Alliances

“They’re called aeries, and they’re made of slabs of stone lined with fur and feathers shed from their own hides. They build them at the highest points possible. If you find an aerie, mark the spot and return. Do not approach it. Griffons will slaughter any creature that comes within eyesight of their aeries.”

“How many live in each aerie?” asked Kerian.

“One, unless there are hatchlings. Griffons mate for life, but life-mates don’t share the same aerie. They’re too fiercely territorial to live together.”

Kerian gave her a considering look, and the former queen returned it pointedly. The description might fit Kerian and Gilthas or Alhana and Porthios equally well.

Geranthas, former animal healer in Bianost, rubbed his sunburned nose and asked, “How do we capture them?”

“We leave that to the Great Lord,” Alhana said. “Our only task is to find the aeries.”

Before the bands broke apart and went their separate ways, Alhana added one last warning. “These are carnivores we’re hunting, predators. In their eyes, we’re not much different from their usual prey. If the chance presents itself, they will carry off one of you as readily as a mountain goat.”

On that somber note, the hunting parties dispersed. Kerian put the rising sun on her right and signaled her party to follow. She led them down the gravel-strewn path.

Alhana’s guard walked slowly into the western ridges. Many had bows strung and arrows nocked already, and they kept eyes to the sky for swooping predators.

The last band, with Hytanthas and Nalaryn, waited until the others were gone from sight among the boulders and rock walls before setting out. Although the mountains were unfamiliar territory for the Kagonesti, they knew a successful hunt began with a quiet departure. Hytanthas was happy to follow their advice. He was a city elf, born and raised in Qualinost, although for most of the past ten years, he’d lived in the field on one campaign or another. War he knew too well, but hunting was a mysterious art.

The Kagonesti fanned out ahead of him and his Bianost followers. Periodically, a Wilder elf would pause to examine a stone or an outcropping of lichen. When one stopped, all stopped, even those not in a direct line of sight. It was a startling thing to witness. Hytanthas and his followers found themselves watching the Kagonesti instead of looking for traces of griffons.

Ahead of Nalaryn’s people, a series of sawtooth peaks rose, each one higher than the last. Narrow tracks wound between the sharp pinnacles, some of the trails barely wide enough for a single elf. Hytanthas was forced to divide his followers into smaller groups, the better to filter through the rugged landscape. One band he gave to Vanolin, the second to Geranthas, and the third he led himself.

The last of the Kagonesti disappeared among the sun-washed rocks. When none reappeared immediately, the volunteers grew anxious. Hytanthas reassured them.

“They’re still there. We just can’t see them.”

He was nervous too, but thought it better not to let the townsfolk know. He braced his bow and carried it ready in one hand. The other hand he rested atop the quiver of broadheads bumping against his thigh. That made him feel better.

An hour passed. The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, its brilliant light barely warming the high bluffs. Vanolin’s band veered right around a grouping of jagged boulders. Geranthas’s people paced Hytanthas until a hulking, wedge-shaped ridge rose between them. Geranthas led his party around the left side, while Hytanthas circled the other way.

With no warning, a Kagonesti female appeared in front of Hytanthas. He flinched.

Hazel eyes crinkling in amusement, she put a finger to her lips. He remembered her name was Laurel. “Our chief would speak with you,” she whispered.

She led Hytanthas toward an impossibly narrow opening in the rocks. At Laurel’s request, he signaled the Bianost elves to wait for him there.

Laurel entered the fissure. She moved with astonishing ease and swiftness, bending and bowing to avoid sharp protrusions. Hytanthas’s clothes snagged and ripped. Dirt fell into his eyes. He felt like a great blundering human. All elves were not created equal, he decided.

Abruptly, they emerged in the open, but in deep shade cast by a ledge projecting overhead. Nalaryn and one other Kagonesti were there. Nalaryn gestured with his chin, directing the young warrior’s gaze upward.

On a pinnacle sixty feet above them was perched a fortress. Slabs of stone, some as long as an elf, were laid in courses, like the logs of a human cabin. Gaps in the walls showed tufts of tawny fur and white feathers: a griffon’s aerie.

There was no sign of activity. The occupants must be out hunting. Hytanthas started toward the pinnacle. Nalaryn put a hand on his chest, halting him. In the quietest whisper he could manage, Hytanthas said, “I must check. If the nest is old and abandoned, it’s no use to us.”