“Beware,” he whispered, trying to warn his benefactor, who had taken Liath’s shape. Pain made him hallucinate. “The griffin stalks. Her feathers …”
“Hush,” she said. “Rest.”
“Griffin feathers cut the threads of magic.”
ed low and unable to see over the grass, he heard the beating of wings and so kept still just as mice freeze when the shadow of a hawk passes overhead. A silver griffin—not the one that had carried off Liath—flew upriver not a stone’s throw from his hiding place. He waited until the noise of its wings had faded, then followed its trail. By keeping to the tallest stands of grass, the occasional screen of shrubs or a narrow rank of such trees as could survive alongside the river, he kept out of sight. Where the river made a broad bend, the slope of the land rose on the riverside but fell gently away to the east to form a hollow.
The ground had been worn away to expose a wide, flat rock. The silver griffin lay draped along the warm stone, sunning itself with its head resting on its paws and its wings folded back over its body. Its tail flicked up and down, up and down, as though its bodily repose concealed a restless heart.
A scan of the landscape revealed only grass, the spearlike tops of a trio of lonesome fir trees, and a scattering of gray rock outcrops thrust up here and there throughout the grass. He heard no birdsong, only the sigh of the wind. He was alone with the griffin. He took a step, and a second, as he shifted his grip on the spear and edged sideways.
His keen hearing saved him—that, and the unwieldy mass of the second griffin.
The scrape of its footfall rang out like a scream in the silence. He spun, throwing up the spear to protect himself, but her body bore him to the ground and the spear shattered under the force of her swiping claw. She was immense. He jabbed his knee up into her belly. That beaked head sewed around to get a better look at him. He clawed desperately at her throat, but each time he closed his hand, each time he scrabbled for purchase at her neck as he tried to squirm away out from under her, her feathers cut him. Blood streamed from his hands from a score of fine incisions. She reared back her head and struck.
He jerked sideways, but not far enough. Pain ripped through his chest and his vision hazed. His bleeding hands flexed impotently as they sought any kind of weapon to grip, but their feeble grasp closed on nothing, only air, and even that weak movement sent waves of pain flooding through his body until he could neither think nor move. He could not even see. Agony blinded him. He could only wait for the deathblow.
He could only wait.
A flash of heat and fire exploded around him. Had the griffin struck again? Was this the pain of dying? Or was he already dead, ascending through the spheres toward the cold bright eternity of the Chamber of Light?
I don’t want to die.
I’m not ready.
Pain, and this billowing heat that washed over him in unending waves, tore away his thoughts.
The shadow of the griffin moved off him. The sun’s blazing light scalded his face and made him blink.
Liath stood over him, golden-brown hair fallen all untidy over her shoulders. It needed combing. He loved to comb her hair. That steady stroke in the lush thickness of her hair was one of the few things that could soothe the restlessness that ate at him.
“Pray God I am not too late,” the vision of Liath said, although she could not possibly be kneeling beside him. She had abandoned him four years ago, left him and the child without a word. He had a lot of things to say to her, hoarded up over the months, some of them festering and rancid and others painful and sweet.
An actual physical body blocked the stabbing of light that tormented him. A touch brushed his brow.
“Sanglant, I pray you, answer me if you can.”
Her lips touched his parted mouth. It was like water to a parched man, giving him strength for the fight ahead.
Never let it be said that he did not fight until his last breath.
“You will never kill me,” he said to Bloodheart. Some days, those were the only words he remembered how to say.
“He lives.” A fire burned behind her, or perhaps it was the setting sun streaming golden light across grass troubled by the wind. A knife flashed, but he could not struggle against the killing blow. He was paralyzed, staring at the knife in her hand. She cut away his tunic from his torso and bared his flesh to the air. So much color leached from her face that she looked gray when she saw what lay beneath the cloth.
“I was too slow,” she said. “Too late.”
A few solitary raindrops splashed on his cheek, although he saw no clouds in the darkening expanse above. Nearby, a griffin shrieked its chilling call.
“Beware,” he whispered, trying to warn his benefactor, who had taken Liath’s shape. Pain made him hallucinate. “The griffin stalks. Her feathers …”
“Hush,” she said. “Rest.”
“Griffin feathers cut the threads of magic.”
She sat back, surprised, her expression an odd combination of fear and startled, joyous revelation.
“Griffin feathers cut the threads of magic!” she repeated. Blue fire sparked in her eyes, the wink of fire caught and contained in her deepest heart. That spark blinded him, sent him falling and spinning although he lay supine on the ground.