Far off to the west, there was a city made of hope and light. It was made to honor its peoples’ savior, and named for him. White Gryphon was built of terraces and sweeping walkways carved from a white cliffside overlooking a perfect bay. In the centuries since its founding, its wings had gradually spread out around the bay, enfolding it as a loving protective bird would cover its nestlings from cold or rain. Its wings, in fact, truly did appear to be wings—canopies and promenades swept in complex curves on a massive scale, to outline individual feathers when seen from the sea and barrier islands. The city center was a huge complex of overlapping towers making the hackles, breastfeathers and lower mandible. The highest and widest complex, crested the whole of the city in a stylized beak, with its eyes and ears facing north. In summer, the sunrise cast the shadow of a raptor across the bay waters, and at noon the eyes of the beast were completely concealed by shadow. At sunset the water reflections shimmered upon the creation and the sun’s colors blazed upon it while the thousands of small lights and fires came up one by one to greet the stars for the oncoming night.
To the immediate east was the more conventional side of the city that had sprawled out as more housing, workshops, and trade centers were needed—but past that, the terrain became terrible indeed. Forest that became impassable. Trees as broad as eighty men thrust up to a canopy three hundred feet tall, above treefalls and hidden rivers as deep as oceans. Deadly ravines lurked under simple ground cover, and nightmarish beasts hunted anything that ventured in.
Past that came hundreds of miles of marshlands and desert, two entirely different kinds of forest, and then mountain ranges and a jungle. Then grassland, and finally after all of that, the other great forest. The Pelagirs.
Gryphons need the help of trondi’irn, though, like me, sometimes gryphons learn some healing along with other powers. Yet, one pair endured the venture for over six years, alone, blazing a trail eastward from White Gryphon, until they found their city’s long-lost brethren.
“. . . That pairrr was Trrreyvan and Hydona. When I call them the Grrreat Onesss, it isss becaussse they arrre the brrravessst explorerrrsss of ourrr time. And they arrre herrre, in Valdemarrr. They helped everrryone sssurvive the Ssstormsss. And Hallock Ssstaverrrn knows them. Essscorrrted them around Haven—perrrrsssonally!”
Jeft looked up at Kelvren in amazement, having utterly forgotten the bow-wrapping he’d been tasked with, tangled between his fingers. The few other locals and Guard in attendance, and all of the convalescing soldiers had similar expressions. It wasn’t just that they had a six-hundred-pound, taloned, killing fury telling them fireside stories, it was that these stories were uplifting. His tales fired the imagination in ways no one had expected. Most of the soldiers would probably never see active duty again, but instead of being stuck with the wasting-away grousing of lousy encampment and the same old blather, this creature they’d first thought would be an intrusion instead had become needed because all of his tales were new.
“And you got here because of that trail they found?” one of the horsemen asked. Kelvren nodded. “An’ so did all these strange allies that came with th’ Hawkbrothers?” Kel nodded again. “An’ these trondi-urn people could fix you up?”
There was a collective holding of breath as that question halted the mood.
“Yesss. But that isssn’t to be. Ssso. Let usss sssee just how tough I rrreally am, mmm?” The gryphon tried to play it off. “We ssspend time togetherrr herrre. It isss a good exchange. You learrrn about farrr-away landsss and amazing culturesss. I learrrn about mud and sssmoke.” People laughed. “And fletching. I finally get to sssee some arrrowsss that arrren’t going into me.” There were a few chuckles at that, and someone in the back cracked, “Oy, I never really aimed at you, y’know!” The jovial mood was returning.
“Hah! You asssume you could!” he retorted. “I have dodged arrrows, you know. Jussst not enough of them. The one the city was named for, Ssskandrranon, talesss sssay he could fly thrrrough whole brrrigadesss of archerrrsss and emerrrge unssscathed.”
“You ever notice that the older a story gets, the more invulnerable the heroes are?” one of the enlisted women snickered.
Kelvren answered in complete seriousness, “Oh, no. No, thisss isss trrrue. Thessse thingsss . . . they arrre important for usss. Grrryphonsss—we need to be known. Trrreyvan and Hydona, Kuarrrtess and Ussstecca, and Tusssak Kael the Elderrr. Zhaneel the Ssswift and Aubrrri the Ssstalwart, and Kecharrra—herrr name came to mean “beloved” in ourrr language. They have meant asss much to usss by legend asss they did in life, and accomplisssh asss much by legend asss by deed. Ssskandrrranon Rrrassshkae isss known to all of usss becaussse he wasss that amazing. And now—he isss known to you.”
Kel’s facial feathers fluffed and he held his head high for a few moments. With his stories, he had done his part to make his heroes immortal.
Above the mill, at midday, there was suddenly a bright flash. What appeared to be a hole in the sky, rimmed by an everchanging glimmery edge, showed through to a landscape of low grass beside a wide roadway. The light came from a column of mage-light the height of two men on the other side of the hole, bright enough to be noticed by people below. A hulking shadow eclipsed the light, and observers below shouted and pointed up. The shadow burst through the hole and huge wings snapped outward to stop its arcing fall. It flapped ponderously to level its flight before circling over the encampment. Whatever it was, it wanted its outline to be clearly seen before landing.
Treyvan spied the Command flag at the mill, circled the Guard camp four times, and glided to land in the road between the rows of carriages. The door guards readied pikes and called for reinforcements, and a junior officer went pale when he popped his head out. Treyvan stood with his wings up, then sat on his haunches to be received. Pena stayed on his back, as yet unseen, and appeared to be simply another bundle of cargo.
Then a familiar figure stepped into the road from the mill’s entry. Hallock closed on the gryphon and hailed. “Ambassador Treyvan! This is unexpected! It has been too long since I saw you last.” He gestured for the door guard to go back to vigil, and waved off questions from junior officers, still walking forward with the aid of his walking stick. “Welcome. Are you here about Kelvren? He’s in a bad way. Because of me, I fear, I was the one he Healed.”
“Kelvrrren, you sssay? The wingleaderrr frrrom k’Valdemarrr?” Treyvan’s knowledge of gryphons was encyclopedic. He could recite the names and positions of hundreds. “Hurrrh. Wherrre isss he? Frrriend of Firrresssong’sss. A badly wounded grrryphon isss harrrd to find by ssspell. If Firrresssong hasss not aided Kelvrrren, the sssituation mussst be grrrave indeed.” Treyvan turned to accompany Hallock, and paused for Pena to dismount. She peeled off her helmet and goggles, and tucked them under an arm while she walked alongside the others. Hallock filled in the senior gryphon on what he knew of Kelvren’s condition, talking continuously until they neared the convalescents’ tent.
They heard singing. Not just from inside, but from the eighteen soldiers standing outside, lacquering sheaves of arrows. In the middle of the song, a gryphon voice—thin and strained—nonetheless boomed a line, and made the others grin. The soldiers outside halted singing one by one, and moved backward as one as Treyvan, Pena, and the captain approached. Only a few remembered to salute. They had come to know Kelvren, a terribly wounded gryphon—but this was a fully healthy gryphon stalking toward them, bedecked in regalia of rank, all but dwarfing the captain beside him, with a little lizard creature padding along beside them.