stiff. His gaze didn’t leave her. She stared back at him boldly. He stroked his beak across his paws, then turned his head and with his thick beak he groomed the golden fur over his thin ribs. He seemed to be listening to something far away, or to something within himself. She waited.

At last he looked full at her again. “There is more at stake in this battle, young woman, than you yet know.”

He said, “Old, dark powers are rising. The queen has waked the primal dark which is the sire of all evil.” He looked at her intently. “Do you not sense this? Does not the rising power of that deep and primary evil touch you, daughter of Bast?”

The Griffon nodded sagely. “The serpent rises, Catswold queen. The dark enemy of Bast again rises.” He poked his thick beak at her. “Show me the Amulet. Hold it up so I can look at it.”

She held the emerald before him and brought a spell-light to shine on it. Deep within, the emblem of Ra burned. The Griffon’s gaze grew intense. When he had looked a long time he snapped his gaze on her suddenly. “We are kin, daughter of Bast. You bear the blood of Sekhmet. You bear the lion’s blood.”

She shivered.

The Griffon placed a heavy paw on her shoulder. “Dark stirs now across the Netherworld. The Serpent Apep stirs and wakes; the primal dark wakes.” The Griffon’s broad golden beak opened wide enough to swallow her face. His breath smelled like spoiled meat. “I must eat a proper meal before we start out. I am weak; they know nothing about feeding griffons.”

She led him up the stone stairs to the next level, and watched him cut down hams with a sharp snap of his beak and tear them apart and devour them. Up the next flight, in the scullery, he drank dry the water barrel. She could see through the scullery windows that Terlis and Briccha still worked in the garden, picking beans. As she led the Griffon out toward the courtyard he said, “What made you think you could wake me and not be eaten?”

She laughed. “I had to try.” She gave him a wink, as she had seen Morian wink, and a slow smile. “The Harpy warned me you were fierce.” They moved into the empty courtyard, and Melissa slid onto his warm back.

He looked around at her and spread his golden wings and he leaped skyward in a rush of wind, rising straight up above the palace. She stared down at Terlis, saw the white oval of the child’s face looking up, then they had left the palace behind, tilting so close to the granite sky she had to duck. He shouted, “Are you afraid?”

“Yes, I am afraid.” She stroked his neck as her heels dug comfortably into his sides. The Griffon twisted around again and gave her an appraising look. Under his old, wise gaze Melissa felt very young.

He said, “Remember, daughter of Bast—daughter of Sekhmet—one must ride into battle meaning to kill. Any other thought courts defeat.” He banked low over a forest. “If you die, you die. One cannot think of that; it saps the strength.” He sped above a deep valley, then above rising white cliffs. “The battle has centered at Cressteane. I sense it like a stench blowing. I sense her there: the dark queen.”

Chapter 66

On a narrow ridge east of Shenndeth, Siddonie sat on her horse watching a band of mountain elven driven screaming and fighting over the cliff. The pale little people grabbed at the soldiers’ horses and jabbed with their lances as her horse soldiers clubbed them. For three days her armies had been routing these small, hidden bands, working north from Lettlehem toward the main area of battle. Her troops had swept Lettlehem clean, as well as Pearilleth and now Shenndeth, leaving the villages stripped of life and food.

Below her a dozen winged lizards banked and dove at the bodies strewn along the cliff, lapping their blood. When a new lizard, a big male, heaved down out of the sky she held out her arm to it.

It wore a collar. It landed so heavily it nearly unseated her. Its eyes seemed still filled with the Hell fires from which it had just returned. Its long, slick body shone like ebony, its leathery wings glinted with black scales. It grunted a greeting, then spoke in a guttural hiss forced up through its long, narrow throat.

“Three rebel bands west of Cressteane,” it said, “hiding in the mountains.” It smiled a toothy grimace. “Fear touches them, the spirit of the dark beast has found them. It plays with their fear like dragons play with a lamb.” The lizard’s black tongue flicked with satisfaction.

Siddonie nodded. “And what else? What of the main rebel army? And what of the Catswold? What has the dark beast done to the Catswold?”

The lizard turned its face away, as if she would strike it. “The Catswold do not heed the dark beast. I flew all the way through that endless tunnel to Zzadarray. I saw the spirit of the beast lying like fog over Zzadarray darkening the streets and chambers, but the Catswold moved through it never seeing it, never aware of it.”

“That is not possible. I can see it, and so can they! I see it every night in dream.”

She did not speak of her fear at night as the dark beast came exploding into her dreams. She would not speak of that to a lizard. The dream filled her with rage. She had called the beast, it must obey her. No creature, no being, dare have power over her. She said, “The beast should be driving terror into the Catswold. Why is it not?”

The lizard gazed at her intently.

“Go back. Go back there and find out!”

“But I can tell you why.”

“Why, then? Speak up!”

“The primal dark has risen at your call, but that does not mean it is your servant, Queen Siddonie. You have summoned the dark that lived before the earth was formed. You have challenged it, but it goes where it pleases and it destroys only as it pleases. That beast will never be ruled by you.”

Her hand circled its throat. “I am its heir! I am daughter of Lillith. It must obey me.”

The lizard opened its wet mouth in a mirthless smile, and wriggled as her hand tightened. “You have found the power to summon it. It is drawn to you as surely as I am drawn to blood, but that does not mean it will obey you.

“The primal dark is not your slave, Siddonie. You are its slave.” It choked suddenly, strangled by her throttling grip; she cast it away from her. It dropped, then righted itself and flew above her clumsily.

“Go back,” she shouted. “Go back and learn more about the Catswold. I want to know why they resist.”

From the stone sky, the beast glared at her, then plunged away flapping.

Chapter 67

Zzadarray’s towers were airy, open to the Netherworld breezes. The city was built of pale stone, the pillars and stone facades carved into leaf and flower designs. The upper chambers let onto balconies, and the lower chambers onto small private gardens scaled to a cat. In the main city, preparations for war were under way, conducted as smoothly and seemingly without effort as the stalking of small game through Zzadarray’s grassy meadows. The Catswold from Marchell and Cathenn and Ebenth had joined those of Zzadarray, and they were heavily armed.