“Subcommander,” Medan said. “Go see if you can find our traitor. He said he would be waiting by those three white rocks over there.”
The subcommander dismounted. Keeping his hand on his sword, half-drawing it from its scabbard, he moved slowly forward, making as little noise as possible. He wore only his breastplate, no other metal armor.
The marshal’s horse was restive. The animal snorted and blew and pricked his ears. Medan patted the horse on the neck. “What is it, boy?” he asked softly. “What’s out there?”
The subcommander disappeared in the shadows, reappeared again as a shadowy silhouette against the backdrop of the three large white boulders. Medan could hear the man’s harsh whisper.
He could not hear if there was a reply but assumed there must have been, for the sub commander nodded and returned to make his report.
“The traitor says the three are not far from here, near a clearing, where they are to meet the griffon. He will lead us there. We should walk, he says. The horses make too much noise.”
The marshal dismounted and dropped the reins with a single spoken word of command. The horse would remain where it was, would not move from the spot until ordered. The other Knight dismounted, taking from his saddle a short bow and a quiver of arrows.
Medan and his escorts crept through the forest.
“And this is what I’ve been reduced to,” Medan muttered to himself, shoving aside tree branches, stepping carefully through the undergrowth. He could barely see the man in front of him. Only the three white rocks showed up clearly and they were sometimes obscured by the dank mists. “Skulking about the woods at night like a blasted thief. Relying on the word of an elf who thinks nothing of betraying his mistress for a handful of steel. And all for what? To ambush some wretch of a wizard!”
“Did you say something, sir?” the subcommander whispered.
“Yes,” Medan returned. “I said I would rather be on the field of honorable battle lying dead with a spear through my heart than here at this moment. What about you, Subcommander?”
“Sir?” The subcommander stared at him. The man had no clue what his marshal was talking about.
“Never mind,” Medan grated. “Just keep going.” He waved his hand.
The traitor elf appeared, a glimmer of a pale face in the darkness. He raised a pallid hand, motioned for Medan to join him.
The marshal drew forward, eyed the elf grimly.
“Well? Where are they?” Medan did not use the elf’s name. In Medan’s mind, the elf was not worthy of a name.
“There!” The elf pointed. “Beneath that tree. You cannot see it from here, but there is a clearing a hundred paces beyond. They plan to meet the griffon there.”
The sky was graying with the dawn. Medan could see nothing at first and then the mists swirled apart, revealing three shadowy figures. One appeared to be wearing dark armor, for though Medan could not see it clearly, he could hear it rattle and clank.
“Sir,” said the traitor, sounding nervous, “have you further need of me? If not, I should be going. My absence may be noted.”
“Leave, by all means,” said Medan.
The elf slipped away into the woods.
The marshal motioned for the knight with the bow to come forward.
“Remember, the dragon wants them alive,” Medan said.
“Aim high. Shoot to cripple. Fire on my order. Not before.”
The Knight nodded and took his place in the brush. He fit an arrow to his bow string and looked to the marshal.
Medan watched and waited.
Gerard heard a flapping sound, as of immense wings. He’d never before seen a griffon, but this sounded like what he expected a griffon would sound like. He jumped to his feet.
“What is it?” Palin lifted his head, startled by the Knight’s sudden movement.
“I think I hear the griffon, sir,” Gerard replied.
Palin drew back his hood to hear better, looked toward the clearing. They could not see the griffon yet. The beast was still among the treetops, but the wind from its wings was starting to scatter dead leaves and kick up dust.
“Where? Where?” Tasslehoff cried, hastily gathering up all his valuables and stuffing them into whatever location presented itself.
The griffon came into view, huge wings stilled now, floating on the air currents to a smooth landing. Gerard forgot his irritation with the mage and his annoyance at the kender in wonder at the sight of the strange beast. Elves ride griffons as humans ride horses, but few humans did. Griffons have always had a distrust of humans, who were known to hunt and kill them.
Gerard had tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon be trusting his life to a beast that had little reason to love him, but now he was forced to confront the idea of actually riding on the back of one of these creatures, riding it not over a road but into the air. High in the air, so that any mischance would send him plummeting to a horrible death.
Gerard steeled himself, faced this as he faced any other daunting task. He noted the proud eagle head with its white feathers, the shining black eyes, and the hooked beak that could, or so he’d heard, snap a man’s spine in two or rip his head from his neck. The front legs were those of an eagle, with rending talons; the back legs and body were those of a lion, covered in a soft brown fur. The wings were large and snow white underneath, brown on top. The griffon was taller than Gerard by at least head and shoulders.
“There is only one of them,” Gerard reported coolly, as if meeting one were an everyday occurrence with him. “At least so far. And no sign of the elf.”
“Strange,” Palin said, glancing about. “I wonder where he went? This is not like him.”
The griffon flapped its wings and turned its head, searching for its riders. The wind of the enormous wings whipped up a gale that sent wisps of morning fog swirling and lashed the tree branches. They waited another few moments, but no other griffon appeared.
“It seems there is to be only one, sir,” Gerard said, trying not to sound relieved. “You and the kender go ahead. I’ll see you off safely. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way out of Qualinesti. I have my horse. . . .”
“Nonsense,” said Palin crisply, displeased at any change in plans. “The griffon can carryall three of us. The kender counts as nothing.”
“I do, too, count for something!” Tasslehoff stated, offended.
“Sir, I really don’t mind,” Gerard began.
An arrow thunked into the tree beside him. Another arrow whizzed over his head. Gerard dropped to the ground, grabbing hold of the kender on the way down.
“Sir! Take cover!” he yelled at Palin.
“Rebel elves,” Palin said, peering through the shadows.
“They have seen your armor. We are friends!” he called out in elven and lifted his hand to wave.
An arrow tore through the sleeve of his robe. He stared at the hole in angry astonishment. Gerard leaped to his feet, caught hold of the mage and pulled him to cover behind a large oak tree.
“They’re not elves, sir!” he said and he pointed grimly to one of the arrows. The tip was steel and the arrow was fletched in black feathers. “They’re Knights of Neraka.” .
“But so are you,” said Palin, eyeing Gerard’s breastplate, adorned with the skull and the death lily. “At least for all they know.”
“Oh, they know all right,” Gerard answered grimly. “You notice the elf never returned. I think we’ve been betrayed.”
“It’s not possible—” Palin began.
“I see them!” Tasslehoff cried, pointing. “Over there in those bushes. Three of them. They’re wearing black armor.”